Page 12 of Unloved

“Did you get a new liver?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Are you happy?” My question takes me by surprise.

Jenika shifts on her seat, a sad smile on her face as she places her forearms on the table and leans forward. “What do you want to hear?”

“The truth.”

“The truth is, there is no magic fix,” she says. “And the definition of happy is different for everyone. Do I believe being sober will make you happier? Controversial take? No, I don’t. But do I believe that your addiction is robbing you of all the ways youcouldbe happy? Absolutely.”

I ruminate on her explanation, thinking of all the things I’ve lost because of my addiction, understanding exactly what she means when she says addiction robs you of your happiness, or at the very least it robs you of the ability to even try.

“I kind of just tell myself if I wanted to be sober, I could be,” I admit. “And if I keep failing, then I don’t want it badly enough.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that you’ve been around a lot of people who have drilled this way of thinking into you time and time again,” she says.

I think of my dad yelling at me over and over again, telling me just to man up and take responsibility for my life, not understanding that I truly would if I could.

“But what people forget to understand is that addiction is a disease.” I don’t know why, but my eyes fill with tears as I listen to her. “It’s a sickness, and just like any other sickness, it needs to be treated. Getting help when you’re sick isn’t a weakness, Rhys.”

Averting my gaze from hers, I clear my throat, trying to rid myself of the sudden onslaught of emotions overwhelming me. None of what she’s saying is new. This is what going to rehab is all about. You detox, and you work through the root of your problems and talk about ways to confront them. You give yourself grace and find ways that inspire you to succeed.

Within the four walls of the rehab facility, and under the guidance and encouragement of all the staff, nothing feels impossible. And yet, every time I come face-to-face with the real world, I buckle.

“Tell me I can do this,” I say, looking back at her, the vulnerability in my voice unmissable, but I’m sick of trying to pretend I have it together.

“Rhys.” A look of determination settles on her face. “You can absolutely do this.”

* * *

“Arlo.” With my hands in my pockets, I call out to the man I’ve pseudo stalked the last few times I’ve visited the gym.

I couldn’t tell you the last time I’d been in a gym or invested any time in caring about being healthy or what I look like. But after my initial meeting with Jenika, she suggested stopping bythisparticular gym and meeting with a guy named Arlo.

At the sound of my voice, he turns to look at me, narrowing his eyes, assessing who this stranger is walking up to him and who knows him by name. With a towel over his shoulder, he looks exactly like the type of guy you would expect to see at a gym: tall, broad shoulders, thick thighs, muscles for days.

“Hey, Arlo,” I repeat as I get closer, extending my hand out for him to shake. It’s my boldest move yet, introducing myself to a stranger and anticipating rejection.

“I’ve been checking out your classes,” I tell him. “My friend Jenika recommended them to me.”

His suspicion seems to disappear the second I mention Jenika, and it makes me wonder how much about her he knows.

“Is Jenika your sponsor?” he asks.

Okay, well, that answers that question.

Caught off guard, I drop my hand from his and dip my chin to my chest, trying to hide the embarrassment I can feel rising in my cheeks.

“Hey, man,” he says gently. “We’ve all been there.”

I know he’s trying to make me feel better, and in a perfect world, his solidarity would, but the shame and disgust I so often walk around with, makes it almost impossible to be on the receiving end of any empathy.

“What is it that Jenika suggested?” he asks, trying to coax a conversation out of me. “If I know her as well as I think I do, she sent you here to fill up your free time.”

This is true. It’s harder to relapse if your mind is busy and your free time is occupied. I raise my head, my eyes meeting his. “She mentioned you could show me all the programs the gym has and I could decide on what would work for me.”

He nods. “Usually, I would arrange a time that we could sit and talk, but I’m free now, if you are?”

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