Page 13 of Unloved

“Yes, please.” The words rush out as I nod vehemently, worried that if I don’t do it now, I’ll lose my nerve. “I’d love to leave here with a plan.”

“Perfect.” He tilts his head in the direction of what I assume is his office, and I dutifully follow. “Sorry I didn’t get to ask before, but what’s your name?”

Standing behind him, I watch as he searches for his keys in his pockets and unlocks the office door.

“It’s Rhys.”

Arlo pushes the door open, and I follow him inside. He gestures for me to take a seat on the small sofa located opposite the door.

Nervously, I take a seat and watch as he quickly sifts through a bunch of papers and slips them into a clipboard. He takes a seat in his office chair and wheels himself till he’s parked in front of me.

“I’ve been meaning to streamline all this to have the intake forms be digital, but I keep procrastinating. Until then, this is for you.” He hands me the clipboard and a pen. “These are so you can get your gym membership as soon as possible and the rest are questionnaires that will help you decide what goals you want to achieve while you’re here.”

I perch the clipboard on my thigh, not even noticing how much my leg is bouncing, and flick through the pages. The information requested isn’t extensive or invasive, but my sobriety always brings about indecisiveness. I struggle with what I like and what I don’t. I often feel like I don’t really know myself, and I second guess everything, worrying I’m hindering progress without even realizing it.

Arlo waits patiently as I scan through the questions. There are some about my diet, asking if I want help with a nutritionist, and then there’s one asking if I have a job.

I don’t.

Every question feels like an indirect way of asking me if I’m taking care of myself and how I want to continue taking care of myself. I don’t know either answer. I tick the boxes that make the most sense, and hope it’s enough.

Improve my relationship with food? Check.

Focus on mental health? Check.

Want to make my body and mind a priority? Check. Check.Fucking check.

“How are these classes any different from what other gyms offer?” I ask.

“They’re not,” he deadpans. “The difference is in the people who attend and teach the classes. We’re all in recovery.”

“Everyone?” I ask skeptically.

I don’t know why this shocks me, but it does. I’ve never been around others in recovery. I always end up relapsing before I have the chance to make any lasting connections with other people I can relate to.

“Everyone,” he repeats. “If you need somewhere to go to help stop yourself from relapsing, this is the place for you.”

“Why…?” Groaning, I run a hand over my face to stop myself from finishing the question.

“Why what?” Arlo asks.

“Why is everything so hard?” I sigh, absolutely defeated, losing my bravado and worrying if I can even manage something as simple as coming to the gym. “I wish getting high wasn’t so much easier than getting clean.”

He chuckles, and it’s filled with complete understanding. He reaches for the clipboard. “Finished?”

Nodding, I hand it to him and fall back on the couch, tilting my head and looking at the ceiling.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

I stew in my silence, and Arlo lets me, completely unfazed by the stranger in his office who’s trying to find the meaning of life.

I want to do this. I want to get it right. And for the first time, in this room, I think maybe I can.

Shifting on the couch, I sit up, and Arlo, who is now sitting at his desk, looks up at me.

“Jenika speaks really highly of you,” I say, interrupting the quiet. “Says you’ve really made a life for yourself.”

Arlo’s size is intimidating, but the small smile he manages and the slight blush of his cheeks are proof that we’re all the same. I can tell it makes him uncomfortable, and truth be told, I understand why. For some of us, the self-hate and disappointment of how badly we fucked up our lives, overrides any achievements.

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