Chapter 29
Joz
Guilt is easier to deal with than grief.
The plastic and probably uncomfortable chairs were arranged in a loose circle.
Not that the seating mattered. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and weak coffee.
I waited in line at the drinks station, the peak of my cap pulled low, sunglasses on.
Couldn’t drop the disguise even in pointless scenarios like this one.
Everyone here knew who I was. The ripples of recognition had run through this place like a bad case of diarrhea after a vindaloo the day I arrived.
I made a coffee, tipped in the contents of two packets of sugar, gave it a stir with a wooden stick, and picked a chair closest to the exit. A woman in her early thirties sat on my left, head down. A guy barely out of his teens picked the seat on my right.
First group session. Wouldn’t be the last. Every single one would involve pain and anguish, and a honed sense of failure tinged with a sliver of hope. I knew the drill. I’d lived the drill. Didn’t think I’d be here again, though. Eight fucking years sober, and I’d fucked it up in one stupid night.
I missed Aspen. The yearning to feel her warm, soft body wrapped around mine had kept me awake for two nights straight, staring at a cracked ceiling, looking for answers that stubbornly remained in the shadows.
Why had I turned to drugs in a time of crisis when I should’ve turned to my girl?
Guess that was the reason I was here to find those answers and make sure I made a better decision next time.
Next time. There couldn’t be a fucking next time. Many addicts who fell off the wagon after being clean as long as I was didn’t make it. Our bodies weren’t attuned to the strength of the drug we used to take without thinking. Truth was, I got fucking lucky.
The counsellor, a woman in her fifties, introduced herself as Judy. She wore compassion like a well-loved T-shirt, and her eyes gave a don’t-fuck-with-me glint that said she’d been around this block a time or two.
“All right, everyone. You know the drill. We’ll go around the group and check in. Name, how you’re feeling today, whatever’s on your mind. Keep it short or go long. It’s up to you.”
One by one, the attendees spoke. A wiry man around my age confessed he’d almost walked out this morning but had somehow found the strength to stay another day.
A middle-aged woman wrung her hands as she admitted she still craved the drug that had forced her to hit rock bottom and lose her home and her husband.
The teenager sat beside me whispered that he didn’t want to die.
Fucking hell. Desperation clung to my skin.
I wished I could claw it out with my bare hands.
The memories came rushing back. I’d struggled with group sessions the last time I entered rehab, and nothing had changed in the intervening years.
Hearing everyone’s despair, their shame, their guilt at disappointing their loved ones, who so badly wanted to help but didn’t have the skills. Fuck, man, it killed me.
All eyes were on me when my turn came around.
I cleared my throat and tugged the peak of my cap lower. “I’m Joz. I was clean for eight years until last Saturday. Then I fucked up.” My voice was gravel, low and raw. The silence pressed in, the group waiting for more. I hitched a shoulder. “That’s it.”
Judy gave me that empathetic smile again and nodded. “Thank you for showing up, Joz. The first session is always the hardest.”
The woman next to me spoke, and the spotlight shifted to her as she shared that she’d just received news her kids had been taken into care.
She broke down, putting her head in her hands.
A guy directly opposite got up, knelt down, and wrapped his arms around her.
I guessed, from the way she almost collapsed against him, that they’d made a friendship here.
I didn’t plan on making friendships. I hadn’t the last time I spent weeks in rehab.
In my position, I couldn’t afford to trust anyone, although there was no hiding my attendance here from the press.
Aspen would’ve had to cancel a long list of events to publicize the album, and reasons would have to be given.
There was no access to internet or newspapers here, so I didn’t have a clue what was being said about me.
Probably for the best. I had to focus on my recovery, not on what poison-pen journalists were saying.
I’d only get pissed off, and that would detract from the work I needed to do to get my life back on track.
Aspen deserved the best version of me, and I was going to fucking make sure that was what she got.
It was funny how sometimes three weeks could feel like a lifetime, yet at others, it sped by at an alarming rate. Time measured the same. A second was a second, a minute a minute, yet the last twenty-one days since Aspen drove me to this facility felt more like twenty-one fucking years.
I cursed the weakness that landed me here, and it only added to the guilt, the shame, the sheer frustration I’d carried with me ever since I heard the news about Caroline.
A few days ago, I’d plucked up the courage to call Kate, and we’d talked for an hour on the phone.
She’d been so fucking understanding, offering me kind words and encouragement, and repeating over and over that what happened to Caroline still wasn’t my fault.
She was a fucking diamond I didn’t deserve, although I was trying to believe there was good in me.
There had to be for strong, amazing women like Aspen and Kate to want me in their lives.
The alarm on my watch buzzed. Time for my third one-on-one session with Doctor Houghton.
I trudged down the hallway toward his office. As usual, he greeted me with a tight smile and a wave at the chair in front of his desk. I purposely avoided the couch. Lying down didn’t make talking any easier. Every word stuck in my throat, shoved down by too many negative emotions.
“How are you feeling today, Joz?”
Same opener. You’d think he’d have come up with a little variety.
“Trust the process,” he’d said when I’d told him how much I despised these sessions, even though I knew they worked.
But for how long? Until the next shitty thing happened and I found comfort in the drug that’d haunted me ever since that first fix.
All those years sober, yet the whisper, the temptation never truly went away.
Music helped me quieten the voices, and since meeting Aspen a few months ago, those voices had all but disappeared—until they’d come roaring back with vengeance on their mind.
Even loving her hadn’t been enough to stop me. And if the love of a woman I didn’t deserve hadn’t kept me from shooting up, what would?
“Same as last time, Doc.”
“And what is that?”
I snorted. “It’s all right there in the notes.”
“I want you to tell me.”
I shook my head, nostrils flaring on an irritated breath. “I’m drowning in guilt, shame, and regrets.”
He pressed his fingertips together and steepled them under his chin, his elbows propped on his mahogany desk with its too-neat layout. “I mentioned last time that I wanted to talk about Caroline. Are you still okay to do that?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There is always a choice, Joz.”
“So, I could walk out right now?”
“Of course. This isn’t a prison. You are free to leave at any time.”
If I did, that’d be it for Aspen and me. What did I want more? To get well, to beat this thing once and for all, and live my life with the woman I loved for the rest of eternity? Or pack my bags and be in drugged-up bliss within the hour?
There was no competition. I already knew the answer. I’d choose Aspen every time. But fuck, this was hard. Harder than last time, maybe, because I’d dared to believe I’d beaten it only to find out it owned me just the same.
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to share.”
Therapists were as annoying as fuck. Every question answered with another goddamn question.
“She was… fragile. Needy. Sad.” My throat tightened.
“Every time I tried to break up with her, she’d threaten to harm herself.
I’d take her back, and we’d start the same toxic dance that’d defined our entire relationship. ”
“And how did you feel when you took her back?”
“Trapped. Like every time we got back together, I lost a little more of myself. But what was I supposed to do?”
“So, what changed that last time when you refused to give in? Why did you stand your ground on that occasion?”
“Because she was never going to change, and neither was I. And look what happened. I as good as killed her.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“Yes, or I wouldn’t say it.”
He picked up his pen and jotted a note. “You’ve carried Caroline’s life, and her death, like it was your penance, but her choices weren’t yours to control.
If someone’s drowning, you can dive into the pool or the river or lake and try to save them, but if they keep pulling you under, both of you drown.
That’s not love, Joz. That’s martyrdom.”
The words hit like a physical punch. I wrapped my arms around my middle. “If I’d stayed, she’d be alive.”
He edged forward, eyes sharp. “And do you know that? Like, with a hundred percent certainty?”
I blinked, the conviction I’d held on to for eight years faltering. “I… well, no. I don’t know that. Not a hundred percent.”
“Exactly. Your brain has convinced you she’d still be here, but it’s lying to you.
I didn’t know Caroline, but I’ve met many people like her over the years.
My guess is that she was hurting long before the two of you met.
You couldn’t have saved her no matter what you did.
The truth is, we have to want to save ourselves, then take action to make it happen. ”
The room blurred. My chest ached, like every belief I’d held on to was being ripped from my body without anesthetic. “Then, why the fuck does it still feel like it was my fault?”
“Because guilt is easier to deal with than grief.”
Silence roared in my ears. “But I never loved her. Not like I love Aspen.”
“Grief comes in many forms, Joz. I think a part of you is grieving for Arthur, for the fact he is growing up without a mother. And because that is too painful to contemplate, you buried it. You’ve never let it come to the surface, and as long as it is buried, it can’t heal.
For you, it’s still an open wound you keep putting a bandage over, hoping that will stem the bleeding. ”
I hated to admit it but, fuck me, this guy knew his stuff. I was borderline impressed. “How do I stop it?”
He smiled. “You just made the first step by asking that question. Tonight, when you’re alone in your room, write Caroline a letter.
Not for her. For you. Put the truth of what happened where it belongs.
With Caroline. Believe that truth, and once you do, you’ll be ready to forgive yourself for living your life when Caroline isn’t able to live hers. ”
I didn’t answer. No words came to mind. But for the first time in years, the weight on my chest didn’t feel like a life sentence.