By late November I had become a foreign creature among my classmates. I was filled with a melancholy that my peers may never know of. Borne at the end of winter, my life was on the rocks. Yes, that’s it, I am borne.
I take slow, dreaded steps. My beating heart, I can no longer feel, I am numb. I continue on, the distance between the door and I, seems small. So why am I taking so long to get there? I touch the icy knob and my blood pours out, leaking from imaginative pores under my feet. The knob turns, and I am on the inside. Step by step, breath by breath, I arrive at the dreaded orange chair. Clearing my throat, I begin, "Hello my name is Anna- Maria and I am a drug addict."
All eyes are facing me. Maybe I was expected to specify, isn’t that why we are all here? Drugs, alcohol and anything that can take you away, anything that can take you out of yourself. I’m self conscious for having delivered such an obvious response to my expected introduction. I’m stunned. Time slows and I can’t breathe, it feels like hands all over, wringing my lungs out. I slowly descend into the plastic seat. The whole hour I am a motionless vagabond. I pass the time in a dazed, drifted state, taking notice of the hideous decor. A place like this should not be so depressing. The crème paint peels with age, mahogany carpets whither with years of maltreatment. I don’t take much notice of any one in particular. I don’t care for other's problems; they help me remember a life I don’t want to. I stare at the clock, taking note in its design and just then my mind breaks. I hear a deep voice that will someday traverse through my soul. He’s tall, 6'1, to my estimate. He has a navy blue streak through his dark hair. I pay the most attention to what he says because he caught it. He has an aura about him that makes him familiar.
The timer sounds signaling my release from the hellish hour. I just sit there. Waiting. People flood out as if they have just escaped a death sentence. How can this place be any more depressing? I’m not the only one waiting. There is the chaperon and the boy with the blue streaked hair. I guess he needs an escort too. I hate rehab. This is the biggest waste of time; I wish I knew who the do good-er was that spoke of me landing me in this place. Who could have reported me? I was clean and precise; I managed to slip under the radar for a while. It couldn’t have been my mother. She doesn’t care whether I'm dead or alive, my father is not an option, and he’s six feet under. I have no friends that I would let into my secrets, no one knows about my closet. No one has seen the skeletons I have. Lost in the labyrinth of my mind I barely notice that someone has approached me.
“Hello you must be Anna-Maria, I am Mr. Tsubasa and I am your chaperon, are you ready to leave?” I study his structure. He is an averaged sized man with a decent hair cut, dressed in a two piece suit. He doesn’t seem like he’ll give me much trouble. I think within a matter of time I’ll be able to wrap him around my finger and get an easy way out of here.
“Oh, yes of course.” We walk in silence out of the room.
Tuesday morning at Little Oak rehab centre was no better than the day I first came. The only think that changed was the lunch menu. It’s been a week and I’m still sitting alone in the café. This doesn’t seem to surprise me much though. I’m used to being an outsider, I’ve become accustomed to loneliness and I don’t need people. They just get in my way. They always have. I remember my first year of high school being constantly teased for my eccentricity. No one seemed to understand, girls spread lies like wildfire ad guys believed in whatever fantasies they wanted. I recall my second year, the fire increased by volumes. I began to withdraw, wanting nothing to do with my peers. I still cannot stand my peers; they all seemed to stay the cruel, vile children they once were in grade school. Memories upon memories flood me as I try to breathe. My mind is shrouded in the very storm clouds I’m allowing myself to relive. I am completely oblivious to whoever just sat down at my table. I take in shallow breaths as I try to forget. It seems harder this time though; I can’t turn back to my safe haven. I no longer have a stash of meth. Before I can realise what’s going on, I am surrounded. People are once again staring at the social outcast; people are pointing and watching as I break out in a cold sweat, as my body combusts. I close my eyes for what feels like hours and when I open them again, no one is there. I touch my face, there’s no trace of sweat, just the scabs along my jaw line and neck. I shake my head violently to reassure myself that I’m not insane. All I see are these brown eyes. He was sitting there the whole time. Did he see my panic attack? Does he think I’m mad? I put my head in my arms and just rest. I try to sleep off whatever it was that was gnawing at me. I sleep until Mr. Tsubasa is here once again to escort me. This time I am escorted to a nurse. I undergo a physical, and various other tests. The nurse seems very gentle. She reminds me of my grandmother; she has a warm smile and tells me what my blood test indicates.
“Um excuse me, but out of curiosity, do you know who it was that told you I wasn’t feeling too well?”
“Oh why yes it was one of the young men in your group session, the lad with the blue streak in his hair—it is beyond me why young people dye their hair those colours these days…”
I remember him, I saw him just before I blanked out. I don’t need his help. I was doing just fine dealing on my own. I hate feeling like a victim. I’m no victim, I’m a survivor. I glance around the office; I see that my file is open on the counter, revealing my drug addiction, and medical history. I hope he didn’t see my file. Who knows what he’s figured out by now?
Its Monday again and that means group session. I loathe these sessions. I have no real purpose for being here. I only come to pass my turn every week and in turn I am escorted to therapy where I refuse to talk and am told I will be held here longer. I don’t care much. The world is a cruel place but I do miss my freedom. Today seems to be filled with surprises; the mystery boy with blue in his hair speaks today. The shocker, he’s a meth addict too and his name is Kai. I guess I might have something in common with the enemy after all. After he confesses, he looks directly at me. I return his look with a cold expressionless stare. He seems uncomfortable, shifting nervously in his chair. I wonder if he ever faces withdrawal symptoms like I do. When my turn comes I think about what I want to say. The crowd seems to be lingering on what I’m about to say. I decide to open up just a bit, I’m not sure now, but I think I can use this to my advantage.
“I am 17 years old, a meth addict and some do good person reported me, and I thought I was careful, clean and precise but I was wrong”. I take my seat and drown out the rest of the world with my thoughts being so loud.
TO BE CONTINUED…
By late November I had become a foreign creature among my classmates. I was filled with a melancholy that my peers may never know of. Borne at the end of winter, my life was on the rocks. Yes, that’s it, I am borne.
I take slow, dreaded steps. My beating heart, I can no longer feel, I am numb. I continue on, the distance between the door and I, seems small. So why am I taking so long to get there? I touch the icy knob and my blood pours out, leaking from imaginative pores under my feet. The knob turns, and I am on the inside. Step by step, breath by breath, I arrive at the dreaded orange chair. Clearing my throat, I begin, "Hello my name is Anna- Maria and I am a drug addict."
All eyes are facing me. Maybe I was expected to specify, isn’t that why we are all here? Drugs, alcohol and anything that can take you away, anything that can take you out of yourself. I’m self conscious for having delivered such an obvious response to my expected introduction. I’m stunned. Time slows and I can’t breathe, it feels like hands all over, wringing my lungs out. I slowly descend into the plastic seat. The whole hour I am a motionless vagabond. I pass the time in a dazed, drifted state, taking notice of the hideous decor. A place like this should not be so depressing. The crème paint peels with age, mahogany carpets whither with years of maltreatment. I don’t take much notice of any one in particular. I don’t care for other's problems; they help me remember a life I don’t want to. I stare at the clock, taking note in its design and just then my mind breaks. I hear a deep voice that will someday traverse through my soul. He’s tall, 6'1, to my estimate. He has a navy blue streak through his dark hair. I pay the most attention to what he says because he caught it. He has an aura about him that makes him familiar.
The timer sounds signaling my release from the hellish hour. I just sit there. Waiting. People flood out as if they have just escaped a death sentence. How can this place be any more depressing? I’m not the only one waiting. There is the chaperon and the boy with the blue streaked hair. I guess he needs an escort too. I hate rehab. This is the biggest waste of time; I wish I knew who the do good-er was that spoke of me landing me in this place. Who could have reported me? I was clean and precise; I managed to slip under the radar for a while. It couldn’t have been my mother. She doesn’t care whether I'm dead or alive, my father is not an option, and he’s six feet under. I have no friends that I would let into my secrets, no one knows about my closet. No one has seen the skeletons I have. Lost in the labyrinth of my mind I barely notice that someone has approached me.
“Hello you must be Anna-Maria, I am Mr. Tsubasa and I am your chaperon, are you ready to leave?” I study his structure. He is an averaged sized man with a decent hair cut, dressed in a two piece suit. He doesn’t seem like he’ll give me much trouble. I think within a matter of time I’ll be able to wrap him around my finger and get an easy way out of here.
“Oh, yes of course.” We walk in silence out of the room.
Tuesday morning at Little Oak rehab centre was no better than the day I first came. The only think that changed was the lunch menu. It’s been a week and I’m still sitting alone in the café. This doesn’t seem to surprise me much though. I’m used to being an outsider, I’ve become accustomed to loneliness and I don’t need people. They just get in my way. They always have. I remember my first year of high school being constantly teased for my eccentricity. No one seemed to understand, girls spread lies like wildfire ad guys believed in whatever fantasies they wanted. I recall my second year, the fire increased by volumes. I began to withdraw, wanting nothing to do with my peers. I still cannot stand my peers; they all seemed to stay the cruel, vile children they once were in grade school. Memories upon memories flood me as I try to breathe. My mind is shrouded in the very storm clouds I’m allowing myself to relive. I am completely oblivious to whoever just sat down at my table. I take in shallow breaths as I try to forget. It seems harder this time though; I can’t turn back to my safe haven. I no longer have a stash of meth. Before I can realise what’s going on, I am surrounded. People are once again staring at the social outcast; people are pointing and watching as I break out in a cold sweat, as my body combusts. I close my eyes for what feels like hours and when I open them again, no one is there. I touch my face, there’s no trace of sweat, just the scabs along my jaw line and neck. I shake my head violently to reassure myself that I’m not insane. All I see are these brown eyes. He was sitting there the whole time. Did he see my panic attack? Does he think I’m mad? I put my head in my arms and just rest. I try to sleep off whatever it was that was gnawing at me. I sleep until Mr. Tsubasa is here once again to escort me. This time I am escorted to a nurse. I undergo a physical, and various other tests. The nurse seems very gentle. She reminds me of my grandmother; she has a warm smile and tells me what my blood test indicates.
“Um excuse me, but out of curiosity, do you know who it was that told you I wasn’t feeling too well?”
“Oh why yes it was one of the young men in your group session, the lad with the blue streak in his hair—it is beyond me why young people dye their hair those colours these days…”
I remember him, I saw him just before I blanked out. I don’t need his help. I was doing just fine dealing on my own. I hate feeling like a victim. I’m no victim, I’m a survivor. I glance around the office; I see that my file is open on the counter, revealing my drug addiction, and medical history. I hope he didn’t see my file. Who knows what he’s figured out by now?
Its Monday again and that means group session. I loathe these sessions. I have no real purpose for being here. I only come to pass my turn every week and in turn I am escorted to therapy where I refuse to talk and am told I will be held here longer. I don’t care much. The world is a cruel place but I do miss my freedom. Today seems to be filled with surprises; the mystery boy with blue in his hair speaks today. The shocker, he’s a meth addict too and his name is Kai. I guess I might have something in common with the enemy after all. After he confesses, he looks directly at me. I return his look with a cold expressionless stare. He seems uncomfortable, shifting nervously in his chair. I wonder if he ever faces withdrawal symptoms like I do. When my turn comes I think about what I want to say. The crowd seems to be lingering on what I’m about to say. I decide to open up just a bit, I’m not sure now, but I think I can use this to my advantage.
“I am 17 years old, a meth addict and some do good person reported me, and I thought I was careful, clean and precise but I was wrong”. I take my seat and drown out the rest of the world with my thoughts being so loud.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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