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Recovery Because of You--part 1

Monday 7, 2009
Dear diary, I’m willing to try this out—this new school thing. And only because Aunt Clair says so. She thinks I need to get some social interaction in my life. I’ve never been that outgoing but I’m sure she knows that. Today is the first day of school and my shrink, Merriam, who’s like a mother to me, went with me to pick out some clothes. Mostly, I just got some baggy jeans and a couple of tank tops. She knows how I hate wearing accessories. Well, gotta go. Aunt Clair is calling me.




P.S. I’ve been tee-total for three weeks and I’m working for a month.


I sigh and answer “Come in.”

Aunt Clair peeks in. She has dark curly hair that butters up into an afro. Her eyes are sunken in and she has a petite body—which is now dressed in a gray pencil skirt and a black turtle neck. She smiles warmly, her eyes crinkling softly at the edges.

“Constance honey, you’re not dressed.” She walks in, looking around the room. There’s a huge bookshelf lining half of my back shelf. Next to that bookshelf is my guitar collection. I started collecting when I was 6 years old. I have about three bass guitars, four electric, three classic, and five acoustic. All in different colors. I drilled peaks into the wall so I could hang the necks of all my guitars. Across from my four-poster bed with red draperies is my window with an amazing view of our neighborhood of Victorian houses. Below it is my window seat. The cushions are bright pink with black lace. To the right of my window is my desk. Black oak—to match with the oak of my bed. On the desk are a bunch of my song lyrics and notes. Along with my white Apple laptop.

“I know,” I jump off my bed and glide into the walk in closet. To the right of the closet are collared shirts—color coded, plain shirts, shirts with funny pictures and quotes, dress shirts, and a couple of tank tops. To my left are jeans, khakis, and some shorts. Below the pants are shoes. Tennis shoes, boots, and three pairs of heels—only there because Aunt Clair forced me to get them. At the corner of the closet is my amp and stereo system, along with a bunch of wiring to plug into my laptop for sound producing.

I walk into the closet and pick out a black t-shirt with the word Nestle imprinted on it with a picture of a steaming mug with hot chocolate. I slip it on over my Haynes tank top. I find some old jeans and put those on too.

“Connie…” Aunt Clair says, “I was going to tell you—“

A quiver goes though me, “tell me what?”

“That you’re going to be late if we don’t leave right now!’ She jumps off the bed and pulls my frozen body up with her.

“W-what?” I catch my foot on the edge of my bookshelf and struggle to regain my balance. I hated the look on her face when she said “Connie…” Like she was trying to get something terrible out of her head. I hate terrible things. I’m really afraid of them. I’m afraid of being hurt again. Of hurting myself. And if something bad were to happen my world would come crashing down again, sending me spiraling out of control and into my own head. Somewhere I hate being at all. That’s why I ever started using drugs. The person who gave them to me said that it would put me away from all my misery. Take me somewhere where I wouldn’t feel any pain but a satisfaction beyond belief. I believed him and it worked for a while but then I would feel the dread afterwards. It would tumble down towards my body till I physically shook with pain. My mind would go all numb and not in a good way. When I would abuse it felt like someone was taking control of my body, taking me though a trip that I never imagined was out there. It killed me till I stopped talking for a while and just depended on nothing but the feeling of being intoxicated. Everyone pretty much labeled me as “Junky Freak.” I lived for that name because it described me point on.

I shake my head and bite my lip, looking out of the window. The skies are dark and I can see the last shades of stars lingering. I can just imagine going outside—feeling the fresh air rush though my pores. Aunt Clair can never see me weak. She’ll know I’m starting to crack and she’ll extend my sessions with Merriam. And I hate being sick—ill. I already know I’m not normal—is anyone? I follow her out onto the old, creaky hallway and into the kitchen. The floors are linoleum with cracked pieces here and there. Uncle Tanner just installed some granite countertops to make the place look antique, though he didn’t succeed because of the modern stainless steel refrigerator and sink.

Aunt Clair motions for me to sit in one of the chairs around the kitchen island. She walks back to the stove and places some pancakes and eggs onto my plate. I gulf them down while she stares at the ceiling fan above the kitchen island. I follow her gaze and get mesmerized by the swirling motion of the fan. I shake my head and continue on with my breakfast.

“You ready?” She asks as I place my plate into the black dishwasher.

“Yeah.” I walk back into the sitting room and pick up my book bag from one of the chairs. The sitting room has a historic finish to it. The couches are beige and the carpet is a plush black and dark brown. There is a huge flat screen TV on top of the fireplace. On the walls are huge windows. They’re so huge you can only wash them standing on a ladder.

I stride down the rusty hallway to the entryway. Next to the door are two little chairs. Their cushions are back and gray and on top of the chair on the right are our key hangers. Aunt Clair picks up the one with a little Honda sign inscribed on it in silver.

I open the closet door to my right and raid through it to find my black sweatshirt.

I drag my feet across the gravel to the red Honda. I’m not looking forward to this day. The last thing I need is people all around me killing my buzz. Not that kind of buzz that you feel inebriated. I think going to a new school will help my social status—not that I want one. But having a friend who doesn’t know your life and all those hidden, painful secrets might help. I wonder who my old school’s picking on now that I’m gone. They must be sad that I’m gone. For one thing, I’m glad I’m gone from that school. I won’t be picked on anymore by other kids or rumored about any more.

Stepping into the car, I plug in my earphones and listen to some Indian folk song that has a lady screeching as high as she can into something that sounds like water. I finger the bracelet around my wrist—a black and red one that symbols strength and courage, something I got it from Recovery Camp. A camp that helps you with your drug addiction. By the end of the camp I was sure I did not have a drug addiction, which only made matters for myself.



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