2. Gage
2
GAGE
T he attic isn’t bad, actually. The ceilings slant and I have to duck in some places, but it opens up in the middle of the massive room, and there’s a giant picture window with a seat that overlooks the street. The cushion is the worst shade of olive green and has definitely seen better days, but it’s comfy, inspiring, and bright. The old me would have hated the brightness, but maybe this is a new me. Maybe hope feels bright and I’m getting comfortable in it.
Or maybe I’m hyperfixated on hope right now, and when the obsession wears off like they all do, I’ll drop right into despair. I blow that thought through my lips and try to move on.
I sold everything I owned. That might have been an impulsive, drug-fuelled idea from that café Sunday, but anything in my name got sold after I went to rehab and made enough for me to afford twelve more months there. The condo I lived in with Paul stayed with Paul. I mean, technically, my name is still on it, but I’ll give him my half. He put up with me for years, including my year in rehab, so it’s the least I can do.
I’m about to turn away from the window when a loud rumble draws my attention. Marian’s hog really is loud, and she does look like a badass riding it. I kind of want one, but that might be another impulse buy and I’m trying to steer clear of those. I’ll need a vehicle eventually, and a motorcycle probably isn’t the most logical.
When I turn around, Slash is sitting in the doorway to the secret stairs as if he’s telling me, ‘These are actually my stairs, so watch your back,’ or something along those lines. Like a king, he struts his shit right over to the window seat, sits back down on the floor, and looks at me. And Jesus, it’s like I can read his mind or something because I immediately push an old box over so he has a stepping stool to hop up there. With a huff that might mean thanks, he climbs up, settles down, and keeps a vigil over the street while I sleep off the drive, the stress, the anxiety, and the weight of all this new hope. When I wake up, the calendar has turned another page.
It’s Monday now, so my mom leaves in a few hours for her forging night. No one else will be home until later, and the addict in me is wondering if they’ve been asked to stay away so I can settle. The things people do to make sobriety easier. I appreciate it, but it comes with guilt; guilt leads to negative feelings, and negative feelings lead to bad decisions. At least in my case.
“I’m gonna go out,” I tell my mom, hoping she’ll invite everyone back home while I’m gone. “Been a long time since I was here. Just kinda wanna walk around a bit and get a feel for it again before I hit up my meeting.” Even though that’s the worst fucking idea because I don’t know if I’m strong enough yet.
Port Baylon, this town—which is more of a small city—is full of my original fuck ups. All the places I scored drugs, the stores I stole from and ruined my family’s relationship with the owners, the high school I attended and almost flunked out of, and old buddies who never got out. I did get out, and I probably ended up worse than them, but it’s still not wise for me to run into any of them.
“There are a few new shops uptown,” Mom says. “And a new coffee place that makes the best scones.” She drools. “Are you okay, hun?”
Forever, as long as I live, people will automatically ask me that anytime I don’t act one hundred percent normal. My eyes shift; are you okay? I’m in a bad mood; are you okay? Something doesn’t go according to plan; are you okay?
Are you going to use? That’s what they really mean. I’ll never escape that stigma or the worry it comes with.
“I’m good, Mom.” I smile at her. “And you can tell everyone they can come home. I’m fine.”
She winks at me, and with that, I’m out the door with a pack of cigarettes my therapist thinks are a gateway drug and a bottle of water with the cap still sealed. I flip my hat forward to block out the setting sun and walk down memory lane.
Memory lane hurts, and by the time I get downtown, I just wait outside the building for the meeting to start. I’m an hour early, but I don’t think I can handle walking around anymore, seeing the places that remind me of all the times I messed up. I wanted to come back here to get past this shit. To see it, accept it, know that I can handle my past, and learn to carry it into a future that’s going to be different. I need to conquer this fucking town before I can face a new one.
The meeting is the same here as it is anywhere. Someone wise and weathered runs it, a bunch of people talk about the worst days of their lives or how long they’ve been on the straight and narrow, and the rest of us listen, letting it all sink in. Mostly that we aren’t alone, and that when we struggle and think we’re all alone in it, we really aren’t.
These meetings put things into perspective for me, and sometimes I feel like shit about that. I have made some major fuck ups, almost accidentally killed myself five times, tried to kill myself on purpose once, and lost more than I’ve ever gained. But listening to the stories from people who actually have injured someone, killed someone by accident, lost friends to drugs and suicides, and lost custody of their kids makes me feel… better. Like, yeah, I’ve got it bad, but other people have got it worse, and I need to remember that. Sometimes it’s good for me to get a reality check.
This is an AA and NA meeting, so it doesn’t help my sex addiction, but my old sponsor has something lined up for that.
“Hi,” Carla, the woman running this meeting, says to me with a kind but reserved smile. “Welcome to Port Baylon. Are you new here?”
Fuck, I hate this part. She’ll respect my choice if I don’t want to talk, but now everyone is staring at me but trying not to, and the least I can do is answer her question.
“Uh, new again. I grew up here. Just got back yesterday.”
“Welcome,” everyone says.
“Anything you wanna share? Or just a short introduction? No pressure,” Carla says.
“Uh, okay. I’m Gage. I’m twenty-seven. I’ve been an addict since I was fifteen-ish, and as of yesterday morning, when I got out of rehab, I’m just over twelve months sober.” Everyone nods their respect, and for some reason, I add, “It was my eighth time in rehab.” I cross my fingers like it’s a joke and I’m hoping it sticks this time, but it’s not really a joke. I just don’t know how to talk about it without seeming dire and pathetic.
“Congrats, Gage!” Carla says with a big smile. “Show us that chip!”
I pull the twelve-month chip from my pocket and flash it around. I really am proud of it, and to be honest, even though I’ve been to rehab eight times, this is only the second time I’ve received a one-year chip. “Thanks.”
Not bad for a first meeting, and I don’t feel too dumb about sharing that. As soon as it ends and everyone mingles, I look at the door and debate bolting into the night just to breathe on my own again for a second.
“Hey, Gage?” A guy walks up to me in jeans and a work-style jacket. He’s somewhere in his forties, pretty good looking, and well put together. “Nathan,” he says, holding out his right hand. “Kristen called. I know her from the city when I lived there. She said you might need a sponsor, and I think she mentioned me.”
I shake his hand, enjoy his grip, and nod. “Yeah. I’m, uh, looking for one.”
“Wanna grab a coffee or something and talk it over? There’s a good place up the street that has way better coffee than that.” He nods at the carafe that someone is pouring black sludge out of and into a Styrofoam cup.
“Sure.”
I follow him out and flick a cigarette from my pack as we walk. Nathan looks like your typical hot young dad, and I’ve met enough addicts over the years to not judge. Not every junkie looks like a scabby meth head, and not every alcoholic looks haggard and worn down. We all get hooked for different reasons, and no walk of life is safe from the pull of addiction.
The sun has set, so when we get to the front of the coffee place, it’s lit up like a stage. Glass windows line the whole front, and every part of the counter and booths are visible from the street. It makes me uncomfortable, but I have to get out of the mentality of hiding. I step on my cigarette butt and kick it down a sewer like a disrespectful dick before following Nathan inside. The place isn’t packed, but it’s lively for nine at night.
He grabs a booth by the window, shoving his jacket along the bench before he slides in. I’m only wearing a hoodie and my hat, so I push the brim up, showing him my eyes to be upfront and honest. No point in lying to your sponsor.
“What do you want? It’s on me,” he says.
“Nah, I got it. As a thanks for meeting with me.”
Nathan smiles. “Just a black coffee. I’ll load it with sugar here,” he says, laughing at the sugar packets he’s already ripping open.
Luckily, nothing crashes through the window, and I actually pay for his black coffee and my latte, feeling weirdly proud of that everyday occurrence. Makes me feel normal, I guess.
“You ever had a sponsor before?”
“Kristen,” I remind him. “But other than her, no. I’ve always been that one foot in, one foot out type. Thought I could do it on my own.”
He smiles weakly, almost like he gets it. Maybe he does. “I’ve never been a sponsor before. This’ll be my first time. You okay with that?”
I shrug, not really familiar with how any of this works. Kristen was my first and only experience, and she was basically a lifeline. I called when I wasn’t feeling right, we went to meetings together, and we checked in with one another, morning and night.
“I’m fine with it.”
“Can I ask one thing?” Nathan asks, and I nod. “You had a female sponsor…”
Not really a question, but I get where he’s going with it. We’re encouraged to have same-sex sponsors to not spark any sexual or romantic interests, especially because I’m also a sex addict. But that’s a pretty old-school way of thinking and doesn’t really help me much.
“I’m bi.” I take a sip and choke on foam. “And a sex addict. And every kind of addict you can imagine.”
Nathan raises both brows. “Not just substances, then?”
I blow out a long breath and lean back in the booth. “I’m a basket case. Wanna hear what you’re getting into before you agree to sponsor me?”
“If you’re comfortable sharing, yeah. Then I’ll tell you about myself.”
“Better get comfy.” I laugh.
Here we go. The story of me and all my fuck ups. It’s always hard to tell.
“Well, it started when I was fourteen. Actually, it started when I was six. I got diagnosed with ADHD.”
He nods. “Dopamine deficiency and substance abuse.”
“Yeah. Everything hits us differently. I started on Ritalin. I was fine, if not agitated and living through weird ups and downs straight from childhood. Switched to Adderall later. When I turned fourteen, I became that daredevil type, you know? Freedom, high school, new friends and all that, on top of hormones and trying to prove myself. I became an adrenaline junkie first. Always searching for the next thrill. Stealing, setting little fires, committing small crimes just to see if I could get away with them. That sort of shit. I got into a lot of trouble, which gave me a bad reputation. So, by the time I got that bad rep, I literally didn’t give a fuck about making it worse. I figured everyone already thought I was the worst, so let me prove them right.”
“Issue with authority?” Nathan asks.
“I don’t think so. Issue with myself. Nothing ever felt good, so I kept looking for what did.” I shrug and take another drink, feeling okay so far. “Well, that bad rep also got me bad friends. I was fourteen, at a buddy’s place, and his older brother was having a party. This friend triple dog dared me to do coke, and, well, ain’t no self-respecting thrill seeker going to turn down a triple dog dare, so I fucking did it. And guess what?”
“It calmed you down,” Nathan guesses.
“So fucking calm. It was an upper, a stimulant, I knew that, but as soon as it hit me, I’d never felt calmer.”
“ADHD,” Nathan says. “Neurodivergent. Uppers are basically muscle relaxants to you.”
“Bingo. So, here I am, this fourteen-year-old idiot who finally found something to make me feel good and relaxed, and I had no concept of the future or consequences or anything because I was fucking invincible at that age, right?”
Oh, how wrong I was.
“So, no surprise, I wanted more. I didn’t have a job to pay for it, but who cared, right? I got a buzz from stealing, so I did that, got as much coke as shady friends and dealers would sell me, paid for it with stolen things or money, and got hooked pretty fast. I hid it well for almost a year because it didn’t tweak me out, so my parents and teachers never noticed.”
“What about the comedown?” Nathan asks. “Coke and uppers have a shitty come down.”
“Yeah. Moody and sick and insecure, so I did what any addict would do.”
“You got more. And more turned into whatever you could score.”
I nod, finishing my latte. “Yep. I was fifteen when I discovered the wonderful world of Dilaudids and Hydromorphone and Oxy. Vicodin, Percs, Morphine, and eventually Fetty.”
“Jesus.” Nathan motions for a refill and the barista smiles as she drops off a mug for me and leaves the pot. She must know Nathan, which means she maybe now knows I’m an addict. Shit. Good start. “So, pills became your thing?”
I fill my mug and add some cream and sugar. “Yeah, but the problem with pills is that you mix and match, and they all fuck you up in different ways. So, I was long past that calm phase I got from the coke, and I had fully embraced the adrenaline junkie phase. I got fucked up so I could use it as an excuse to do stupid shit. I fucked so hard and so often I wore my dick out, got a few STIs. Fortunately, they were the curable kind. Stole for no other reason than to get away with it, and made enemies out of anyone who tried to tell me what a mistake I was making. Sex turned into fighting, and once I got a thrill out of that, I picked fights with anyone who would take me on. Which was stupid because I’m not that big of a guy, and I got my ass handed to me more often than not. But I didn’t give a shit because I was so drugged up I couldn’t feel anything. Plus, when you’re bloody and broken, people throw pills at you, and I obviously encouraged that.”
Nathan leans back, mimicking my position. “Alcohol?”
“I mean, yeah. I drank. I started drinking in high school, and I didn’t really like it with the coke, but I did it anyway. Mostly peer pressure and a desire to fit in. Everyone drank, so I figured I should, too. Even though those people weren’t also on coke. But I’d always felt so different from everyone else, so I did whatever I could to feel the same as them. They drank, so I drank. I was stupid.”
“Okay, so you mostly stuck to pills and coke in high school? When did everything change?”
“I OD’d when I was seventeen. Mixed a few too many pills, lost track of how many I took, and my mom found me in the bathroom, convulsing on the floor.”
“Did she know?”
“She’s not stupid. We’d fought about it a bunch of times, but on top of being an adrenaline junkie, I was a compulsive liar. I weaved stories so well that it was hard for people not to believe them. I learned to lie, and I was damn good at it, and people generally liked me because I faked being likeable, so they believed what I said, even with the bad reputation. Plus, I left home because I hated disappointing my mom. That was high school.”
“And after?”
“After high school, I fucked up real bad. I OD’d again when I was eighteen. Snorted heroin. Mom found me again because I’d gone to her place for… comfort or something. She threw me in rehab. I stayed for three months, moved back home, promised her I was better as I walked out the door to score.”
Nathan refills my mug. I hadn’t even realized I’d finished the coffee.
“But I felt pretty shitty about it. So, when I OD’d the third time, Fetty, Mom sent me right back to rehab. Again, I stayed. Relapsed within the first month out. I got my first full year of sobriety when I was twenty-one to twenty-two. And you know what’s fucked up about it?”
“What?”
“On the one-year anniversary, it felt like I’d hit a milestone, right? Like, okay, I proved I could make it. That’s all I needed to know.”
“You used that day?” Nathan asks.
“Yep. From twenty-two to now, it’s been the same repetitive story. Hit my rock bottom, go to rehab, sometimes do alright, mostly struggle, relapse, get lost in life, hit another rock bottom.”
“Vicious cycle. And you were alone for all of it?”
“No. I had a boyfriend for the past few years. I thought I’d be okay for the first time, you know? Like someone actually gave a shit about me, and that felt good. Better than the drugs and the sex and the stealing. Until I realized that he probably wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t an addict. He was just looking for someone to worship him, and I did for a bit. Until I started lying and cheating and being a secretive dick. More rehab. More relapses.”
“And he never noticed?”
“He did. But he was a busy man. He didn’t have the time to constantly take care of me, and he shouldn’t have had to. By that point, he was too good of a person to throw me out because he couldn’t have lived with the guilt of making me a homeless addict. Instead of loving him enough to set him free, I took advantage of him keeping our home safe for me to crash in. Anyway, this most recent time, I lost my fight with sobriety because a goddamn steel pipe broke through the glass window of a café I was in.”
“What?” Nathan laughs.
“Yeah. And I had a coffee in my hand that I hadn’t paid for, and I was having a moral dilemma about stealing it while the barista was hiding behind the counter and glass was flying everywhere. I snapped out of it when she looked terrified and helped her get to the back room until it was safe. It was her purse that fell when she grabbed it for her phone to call 9-1-1. She had a baggie of coke in there. I called Kristen, but I already had the coke in my hand, and… fuck. It was such a weak moment. I even stole the coffee on the way out.”
“And now you’re here?”
“Yep. Fresh out of a whole year in rehab. Recovering drug and alcohol addict, klepto, sex addict, and adrenaline addict.” I hold up the mug. “And apparently addicted to coffee and cigarettes now.”
“Well, let’s keep it at that and only that.” Nathan smiles. “So, what about now? How do you manage your ADHD?”
“Well, for the past year, the clinic handled my meds, so I got my one pill a day and nothing more.”
“And now?”
I shrug. “My mom is gonna try to distribute it.” And I really fucking hope I don’t make a huge mistake and hurt her to get them.
“Would you feel more comfortable if I did that? Or even the pharmacy?”
“You’d do that?”
“We could try it,” he says. “If you’re comfortable with me being your sponsor.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I think… yeah.” Something eases inside me, knowing I won’t be tempted to manipulate my mom.
“You feeling good about it this time?”
“Good? No. Hopeful, kind of. More just… determined. I don’t want this to be my life anymore. I’m twenty-seven and have nothing to show for it except wasted time and a bunch of ruined relationships with the people I love. I have a good job, but that’s because of the ADHD. I obsessed over an online shop where I made digital products. I made them all, set up the shop, and it basically sustains itself. When I can, I update it and offer new things, but it’s really the same ten things that sell over and over again.” I shrug. “I’m determined, Nathan. That’s how I’m feeling now.”
“We can work with determined,” he says. “Thanks for sharing all that.”
I feel lighter. “Thanks for listening.”