I tell him to shut up, but I still look just the same.
A twisted cord lying loose in my stomach is pulled tight all at once.
The girl’s around my age, for sure.
Long, straight black hair—eyes almost feline.
Pale, pale skin.
Thick white cutting scars up and down her forearms.
Fuck.
I sit back in my chair.
I know exactly what’s gonna happen.
I breathe out.
She introduces herself to the group as Sue Ellen.
Her accent is very Southern.
I study her face—pained, shy, uneasy.
Her dark eyes catch mine.
Fuck.
Ch.3
For some goddamn reason my counselor, Melonie, scheduled to meet me at seven thirty this morning.
I gotta say, I’m pretty well convinced it’s ’cause I’m in trouble. I mean, that’s usually what my one-on-one counselor meetings are all about. I guess the way Melonie sees it is that I’m not taking this place seriously. So her solution is to sit there in her goddamn expensive-looking office chair—fat spilling out like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man—smiling—doling out each new punishment with sociopathic calm—always knowing just how to fuck me the very fucking hardest.
For a while I couldn’t have any kind of interaction with any kind of female on or off the premises—including phone calls—even with my goddamn mom.
I wasn’t allowed to write in my notebook, play the guitar they have in the lodge, or read in my cabin.
Her justification was that I was using all those things as a way of not facing my real issues.
And, of course, she didn’t stop there.
Like I said, before I relapsed I’d been writing a memoir for this publishing company in New York, and I’d actually finished about half of it before I started using again—going completely crazy—I mean, out of control. I’d call up my agent and editor totally incoherent, asking for money, rambling on about I-can’t-even-remember-what.
Honestly, I thought I’d blown it.
I couldn’t imagine them stickin’ by me through all this shit.
But they have—I mean, since I first checked into detox—they’ve been nothing but supportive—calling and e-mailing me—encouraging me to take as much time as I need to get well.
And, fuck, man, thank God.
Writing my book—finishing it—getting it published—that’s, like, the one thing I have to hold on to. I mean, really, since I was, like, six years old, my dream has been to get a book published. The fact that I’ve gotten this far still seems like a total miracle.
But, according to Melonie, as long as I’m thinking about writing my book, I’ll never get better. She says it makes me see myself as a character in a story rather than a real person. She says the only reason I even want to write a book in the first place is to impress other people. She also says I’m using this whole book thing as a way of avoiding “what’s really going on.”
Christ.
I almost cried when she told me.
“Nic,” she said, smiling all big but not like she meant it. “Writing a book is a fantasy. You know how many people actually make it as book writers?”
My shoulders rose and then fell. My eyes rolled back.
“No, I don’t,” I told her. “And I bet you don’t, either.”
Her pig face went all scrunched up—globular, pale, fleshy cheeks flushed red—the black center of her mud-colored eyes fluttering back and forth.
“N-n-no, I don’t. But I can tell you one thing for sure, it’s not many. The fact that you insist on maintaining this delusion of success for yourself only further demonstrates to me how narcissistic you really are. You still think you’re special—better than the rest of us. You think you’re too good for this place—too good for the twelve steps—too good for God. Well, I’ve been doing this work a long time, and I’ve met a lot of people, and I can tell you right now, Nic, you’re just about as average as they come. So you better stop thinking about what you’re gonna do when, or if, you get out of here, and start taking the work we’re doing here very, very seriously, or you’re not going to have any future to look forward to whatsoever.”
She took some deep breaths like she was all winded or something.
I crossed and uncrossed my legs and then crossed them again. My voice came out trembling—my teeth bit down together.
“Yeah, no, I understand what you’re saying… and, uh, I agree, I am average. I mean, I’m less than average. I’m a total fucking mess—and, uh, I’ve always been a failure at everything. But writing, well, writing’s always been the one thing I could actually do, you know? It’s really the only chance I’ve got. Otherwise, I’m, like, totally unemployable and, uh, hopeless. So I’ve gotta keep trying to write. Even if I don’t make it, I mean, it’s worth taking a shot—’cause I’ve really got nothing else.”
Melonie laughed.
She laughed right in my face.
“The twelve steps are the only chance you have,” she told me, her words coming out eerily calm and even suddenly. “There’s nothing else to say and nowhere else to look. You can either accept that and live, or reject it and die. It’s up to you. But for now you are absolutely forbidden to do any writing on your book or any writing at all. And you’re not allowed to talk about your book to anyone—not me, not the other clients, not people you talk to on the phone—no one. And if I get word back that you have been talking about it or that you’ve been doing any kind of writing, we will immediately have a meeting with Linda, the director, and we may be forced to transfer you to a higher-care facility with more structure and more intense supervision. Do you understand me?”
I didn’t answer right away.
I mean, what the hell was I supposed to say to that? She had me. She’d ground me down to nothing.
That was the last meeting we had together. So you can imagine how goddamn excited I am to be meeting with her today. I mean, I’m sure
