“Don’t put this on me! I’m not the one who chose to get shit-faced. I’m not the one police found face down in vomit. You did this to yourself.”
Of course, I knew what he said was true, but that didn’t make the facts go down any smoother. I was angry, and he was my bullseye. “Fuck you, Jake! Do you have any idea what I gave up for you?”
“What did you give up, Keith? A delivery boy job? I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“No, asshole. I gave up my girl for you.”
Silence descended upon us. Every person in the room shifted uncomfortably. I’d gone too far. I hadn’t lost Sam because of Jake. I’d lost her because of what happened to him. There was a difference. A big one.
“Keith.” Mom broke the awkward pause. “You disappeared after the Springfield concert – that was two days ago.”
I shook my head as the words sank in.Two days?
“The police have been looking for you,” Dad continued. “Mom and I got here yesterday. Do you have any idea what it did to us to have another son missing? A maid found you this morning, unconscious in some sketchy downtown motel.”
I glanced around the room at my morose audience, all nodding in unison. Even the doctor’s head bobbed up and down, as if he too had a stake in my humiliation.
“You could have died, Keith. You almost did. My god, what were you thinking?”
Nothing.I’d thrown my life and my future away for nothing! Now I’d never get Sam back. Angry tears welled up but I refused them passage.
“Do you think I like being this way?” I growled, gripping the railing so tightly that my knuckles blanched white. “Self destruction is wired into me. I can’t stop it. I hate living this way!”
“Good,” Dad replied, refusing to allow me to wallow in self-pity. “It’ll make this next part a whole lot easier to swallow. As soon as you’re released, you’re going into a ten-week drug rehabilitation facility.”
Great! Now that we weren’t poor, my parents weren’t reduced to bargain basement treatment options. I slumped back against the pillow, defeated. I’d do their rehab, sure. It was to be expected after what I’d put them through, but I knew what they didn’t – that it would never work.
“I’m not saying I won’t go, but what’s the point? As soon as I’m released, I’ll be right back at it. Face it, I’m too far gone.”
“No.” Jake stepped forward. His eyes bore into mine. “You’re not. Trust me when I say no one is ever too far gone.”
* * *
Doodling on my notepad, I tried to ignore the conversations going on around me. Two weeks out of detox, these mandatory group therapy sessions were my least favorite parts of the treatment. Not only did I have to suffer through the sob stories of my fellow tweakers, but I was expected to share in the process. Problem was, I had nothing to say. This wasn’t some life-changing experience for me; it was punishment for a life squandered. I carried through the days with the jaded belief that I couldn’t be cured, so all the pomp and circumstance was just make believe to me.
Determined to keep my issues to myself, I played along, focusing solely on the prize – going home. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t became a little more difficult when a staff member let my last name slip, and suddenly I was beating the horny rehab girls off with towels. Oh, wouldn’t that just be the icing on the cake if I came home with a druggie girlfriend? How proud would that make the parental units?
As those around me actively participated in the group setting, I jotted down my fake feelings. I was several days behind in my journal and I didn’t want to get caught with empty pages, so I stole lines from Jake’s songs and used kindergarten-sized letters to give the appearance of quantity.
“Keith, what about you?”
I jerked my head up and looked toward the source of the voice – the group leader. She was a young woman no older than myself, but the way she carried herself, with intellect and humility, told me age was where our similarities ended.
Clearing my voice, I asked, “Sorry. Could you repeat the question?”
“Sure. We were just discussing a defining moment in your life that triggered you to want to self medicate with drugs.”
My fellow junkies eyed me hungrily, no doubt salivating at the chance to get the inside scoop on my notorious family. I struggled to mask my irritation. What did this woman want from me? I was showing up like a good boy and filling my notepad with someone else’s feelings, but I’d be damned if I was going to air my dirty laundry in front of a bunch of strangers.
“I think we all knowhisdefining moment,” the guy to my left chimed in.
“Cory,” Ms. Marshall corrected. “Remember the rules.”
“What? It’s not like it’s a big secret what happened to his brother. That shit would mess anyone up.”
Clenching my teeth, I bristled at the assumption that Jake’s drama was responsible for my downfall. It wasn’t. I’d seen the same reaction in my last outpatient rehabilitation therapy. I was basically forgiven for being a screw up because Jake’s kidnapping had messed with my head. Why was it that siblings of kidnap victims got a bad rap? There was that pity thing involved, and people viewed us as a damaged lot by association alone. I’ll admit, Jake’s kidnapping did have a profound affect on my life, but that wasn’t why I became a drug addict. I had no one to blame but myself, so why was I continually being forgiven?
Maybe… maybe if I faced the ‘why’ of my descent into drug abuse I could finally break the chains that bound me to this life. At the last rehab, when I was twenty-one, I’d sat back, half-listening, considering myself somehow above the other losers. I hadn’t used the therapy as it was intended, and so I got nothing from it. I’d never taken the time to really evaluate myself and make the necessary changes. And look where it got me – right back where I started.
