I’m moving on.
I sit in group, listening and sharing—talking a lot to that girl who just relapsed last weekend. At the break I bring up Justin’s whole Lost Boys idea, and there’re actually a bunch of kids interested in coming with us.
“Man,” says Justin, talking kinda secretively to me. “I don’t know how you’re able to talk to everyone like you do. I’m way too shy to just open up like you do.”
I laugh. “Are you kidding? I’m super shy and, anyway, you talked to me just fine. But, uh, no, I’m terrified talking to people. Do you mind me inviting ’em?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’ll be fun.”
“It will be fun,” I say.
We head back inside, but I’m quiet now, just thinking about what Justin said. It is true that I feel more comfortable being around people—more comfortable than I ever have in my whole life. And, honestly, I couldn’t tell you why. It’s almost as if everything I’ve been through these past few years has actually left me with a sense of confidence about myself. It’s almost like I’m not really minding being me anymore. I feel kinda good about who I am. I mean, it’s freakin’ me out. I don’t feel afraid. And I’m not even sure what the hell to do with that.
Ch.36
Well, it’s almost over. I mean, it’s hard to believe. Three months have gone by, and Sue Ellen’s internship is over, so we’re supposed to be going back to Charleston on Monday—an idea that really terrifies me. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, except to say that for me, going back to Charleston feels like going back to shooting heroin. Of course, it would be the easiest thing to do. I wouldn’t have to worry about being alone or running out of money or outpatient groups and random UAs. I’d be able to start using again, and no one would have to know or try ’n’ stop me. John Lennon says that “living is easy with eyes closed.” Well, going back to Charleston would be like stapling my goddamn eyes shut. And it would be easy—safe and easy.
But, honestly, I’m not sure that’s what I want anymore. As much of a fucking pain in the ass both therapy and outpatient are, I still can’t help believing that staying committed to the work will really help me learn how to live without needing to get high. I believe they’re teaching me to love myself and to love other people. Already I feel like I’ve become super close to almost all the people there—especially Justin and that girl who’d just come back from relapsing—Dylan is her name. Not only that, but I have this awesome connection with my psychiatrist, and I feel a whole lot more stabled out from all the meds. So, yeah, as much as I’m afraid not to go back to Charleston with Sue Ellen, I almost feel like I’m even more afraid not to stay here. I mean, I think I’m really changing. Or, at least, I think I’m finally ready to change.
And today, driving back on the PCH with Tallulah—the churning green and blue ocean on our right and the dry, cracking canyons on our left—I can’t help but think how miserable it will be for Tallulah to have to go back to the South. She loves the beach so much. And she loves hiking up in the mountains. She loves the dog parks here. She’s gotten so much better about strangers and other dogs since being here. Charleston is a dirty swamp. There are almost no places to take her off leash, and there are crazy bloodsucking flies and fleas and ticks everywhere. She’s so much better off now. This is really a great life for her.
But, of course, it’s not just about Tallulah. This is a great place for me, too. I’m building a life. I’m taking direction. I’m doing it right this time—starting with a solid foundation and working up little by little. I feel alive, you know? Whereas before I was just drifting in this sort of half sleep—numbing everything out with drugs and TV and endless daydreaming about the way things could be or should be. I spent my whole life just killing time—waiting and waiting—waiting for something to change, even though I had absolutely no idea what that might be. I waited for the day to end. I waited in fear for the next day to begin. I waited and waited and waited and lied to myself that magically it would be all right.
But now I’m not waiting anymore. I’m not putting it off or pretending it’s not there. I’m not trusting in some deity that it’ll all work out. I’m not relying on some prescribed set of rules that promises me stupid platitudes if I unquestioningly shout “How high?” every time I’m told to jump. No, this time I am doing it my own way. I’m following the steps that seem right for me and I, well, I feel good about that. My life seems, uh, full. I’m excited about things again. I have real friendships. I don’t want these days to end. I want to go on like this—building and growing. It seems so beautiful to me. And it’s kinda life or death at this point, anyway—living or dying—standing at the dividing line.
Fuck.
Charleston or LA.
Sue Ellen or my new friends here.
I hate that it’s come down to this. But it fucking has. And either way I lose.
“What the hell do we do?” I ask Tallulah, wiping away some crusted sand and salt water from her eye.
She smiles kinda goofy at me and licks my face. Her breath smells like rotted fish.
“Ugh,” I say, and she goes in to lick me again. This time I block her.
When we get back to the apartment, I really don’t have time to do more than chuck Tallulah inside, ’cause I have my last
