Page 11 of Unloved

I wasn’t even in pain.

But now, pain is all I feel.

I want to crawl out of my skin. I want to set myself on fire. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to live, yet some days I want to die. But I can’t say any of that. I lost that right. I lost the right to complain about all the ways drugs had ruined and controlled my life, when every moment leading up to this point has been a choice.

The wrong choice.

But a choice nonetheless.

One I took. And one I regret.

Well, I think I regret it, but clearly not enough to stop, right?

“Rhys.” Jenika’s voice cuts through my thoughts and I drag my gaze up to finally look at her. “Are you okay?”

A humorless chuckle slips from my mouth. “You’ve asked two of the hardest questions in less than five minutes.”

“What would you rather I ask?”

“Nothing,” I answer bitterly.

“Okay. Silence it is.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out what appears to be a laptop. “I’ve got some work to do.”

Jenika opens the laptop and sets it on the table in front of her. She sips on her coffee as she waits for whatever it is on the screen to load. Her hands start gliding across the keyboard, and for the next ten minutes she doesn’t even give me a second glance.

It’s what I want, isn’t it?

My knee starts bouncing, and out of habit I start to bite at my cuticles. It’s a disgusting habit. From the corner of my eye, I catch Jenika glancing at me, alternating between me and her computer screen.

When I’ve bitten my nails to the point of pain, I start frantically tapping a beat on the wooden table.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to talk about?” she asks.

“What’s your story?” I blurt out.

It’s not unusual for a sponsor and sponsee to discuss their journey to recovery, but Jenika is the only sponsor I’ve had that hadn’t started out our introductions with her addiction story. It’s where we’re supposed to find common ground and feel seen, but all it does is make me feel stupid.

My mind is a minefield, and I know Jenika can see right through me. It makes shame course through me, but I try to push it away. I need her help to shift my mindset from that of an addict to that of someone in recovery.

I’ve been sober for three months, and I want—no,need—it to stay that way. Because the truth is, I don’t think I can mentally survive another relapse.

My worry is that I don’t know if I would want to survive.

Eyeing me, Jenika closes her laptop and pushes it to the side of our table. “My parents were addicts,” she starts. “I started drinking and using at thirteen. I thought if I couldn’t beat them”—she shrugs—“then I’d join them.”

She reaches for her coffee and takes a quick sip before continuing. “We didn’t have much, and I had access to more drugs and alcohol than I did food.

“You can see where this is going,” she says. “Before I knew it, my whole life revolved around feeding my addiction. I was nothing but skin and bones.”

“What changed?” I ask her, my question serving as a lifeline. Anything that could make me feel like I had hope and this would be worth it.

“I needed a new liver,” she says matter-of-factly. “I unknowingly caught hepatitis B and C and ended up with liver cirrhosis.”

She delivers her story with no emotion, something I’m not used to but find that I prefer. I realize I don’t want the sugar-coated version or the watered-down one. I want cold hard truths and realities that are too close for comfort.

Ineedto know that everybody has an ugly side, because the happy ever after feels so fucking out of reach, I can’t relate.

But being on death’s door… I can relate to that.

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