38. Shane
Shane
May
Today has to be the most miserable day of my entire life, and that’s really saying something because for the last two weeks, I’ve been in bed vomiting, sweating, and shivering uncontrollably.
But without a doubt, sitting here listening to Lisa or Lesley, or whatever the fuck her name is, ramble on about how her shitty childhood led her to drugs is by far the worst part of this whole experience.
I’d like to stand up and shout; we get it!
That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We all came to a crossroads at some point in our lives where getting high seemed like a better choice than living our reality.
Then, we made that choice over and over and over.
When I was actively withdrawing, they let me skip this shit. But when I started keeping down solid food two days ago, they took that as a sign I was ready for group therapy.
The pounding behind my eyes would beg to differ.
The sobbing patient stops talking, and the therapist leading group today gestures to me.
I’m slouched so low in the hard plastic chair that if I move, my ass might actually slide out of it and onto the floor. My knee bounces to a fast rhythm only audible in my own mind.
I lean my head to the side and let out a long breath. “I’m Shane. I do drugs.”
The other patients sitting around the circle like we’re at a bonfire give me varying degrees of pitiful looks. I’m the new guy and no doubt, they feel bad for me because most of them know the hell I experienced in the first days here.
“Shane, that’s not really the type of sharing we’re looking for.”
No shit?
Sitting up straighter, I clear my throat and cross my arms over my chest. Nik packed a bag while I was in the hospital and included my favorite black Fender hoodie.
I miss her already.
“I’ve been addicted to opioids and cocaine since my sophomore year of high school. I OD’d, and now I’m here.”
Glancing at the therapist, I lift my brows like there, better?
Luckily, she decides to take that for now and moves on to the next patient. When everyone’s said all they can say, we’re dismissed.
Next is meditation which I’ve never really been into, but at least it’s quiet. Of all the shitty things we have to do around here, sitting in the sun while no one talks to me for a period of time, isn’t so bad.
After meditation is lunch, then Kristy.
Today is our third session, and she still doesn’t seem to get the hint that I’m not interested in telling her anything. She asks the same stupid questions for an hour until the timer finally dings.
She sits behind her desk with her light brown hair pulled back into a clip and pushes her glasses up to the top of her head. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s probably my mom’s age, maybe a little younger. It’s hard to tell; she looks young in the face, but she dresses like an elderly librarian.
I’ve taken my usual spot across the room, leaning against the windowsill.
“Shane, you’ve stared out that window every time we’ve met.”
Without moving, I mutter, “So?”
“So, talk therapy typically requires some degree of talking.” Her voice is soft, and she enunciates every word clearly. I’d imagine if a patient were willing to talk to someone, it’d probably be this lady.
“I don’t have anything to talk about.” I shrug. “I’m just here to get clean so I can go home.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
In a snarky tone, I say, “By not doing drugs?”
She exhales in that way that people have been doing my whole life. The one that says I am in fact the biggest pain in the ass they’ve ever met, and I’m testing their patience.
“Look, I know you might think it’s that simple, but you’re going to need new coping skills when you leave here. I can help you with that if you’ll let me.”
When I don’t move from the window right away, she gestures to the couch in front of her.
I know what she’s doing. She thinks if she can get me to sit down and start talking that I’ll spill my whole life story to her before having some life changing breakthrough. But that’s not what’s going to happen.
I don’t need to talk about my feelings; I just need to not do drugs.
“There’s nothing I need to cope with.”
Not anymore.
The worst of what I could go through is over.
“Everyone has hard times occasionally, Shane. And it’s important that when you leave here, you know how to handle that without turning to drugs.”
Rolling my eyes, I drag my feet across the room and flop down on the couch.
“Thank you.” She laces her hands in front of her on the desk.
“I know it can be difficult to talk about some of these things, but for me to help you, you’re going to have to let me.
” Her soft brown eyes bore into me, making my skin prickle.
I don’t like being stared at like I’m a fucking museum exhibit.
I sigh, giving in. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Well, you’re here because you want to recover, right? So, let’s start there. When did you first start using?”
“In high school.”
“Tell me about that.”
I adjust in my seat and clear my throat. “I’d been nursing a couple black eyes I think, I don’t completely remember, but I found a box with some pills in the cabinet, so I took them.”
“What kind of pills?”
“Oxys. I didn’t know that at the time, though.”
“And how did you feel after that?”
“Incredible. I slept through the night for the first time in months. After that, I started swiping one or two every night just to sleep.”
“When did that change?”
“A couple of months later, I guess. My dad and I got into it one night and I hit him. I’m pretty sure my hand was broken, and it hurt too bad to even hold a pencil at school, so I started taking one in the morning.”
“Okay. And when did the cocaine start?”
“A few months later.”
She nods, writing something down before changing the subject.
“How old were you when your parents split up?”
“Twelve.”
“And how did you feel about that?”
I shrug.
“Okay? Well, were you sad that you no longer had them both in the home?”
“Hell no! That was the best thing either of them ever did for us.”
The only good choice either of them ever made.
Her brows pinch. “Why do you say that?”
“Because they hated each other. They fought constantly.”
“What did that look like? Their fighting I mean?”
Swallowing, I take a deep breath. This is the shit I don’t like talking about. It’s no one’s business what they’re fighting was like. They’re divorced. It’s over.
“Usually, screaming. More Dad than Mom. Then she’d cry.”
“And did it ever get physical between them?”
Memories I keep locked tightly away in a corner of my mind start to bleed into focus. It’s not that I don’t remember every single detail of those years, I just refuse to think about it.
“Sometimes.”
“What was that like?”
Christ lady. Take a hint. “My dad has a temper. She’d piss him off, and he’d snap.”
“He’d hit her?”
I nod.
“And what would you do?”
“I tried to stop him a few times. It never helped. He’d just get more pissed.
Once, my sister was standing at the edge of the kitchen, watching.
Dad grabbed my mom by the hair and smacked her face on the counter.
Ashton started screaming, and he turned toward her. I thought he was gonna come after her.”
“How old were you and your sister at the time?”
“I was probably ten. She would have been like eight or so.”
“What did you do?”
“I dragged her upstairs to my room. From that day on, if they started fighting, I’d take Ash upstairs. I just didn’t want her to see that shit anymore.”
“So, you were looking out for her?”
I nod.
“When they finally divorced, did you still see both parents?”
“Yeah. We lived with our mom and visited him during the summer. Then, Mom sent me to live with him in Ravens Ridge permanently when I was sixteen. But that only lasted like a year. After that, I moved in with Gran.”
“Why did your mother send you to live with him?”
“Because she couldn’t handle me anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I was failing classes, getting in fights, smoking pot. Shit teenagers do, I guess.”
“So, she sent you to your dads?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How was living with him?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Was he abusive the whole time you lived with him?”
I nod, sucking my teeth. “He drank a lot. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was high most of the time too. We’d gotten in physical altercations before when I was there visiting for the summer, but once I was living there, it escalated.”
“Do you remember how old you were when it first started?”
I adjust on the leather couch, spreading my legs apart and clasping my hands together. “He was never not a dick, but when we started going for visitations, all the aggression he used to take out on my mom was turned on us.”
“So, he abused your sister as well?”
The sight of his hand cracking against her cheek flashes across my mind, and I shiver. “Sometimes.”
“Did your mother know?”
“She says she didn’t”
She’s also a lying bitch.
“You said it escalated when you moved in with him. Can you explain what you mean?”
“It was mostly just backhands, shoving, shit like that when we’d visit. When I moved in, it turned into more of a brawl.”
“And did anyone ever notice?”
I purse my lips. “Not at first. He was pretty careful to leave bruises where they couldn’t be seen, but eventually Gran caught on.
There wasn’t much she could do though because I wouldn’t talk to the police when she called them once, and my dad threatened to never let her see me again.
Not that he could really do that anyway, he wasn’t home most of the time to know what I was doing. ”
“What about your friends? Or teachers?”
Swallowing, I turn my gaze to the ceiling and shake my head. “It wasn’t a big deal. The pain didn’t really bother me most of the time; it was the looks I got from people.”
“Why’d that bother you?”
“Because I wasn’t some defenseless kid! I didn’t want their pity.”
“Maybe it wasn’t pity. Maybe they just cared about you.”
My knees bounce and my hands sweat. “I guess.”
Every day, Kristy and I go over different details of my descent into addiction.
I’ve never told anyone except Nik about how my dad forced me to try cocaine, or how I used to take oxycodone every night so I could sleep through the pain.
She listens carefully and not once has she given me that pitying look I hate.
A couple of weeks in, I’m about bored to death.
Any down time we have, I just sit in the common room.
I’ve read two books in four days because there’s nothing else to do.
Rubbing my hand over my forehead, I scan the room.
There are tables and chairs, a wall of bookcases full of everything from romance novels to self-help books, and the cabinets at the bottom have puzzles and every board game known to man.
I hate puzzles. It never fails, you get all the way to the end and there will be one fucking piece missing.
And it’ll be a cold day in hell before I play a board game with any of these people.
In the far corner, there’s a piano. My sister took lessons when we were younger, but back then I had no interest. Instead, my mom got me a guitar when I was really young and she still kind of liked me.
I taught myself.
Standing from the leather chair, I move across the room toward the instrument. I lower myself to the bench and place my hands on the keys. I know basic music theory, but that’s about it. A stack of sheet music sits on top. I pick them up and quickly scan through them.
Picking something that looks simple, I place it in the stand and start plucking keys. It takes me what feels like forever but eventually, I’ve figured it out.
Before I know it, I’ve learned three songs on piano. I like having something to do with my hands. It’s helped me cut down on the number of cigarettes I’ve been smoking too.
When free time ends, I head down the hall to my session with Kristy.
She’s still doing her best to crack me open, and I’m still doing everything I can to get her to leave me alone.
As I flop down on the couch, she says, “As you know, you get your phone privileges back tomorrow.”
I nod.
“How are you feeling about that?”
“Good.”
“It’s important that you’re really picky about who you communicate with while you’re here.”
“Not a problem. I’m only calling one person.”
She grins, putting down her pen. “We haven’t talked about her much.”
“Yeah. There’s nothing to talk about. She’s not part of my problem. If anything, she’s the only person in my life who’s not a problem. I’m the problem between us.”
“I’m sensing a lot of shame when you speak.”
I huff. “You think?”
“Why is that?”
“Why do you think? I’m an addict. I’ve done a lot of shit to be ashamed of over the last several years.”
“Like what?”
I roll my eyes and lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “I don’t know, a bunch of shit.”
She grins. “I’m not going to give up just because you say you don’t know.”
Because you never fucking give up!
“Why’s it matter? I can’t undo all the bullshit anyway. You want me to tell you every fucked up thing I did while I was high? Want to know what a fucking monster I’ve been, so you can write in your stupid notebook what a piece of shit I am?”
“Shane, I’m not here to judge the mistakes you’ve made. I’m just trying to help you get better.”
“I am better. I’m clean, aren’t I? Thirty days, remember?”
“Yes, but what’s keeping you from going right back to it?”
“Not wanting to come back here?” I mumble under my breath.
She laughs, softly. “That might work for a little while, but eventually you’re going to have to deal with the underlying problem.”
“Which is what?”
“I don’t know. What do you think it is?”
I squint my eyes at her. “Nice try.”
“Guilt and shame play a huge factor in our self-esteem. If you don’t see your own worth in this world, it’s going to be difficult for you not to throw it all down the drain.”
I suck my top teeth before letting out a long exhale.
“Just tell me one thing.”
Pushing my fingers into my eyes, my chest gets heavy. “I let my sister get attacked at the club.”
“Hmm… tell me more about that.”
I rest my chin on my hands. “She snuck in one night with her friend. I should have been there, but I’d shot up for the first time that night and passed out at my dealer’s house. This guy, Max, drugged her while she was there.”
“Did you know she was there?”
I shake my head.
Her brows pinch. “I’m not following, I guess. If you didn’t know she was there, how is what happened your fault?”
“Because if I hadn’t been high, I would have been there. I’d have seen her come in and made her leave before he could do that.”
She nods slowly. “Shane, it seems like you have a tendency to take the blame for everything that happens to the people around you. Just because you make mistakes doesn’t mean everything that happens is your fault.”
“Except for when it is.”
“Right… but sometimes it’s not.”