My mind raced as the group leaned in, waiting for my response. This kind of question wasn’t easy for me—not with the complicated expectations my family had always placed on relationships.
I took a deep breath. “I think my perfect type is a guy who’s open, in touch with his emotions, but also someone who’d defend me—especially to my family—without wavering. I want someone who’s passionate about something, the way I feel about teaching.”
A moment of silence descended as everyone processed my answer, and as I started to feel a bit exposed, Jennie chimed in with a playful grin. “Oh, so you’re looking for a man written by a female author in a romance novel?”
Laughter broke out around the table, and I giggled, shaking my head. “Is that too much to expect?”
Sara leaned in with a smirk. “Someone hot as fuck too, right?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, that would help, for sure.”
The group burst into laughter again, and for the first time in a long while, I felt completely at ease. These women—this group—they were the kind of people I hadn’t realized I was missing. They weren’t anything like the girls I grew up with at home, and maybe I could have a group of girlfriends, somewhere I fit in.
“She probably wants someone like Jeff.” Sara sighed and took a sip of her beer.
“She does not want a Jeff...” Lynn raised an eyebrow as she shook her head vigorously at me. “Trust me, you don’t want that.”
Sara playfully stuck her tongue out at us, and Jennie started telling us about how she’d seen our assistant principal at the beach this summer and how he’d barely acknowledged her.
Growing up, everything in our house felt like it followed a script. Every conversation, every gathering, was done in the formal living room, where the furniture was pristine, barely touched except for special occasions. Nothing ever happened spontaneously. Every visit, every discussion was preplanned, sometimes weeks in advance. There was no room for last-minute fun or laughter, and everything had an air of formality, like we were walking on eggshells to maintain appearances. Even casual moments felt rehearsed, with expectations of how we were supposed to behave.
I had friends, but most of them felt the same—rigid, always watching their words, careful not to say anything that would stir the pot. When they did let their guard down, it wasn’t to share something real—it was to manipulate, to backstab, to use me in one way or another. There was never anything genuine or fun about it.
Sitting here, joking about partners and laughing with these women felt worlds apart from all that. It was much lighter. This wasn’t the life I was used to, but it was the one I’d always hopedfor. For the first time in ages, I didn’t have to be on edge, and I didn’t have to perform.
As Jennie continued her story about the assistant principal, I let myself relax into my chair. This was spontaneous and real.
5
austin
“I see that you’ve been on a monitored dose of naltrexone. Is that correct?” Dr. Manzulla asked as I sat in his office.
Dr. Manzulla was a primary care physician, but his practice specialized in comprehensive care for people with addiction. The office offered a complete support system, including a therapist, psychiatrist, and primary care services, all in one space. This was my first official appointment, and today I was meeting with both the primary care physician and the therapist. The psychiatrist would be involved later, if Dr. Manzulla determined I needed more specialized care.
“Yes. I am on naltrexone and a small dose of Prozac as well.” The latter was what I dubbed my “happy pill.”
“Right. The naltrexone has been helping you with the cravings?”
“Yeah. It still helps curb the shakes and the powerful voice in my head that has me wanting to run to a bar.”
It was a joke. I was trying to punch light, but Dr. Manzulla clearly didn’t seem to find it funny. I held up my hands. “Kidding, doc.”
“And the Prozac?”
When I first started treatment, I refused the antidepressant vehemently. I told the doctors, my therapists, and my sober buddy that I didn’t need it. I wasn’t depressed, I was just an alcoholic. It wasn’t until I found myself a week without a shower, sitting in a dark, cold room for the majority of the day, that I decided that I’d need something to help me, and relying on therapy alone wasn’t cutting it.
I’d made a commitment to get better for myself, and every single day, I fought my own psyche to continue fulfilling that promise. My brain and body were exhausted. Sometimes, late at night, I cursed my body for making my brain full of rot. It took a lot of understanding who I was and working on myself to find the positivity in everything.
“It’s still helping.”
Dr. Manzulla nodded. “Great. That’s good to hear.”
He looked over my chart a few times, frowned, and then pulled up the chair next to me.
“Everything good?”
“Yes, your vitals look great, and everything seems to be in order. There’s one thing, though, and I need you to check with the front desk. I’m pretty sure it’s because you’ve recently moved and haven’t officially started your job yet.”
