Addict (The Laundromat Chronicles Book 2) Page 3

  As I sit on my bed waiting for my ride to the rehab facility, I feel a wave of anxiety wash over me. What if I can’t do this? What if I fail? What if he comes for me? Am I strong enough to refuse the pull of that world? The drugs? The sex? Him? Just as my panic is threatening to send me into a full on attack there’s a knock at my door.

  “Jewel?” A sweet voice echoes through the room.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” I stand from the bed, throwing my backpack over my shoulder, trying damn hard not to fidget.

  “Hi, I’m Cynthia, your ride and your mentor. Are you ready?” Her hand extends to mine as she talks. Her eyes are kind, much like the hospital staff that has taken care of me during my stay. There really are people that care. The reality that there are good people in the world helps to calm my impending panic attack. Just her sweet face and soft tone put me at ease.

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I say, anxious to get the next part of my recovery going.

  “Good, let’s get going then,” she says happily. I follow her to the next step of my life.

  ***

  My first night in rehab is rough. The security I felt at the hospital didn’t follow me to the new facility. Luckily I have my own room, at least for the time being. It’s nothing special. A twin bed with white blankets, a bookshelf and white walls surround me. The sleeping pills I was getting at the hospital were stopped the second I arrived. Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. Without the help of a sleep aid combined with the new place, it’s safe to say I slept like shit. Nightmares plague me every time I close my eyes and linger when I wake. Dark thoughts circulate through my brain. The darkness feels as though it’s going to swallow me whole. When I can’t take it any longer I get up and flip the light on. The facility is eerily quiet. What I wouldn’t give to have a radio just to cut through the silence. Hell, at this point I’d take the beeping machines at the hospital over this quiet. With nothing else to do I grab a book from the shelf.

  There’s several options to choose from but I grab what looks like a trashy romance novel. Maybe getting lost in someone else’s life will help me navigate my own. I slide under the blankets and open the book. Reading does give me comfort. When I was younger and my mother would have her parties, I’d lock myself in my room with books. Transporting myself into other worlds gave me a sense of safety and occupied my young mind long enough to forget that I was living in a fucked up crack house. With any luck, reading will help me again as I fight the same fight I swore I’d never be a part of so many years ago.

  ***

  Escaping in the book worked because the next thing I know there’s a knock at my door, sun streaming through the window, and the book is lying beside me.

  “Come in,” I call sleepily.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Cynthia beams as she waltzes into the room. Her kind demeanor when she picked me up is suddenly irritating. All I want to do is sleep. Once I find sleep I don’t want to let it go. I choose not to respond, instead turn away from her and cover my head.

  “No, no turning and going back to sleep. It’s time to get up. Breakfast will be served soon.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I mumble.

  “Doesn’t matter, you need to get up. Learn a routine and there’s no better place to start than breakfast at the same time every day.”

  “I fucking said I’m not hungry.” I’m not sure where my anger is coming from but it’s as though I can’t control it. I don’t want to be a bitch to Cynthia but can’t stop myself. I just want to sleep.

  “Well then, maybe we’ll try again tomorrow,” she says softly before leaving me alone. I almost feel bad but not enough to apologize or get up. I don’t know what my problem is. I didn’t feel like this in the hospital. I’m too tired to overthink it though. Within seconds, I fall back into a deep sleep and don’t wake up until it’s dark again.

  I sit up in bed and glance around the room. On the small table I spot a tray of food. Slowly I get out of the bed and cross the room. The smell of whatever is on the tray has my mouth watering. I haven’t eaten since I left the hospital and my belly is starting to growl at me. I find a mound of what I can only guess is mashed potatoes, meat gravy and corn. Not a gourmet meal yet one I can’t wait to devour. Beside the tray I spot a note.

  Jewel,

  We are here to help you. This is a phase of detox and it will pass. I will allow you a few days to adjust but then we will talk and get a plan in motion for you. Please eat and rest.

  Cynthia

  I toss the note in the trash. Even in writing she’s fucking sweet. Right now I don’t want sweet or nice. I just want to be left alone. Relieved it appears I will be left alone for the night, I sit and begin eating. After a few bites I drop the spoon on the tray. Contrary to my rumbling gut, I just can’t stomach the food. Giving up, I grab the book from the night before, preparing to get lost again.

  This process continues for a few more days. I have a private bathroom so I don’t have to leave my room at all. With the exception of the halls we passed through to get to this room and the small view of green grass I have out my window, I have no idea what this place even looks like. I don’t care what it looks like. I don’t care about anything other than the books and my bed. Cynthia leaves more trays of food while I’m sleeping and like the first tray, I take a few bites then toss it in the trash. There isn’t much more in my system than water and meds.

  My anger is subsiding which I take as a good sign, however, it’s been replaced by a crushing depression. I have no desire to do this anymore. I have no desire to talk to a therapist or make friends. I have no desire to do anything other than what I’ve been doing–reading and sleeping. Maybe I’ll go to sleep and not wake up, who would care?

  Cuddled on my bed with my book to my chest, tears fall down my cheeks. I can’t seem to control my crying fits. They come on unexpectedly, but I embrace them. Wait for them. They remind me that I am still human. That despite the things I’ve done, I do still have emotions. I haven’t turned into a zombie yet but I’m sure it’s coming. I’m sure once my tears dry up and refuse to fall I’ll transform into an emotionless, undesirable, hateful woman, and maybe that’s when sleep will finally take me.

  “Ah, you’re awake?” Cynthia’s voice slices right through my depressed thoughts. It doesn’t make me angry though, rather more depressed. Why can’t I be happy and cheerful like her? Why can’t I just be normal?

  “Unfortunately yes,” I reply through tears.

  “Ah, you’re in the self-loathing phase. That’s one of the hardest to climb out of but you’re getting closer, Jewel.” She sits beside me on the bed. I take the tissue she offers, blowing my nose. “Closer to what?”

  “Being free.”

  “What if I don’t want to be free?” Only I do want to be free. I want to be relieved of the crushing loneliness and pain I feel. I want the craving for the life I used to live to dissipate, leaving me behind while on its path to hell.

  “You wouldn’t still be here if you didn’t want to be free.”

  “But freedom means loneliness. My entire life revolved around drugs and the people that did them with me. If I’m sober who do I have? What do I have? Where do I go?” Frightened doesn’t begin to explain the feelings circulating in my body.

  “You’re going to be surprised to realize how many people will want to be a part of your life once you realize you’re worth more than the drugs that kept you just floating through life. All the other things will fall into place. Trust me.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never been where I was. There’s no way you could understand how I feel.”

  “On the contrary, I’ve been exactly where you are and not so long ago. Five years to be exact and not a day goes by that I don’t think about my old life. Wonder what my friends that lived it with me are doing. Some are dead, that much I know. Some are in jail. There are a few though that I haven’t heard from or about, and I always wonder if they made it out or if they died and they were so alone that nobody realized o
r cared.” Sadness weaves its way through her words telling me they’re sincere.

  “What was your drug?” I ask, feeling suddenly shy around her. This woman has been to my hell and is here to talk about it. That makes her a superhero to me.

  “The better question is what wasn’t my drug? The only thing I didn’t care for was meth but I still did it when I needed a fix of something. My choice drug was heroin or ecstasy. What about you? All I know is you’re on Methadone.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, heroin was the first choice. I’ve done them all but that’s the one I crave the most, even now. Well, the only thing I crave a little more is a smoke.”

  “Ahh, yes nicotine. People don’t realize how hard that one is to kick. Would you like one?”

  “A cigarette?”

  “Yeah, you’re not cut from smokes. Actually, they help some of our residents with anxiety. I know it sounds counterproductive in a treatment facility but we pick our battles. They’re not good for you, yet they do help. You’ll quit them eventually but for now let’s focus on the mind altering drugs.”

  “Umm, okay. Yeah. A smoke would actually be great right now,” I admitted.

  “Great, follow me. I’ll get you one and show you where you can smoke.” She stands up expecting me to follow.

  “I have to leave the room?” I question. I have no desire to go beyond my door.

  She smiles softly down at me. “Yes, you can’t smoke inside.”

  “I’m not ready to go out there.” I shy away from her outstretched hand.

  “Jewel, you can’t stay in here forever. It’s time you get outside of this room. Now come on, get up.” Her tone is slightly more forceful than I’m used to and for a second I think I’ll defy her but the idea of a cigarette is so tempting. I suck in a deep breath of air and reluctantly stand. Slowly I follow her to the door where I stop. “I haven’t showered in days or changed my clothes. I must look like a mess and Lord knows I smell.” Not like I haven’t looked this shitty before, but I was usually high and didn’t give a fuck. Sobriety makes me aware of myself, including how I look. The awareness is terrifying.

  “Don’t worry about it. You can shower when you’re done. Besides you’re not here to impress anyone, you’re here to heal. Nobody here cares what you look like anyways.” She’s persuasive, I’ll give her that. Well, either she is or the temptation of smoking. Either way I give in.

  “Okay, let’s go.” I sigh and follow her out of my room. The hall is dim but inviting. Doors line the corridor, some open, some closed. We pass by a few people and I can’t tell if they’re addicts like me or if they work here. They smile and say hello but I keep my head down, too embarrassed to look at anyone. We stop by a locker where Cynthia grabs a pack of smokes and hands me one before grabbing one for herself and a lighter.

  “Not much further,” she assures me. I nod and continue to follow. Once we’re outside, we follow a stone path around the building that leads us to a covered patio with chairs and tables. Cynthia takes her spot in one of the chairs and I take the one across from her. Thankfully we’re here alone.

  “Here,” she says, handing the lighter to me after lighting her cigarette. I put the slender paper wrapped tobacco to my lips and flick the lighter igniting the flame. I inhale the first drag deeply, allowing the heat to resonate in my lungs before blowing out the puff of smoke and handing the lighter back to her.

  After inhaling a few more times I look at her. “Thank you, Cynthia. This is just what I needed.”

  “You’re welcome. We’re here to help you, Jewel. You just have to let us in.” I smile a response before returning my attention to my cigarette. We sit in silence, getting our small fix. Once it’s burned all the way to the filter, I crush it out in the ashtray on the table. Surprisingly I do feel calmer, less manic. Maybe it’s the fresh air or Cynthia or the cigarette. I don’t know but for the first time since my arrival, I feel the sense of hope I had in the hospital return.

  “I’d like to shower now.” Standing from the table, I watch my mentor crush out her cigarette.

  “Of course. I’ll walk you back. After your shower come down to the common room. Everyone will be there tonight. We’ll have a brief meet and greet and meeting before movie night.”

  Just the thought of meeting people causes me to freeze in place. “Jewel, listen to me. You’re not alone. Every single person here is here because they need help and support. They’re just like you. The first meeting is always the hardest but you can’t keep putting it off.”

  “I’ll try,” was the best I could offer.

  “That’s all I ask.”

  ***

  The shower was like no shower I’d ever taken. The water gratefully singed my skin as I attempted to wash the last few day’s grime from my body. I scrub until my skin is red. The hot water wraps around me like a warm blanket, rinsing away the last remnants of soap. I stand under the stream until it turns cold, feeling calmer than I have in a long time. I contemplate the meeting as I dry off. Part of me knows I should go, that it’s a big step towards my recovery but the other part of me is terrified of judgment. Terrified to admit what I’ve become to a room full of strangers.

  I pull on my last pair of clean pants and shirt before brushing my hair that’s a horrendous two toned blonde and black. When I look in the mirror, I almost can’t believe what I see. I look awful. My normal white skin is a few shades paler. My blue eyes dull and my cheekbones appear to be trying to escape from my face. Any progress I made in the hospital is gone now.

  I’m reminded that this is how I’ve looked for years. Thin and ill. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to be with me looking like this. I guess the various strangers saw me as I saw myself back then, through a haze of drugs that gave the illusion of beauty. Feeling even worse about myself, I set the brush down and go to find Cynthia. My heart’s pounding and it takes all I’ve got to take this next step but I know I don’t have a choice. Fight to get better or die. I think I’ll fight before I choose death.

  ***

  I’ve been in rehab for four weeks now and feel like I’ve made a ton of progress. After meeting with counselors, attending group meetings, and visits from Cynthia, they’ve decided I’m ready to go out on my own. I don’t know if I’m ready for that, but what choice do I have? I can’t live in rehab.

  “You have my number right?” Cynthia asks as she pulls up to the transition house I’ll be staying in. It looks like a decent house in a decent neighborhood. Nothing fancy but sure as hell not the dumps I used to hang out in. Cynthia and my therapists all spoke highly of the lady that runs the house and swore I’d be okay there.

  “I do,” I reply, still looking at the house. My new home, at least for a while.

  “Good, make sure you call me if you need anything at all. Sheila is great and has helped lots of women, including me, transition back into life, you’re in good hands but still. Anything, call me.”

  “I will. Promise. Thanks for everything, Cynthia. I really appreciate all you’ve done.” I grab my bag from the back seat as she comes around the car.

  “You’re a bright young woman with your whole life ahead of you. Helping you was my pleasure. Now give me a hug and go meet Sheila.” Her arms wrapped around me before I could protest. I hugged her back hard, hoping to convey just how thankful I am in that one embrace.

  “Now go, do great things, Jewel.”

  “You can call me Cara,” I told her quietly before heading to the door.

  “Bye, Cara,” I heard her call behind me and I waved over my shoulder. Time to move forward just like when I left the hospital. I thought I would die when I got to rehab but I didn’t. I made it. I’ll make it here too.

  Before I can knock the door flies open, and I’m faced with a rather large woman with giant black hair, dressed like a gypsy. “Well, you must be Jewel.” Her arms reach for me, pulling me into a hug before I can respond. When she releases me, I mutter, “Yeah, I’m Jewel. You must be Sheila?”

  “The one and only. Co
me on in, doll, let’s get you situated.” I watch her turn and disappear into the house. Reluctantly I follow her, reminding myself to be brave. This is great. A new start. I got this shit. I follow her as she weaves through the house announcing each room as we pass.

  “Living room, help yourself to whatever but there are certain times I watch my shows. You’re welcome to watch with me but the channel doesn’t change. Any other time it’s up to you and the other girls.”

  “How many others are here?” I ask, not seeing anyone else.

  “Right now just one and she has a job now so she’s not here much. I don’t expect her to be living here much longer. Names Linzie, you’ll love her. Anyway…” she says as she keeps walking.

  “Kitchen, I make breakfast, lunch and dinner. Snacks are up to you to provide for yourself. This is the guest bathroom, and this is your room.” She stops and flings a door open. “You have your own private bathroom, it’s small but it’s yours. The room is basic so if you want to spruce it up go right ahead. I just ask that you don’t paint the walls.” She moved to the side allowing me to enter.

  She was right. It was sparse, even more so than my room at the rehab facility. At least there I had a bookshelf. It’s okay though, I have a roof over my head in a house that’s clean with food on the table. Sheila, who’s slightly eccentric, seems nice so I can deal with a boring room.

  “Thank you, Sheila, it’s a great room.” I mean the words. It is a great room. After living a fast life and never being sure where I would wake up, this plain room is a breath of fresh air.

  “You’re welcome, darling. Now set your things down and meet me in the kitchen. We have a few rules to go over.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply, trying to be respectful.