"you have the arms a junkie would kill for".
and we laugh.
laying our demons out for each other as casually as a doorman nods, "good morning".
feigning certain narcotics don't work so we can get stronger ones. chugging nyquil when we run out of booze. the thrill of finding a cheaper drug dealer at $2.50 a pill instead of $4. mixing drinks with rubbing alcohol. shooting street drugs, but scared to take an antidepressant. getting high with your daughter...
we laugh, but fueling the laughter is a flickering pilot light of pain.
[remember the time i stole your pills?]
as the strains of laughter fade away, i climb into my twin bed, coil around my fur baby and dissolve into tears.
[clearly i haven't logged enough hours.]
here we are stripped of all independence, as they marinate us in recovery, priming us for a sober life.
we walk to aa meetings barren, empty handed. no i.d., no money, sporting the latest in track wear.
they are assembling walls, boundaries for these instant gratification junkies.
[poke, poke, poke.]
but in cunning, creative ways, the lost children of klean dare to defy. we poke and prod at those cemented walls until they give, just a little...and then a little bit more...
[putty in our hands.]
a secret thrill shivers through when distracted techs neglect to collect computers at 11 pm...a forbidden marital skype under the covers (don't go there). rebellious blogging during restricted times and covert access throughout the day.
[the tiniest rush...i am flushed. i am bad.]
uncharted behavior for this gold star girl. the little red haired girl who always polished her uniform shoes. the friend who always remembered birthdays. the good wife with a fully stocked fridge and a well-oiled homestead. the prepared actress with her fully memorized audition.
but as my transplant became fodder for steak and kidney pie, a magnetic voice lured me completely; faster than an auctioneers tongue and more insistent than the muslim call to prayer.
a deafening voice that left me deaf, dumb and blind...
so give me boundaries.
i am an innocent child. tearing up the blueprint of my childhood and finger painting afresh.
i am lost in an emotional whiteout; my responsibility, accountability and reactivity, slicing at my frozen cheeks.
[yes, in rehab, hypothermia is the new black.]
but i don't want to stand alone, shivering out on a snowy embankment, not knowing how to shovel my way out.
so take the hand sanitizer.
take my razor.
take my hairdryer.
take my tweezers.
take my nail clippers.
take my hairspray.
take the serrated knife.
and...(sigh)...take my computer.
[stop. breathe. listen.]
i have no cause to rebel.