Drugs & Candy

Chapter Three

November 16th 2012

A little past the hour it was supposed to start, a volunteer who's name I couldn't be bothered to look at came to get me for mine and Jack's one on one session.
For whatever reason, I felt nervous. Thus far, Jack and I have had perfectly normal conversations, we've eaten our meals together, completely normal. Just two people. Not a junkie and a therapist.
I guess my mental breakdown ended that semblance of normalcy.
We're officially doctor and patient.
I hate the feeling of pure dread that this entire thing has looming over me.
I played with the hem of my shirt as I sat in Jack's office waiting for him. The office is pretty standard. White walls, a cream carpet, his desk and chair, the couch I'm sitting on and a matching armchair next to it. The room itself doesn't feel like a therapy office though.
I wonder what he's going to ask me. Is he going to jump right into how I became an addict? Why it's opiates instead of something else? I'm not sure I'm ready to go there. What the hell am I supposed to say then?

I looked up at Jack as he walked in. He glanced at the clock before grabbing a file and pen off of his desk. He took a seat in the armchair next to me and offered me a smile as he flipped the file open.
I glanced at it, then back at him.
"That mine?" I asked nervously. I tried to hide it, but probably failed.
"It is indeed. Sorry I'm late by the way. My session I had after I left your room ran late. How are you doing, by the way?" He asked with a concerned tone.
I sighed, "I'm fine." I mumbled, feeling irritated already.
Jack nodded, "How's your headache and the sick feeling?" He started writing things down. I wanted to peek, but the way he was holding my file wouldn't let me unless I very obviously leaned over to see.
I sighed, "I feel like my head is pounding, my eyes are going to pop out of the sockets, I'm fucking itchy, my stomach hurts...I feel like fucking hell Jack. That's how they're feeling. Can you turn one of these lights off please?" The fluorescents were killing me with their brightness.
Jack nodded, got up and switched the overhead lights off, leaving only one above his desk on. 
I felt a little better now that the room was dimmed down some. 
"Thank you." I muttered, my elbows resting on my knees, my face in my hands. 
"Okay, so Alex let's get to know each other, yeah?" Jack asked with that small little smile of his.
I turned my head just a bit to look at him, "What more do you need to know? Alexander William Gaskarth. Junkie. Addicted to oxycontin received after multiple surgeries on leg, arm and shoulder after car accident injury July 12th 2010. 24 years old, 25 next month. 156 pounds. 6 foot 1 inch. Works in music industry. Potentially suicidal. Too much of a coward to do it though." I glared.

Jack sighed, "Sure. There's all of that. I've got that down. Not the suicidal part, but I can jot that down if you'd like. I meant you. Tell me things that you like, things that don't necessarily pertain to your drug use. What do you like outside of that? What's your home life like? Anything you want to tell me, I want to know." He's kind, but I can't be bothered to care. I'm angry now.
"You know what Jack? How about before you go prying into my life and trying to psychoanalyze me, why don't you tell me about you." I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against the couch.
Jack smirked a tiny bit, like he expected this of me.
"Okay, so I'm Jack Barakat. I'm Lebanese, born in Lebanon but brought here as a baby. Raised by my mother and father, then my grandmother. I'm 24 years old, I turn 25 in June." 
I cut him off.
"You're younger than me?" I questioned, curious now. 
Jack chuckled "Yeah. I graduated and immediately got into college. Finished my four years at 23 with a phd in psychology, and believe me it was hard as hell. I needed a therapist to become a therapist. I've been working here ever since as a counselor. Let's see. I like music, which we discussed when we talked at the table." He shrugged.
"Why did you do this job. What about talking to loser junkies appeals you." I rubbed my temples.
Jack sighed a little, "Wow. No one's ever asked me that one before," He looked down for a moment, writing something down. He looked back up, "My mother died of lung cancer when I was 9 years old. My father drank a lot and one night, he tried meth with some people he'd met at a bar. He got hooked on it and eventually, he overdosed and died on it. I was 13 when he died. My grandmother raised me and she told me to make something of myself, to make my mother proud and to make my father before he was an addict proud. So I did something for the both of them. I went to college for my mom, that was always a dream she had for me, and I went into psychology for my dad. I couldn't save him, but I can hopefully save someone else, and that's enough for me." He looked thoughtful yet sad all at once. 

I just stared at him "Sorry about your parents." I said quietly.
"I am too. Still, I'm doing something for myself and for them. So it's alright. So now that you know a lot about me, can you tell me more about you?" He asked with that stupidly serotonin inducing smile on his face.
I looked up at the ceiling.
I didn't answer for a while, and the whole time I didn't speak, he simply wrote down a couple of things here and there.
"I like to sing and play guitar. I can play almost any instrument, barring things like the flute, clarinet and trumpet. Piano, guitar, drums, bass, those I can do alright. I'm a production sound mixer...My wife Elaina and I have been married since I was 18..." I hesitated on that one, "I regret that choice. I got into that car accident because a drunk driver hit me. Broke my shoulder, my arm and my leg. I had four surgeries total to fix it all. I uh..." I tried to think about things about myself, "I was born in Essex in the UK and moved here with my parents when I was 7. My mum and dad don't talk to me anymore though. They stopped calling me last year." I looked down at the floor, "They talk to Elaina though but refuse to speak to me. It makes me so fucking mad. I'm their fucking son. How the fuck is it okay for them to not talk to me just because I'm going through shit? I fucking hate that I get so god damn high that I can't function too, but it's not my fucking fault that I crave it. I didn't fucking get addicted on fucking purpose." I stood up, not even fully realizing what I was doing.
I paced the room just ranting, "And what about my dad? He drinks until he's fucking passed out every night! It's a rare night when he's fucking sober. The fucking hypocrite. My mum is so god damn full of herself that oh no, she can do no fucking wrong, her son is just a despicable, poor excuse of a human being that the devil got to." I felt not only angry but sad.
Jack wrote things down.
"Will you just fucking tell me what you're writing?" I stopped in front of him.
Jack closed the folder, "I can't. It's not for you to see."
"It's my fucking information."
"That may be true, but it's also a patient file that patients cannot see." He shrugged.

I sat back down and glared at the floor.
"Why do you think you crave it so bad?" He asked me after giving me a few minutes.
"Because it's a fucking opiate and they tend to do that to a person?" I raised an eyebrow at him. The answer was obvious.
Jack smiled a little, "Yeah, that's been scientifically proven. I'm asking what draws you to them, why you haven't tried to sober up." He wrote down something again. That was annoying me.
I sighed, "Because it fucking feels good okay? I'm sick of being me. I'm fucking successful in what I do. I own a nice home. Own it. Not rent it. Own it. Because I make more than enough money to. I enjoy what I do, but I still fucking hate myself Jack. I have the self esteem of a beaten and abused puppy. I always have. I have fucking panic attacks almost daily. I wanted them to stop. When I was taking that shit for my stupid surgery recovery, it made me calm and it made me sleepy, and then I wanted more and more and more and more, and I didn't use it to fucking nod off and pass out wherever I was standing...Not at first at least...Lately that's all I've wanted it for...But I'd take it slow, and I'd get that euphoric, relaxed high, and nothing mattered and I could just exist...I mean I'd go to work high and get shit done...But then I'd get upset or anxious and I'd take more. Injecting it is my favorite way to take it...Or snorting it...I just hits me faster and feels better..." I looked down at the track marks on my arms. "I tried to smoke it once but I hated that...It didn't feel right...But the high is so good. It makes every bad thing go away." I felt like an idiot.

Jack nodded, writing more down.
"So do you feel like you need to just avoid your problems, or do you feel like you really can't face these panic attacks without the help of the drug? And what triggers your panic attacks?" He asked me looking genuinely curious. 
I looked down, "Nothing triggers them most of the time...I just have them...Sometimes I feel fine, and then I just get a feeling in my chest...And my behavior changes and it all goes down from there...I can't handle the panic attacks...I can't breathe...I cry...I throw up or black out...You saw one earlier...They've been so much worse than that...It just...It helps me....Why is it so bad if it helps me?" I looked up at him with tears in my eyes, finally letting it out and feeling pathetic.
Jack sighed a bit, "Because Alex, it's not a healthy way to cope. Getting so high that you pass out isn't taking away any of the problems you're struggling with. Getting high so you don't have to feel anything only temporarily relieves the bad thoughts. It doesn't remove them completely. You said that you didn't use it to pass out where you were standing at first, so you do now?" He wrote some more.
I nodded, "I tried to get clean...It lasted like a month. I went back to using and my wife was always screaming at me and hitting me to wake me up, and I just liked to be asleep instead...It was better than dealing with her constantly hating me and I know it's my fault...I know it is, but still...Her parents hate me...My parents hate me...She threatened me with divorce papers that I'll probably sign anyway...Before the papers the other day, she's threatened to leave me so many times and it's gotten to the point that I don't care...So I was doing so much oxy at one time that it stopped being a high and more of a sedative. I'd sleep for days if she'd let me...I slept once for 21 hours straight...Honestly? I loved it. That's all I want to do. I want to be that high always. I crave it. I don't need the euphoria anymore. I need the unconsciousness..." My skin started itching so I scratched at it. 
Jack took notice of my mannerisms there.
"Why are you scratching?"
I glared "Because I'm fucking itchy."
He nodded and wrote that down.

"Can you stop fucking writing shit the fuck down?! Fuck! I'm fucking done. I need to go fucking lay down." I spat angrily, standing up and feeling dizzy, so I sat right back down.
Jack got up and got a water bottle from the mini fridge I hadn't noticed behind his desk.
He opened it and handed it to me, "Drink that, I don't need you passing out."
I rolled my eyes "I'm fine. Just fucking stop. I want to be fucking done. I don't feel good, I'm fucking sick of this place, I'm sick of you being so god damn fucking nice to me, I'd rather go home and get screamed at and kicked by my fucking wife so I can just take my shit and go the fuck to sleep." I groaned at how pathetic I sounded. I also hate how mean I've been. I'm the exact opposite of a mean person. I hate who I am right now.
"As much as I'd love to send you home, I can't. Because I'd be sending you home to go do exactly what you're here to stop doing. I can't accept you wanting to leave either because if I'm judging your personality correctly, you'd feel pretty shitty for giving up." Jack offered me that stupidly sweet smile again. Fuck I hate him.
"I still want to stop." I took a drink of the water, closing my eyes as I felt the chill go down my throat. That felt good. I drank some more.
"You can be done if you need to be, but I wish you wouldn't be. Here. How about this. Let's set some goals. You're already feeling some symptoms of withdrawal, so we're going to take it easy, but I did talk to my supervisor and I can bring you one of my guitars. So. With that as your incentive, let's set some goals." Jack smiled.
I felt a spark of happiness throughout the bitterness, anger, ill feeling and pain radiating through my body.
"What kind of goals?"
Jack shrugged, "Anything. Let's say for example, one of your goals can be to write out your feelings in your journal. That's an easy goal to hit, and it's something you already do, but I want you to really focus on it. When you're feeling angry and agitated like you are right now, write it down. When you're feeling sick like you have been, write it down. Keep track of your feelings, mental and physical. Do it for a week and see how that goes. See if that turns into a better outlet than snapping at people, and by people I mean me, since I'm the only one you've spoken to thus far." He smirked a little.
I blushed, "Sorry." I sighed. 
"How is it a goal when it's something I already do?" I asked, trying to understand.
Jack leaned back in his chair, his leg crossed over his other, "Well. Yes, it's something you do, but you told me that this morning you were hardly able to write in it. I think that might be because you don't know how to take your anger out in any place constructive. Yelling at me for example, that's okay. I'm used to it by now and I've seen far worse outbursts than yours, but it's not constructive for you at the end of the day. Chewing me out doesn't help anything. If you got your feelings out word for word on paper though, you can pretend you're yelling at someone via a letter you're going to send or something, then you've coped with your feelings in a healthy way. You weren't volatile with another person who didn't really deserve it, therefore you aren't left with any guilt for lashing out, and later on you can read back if you so choose to and you can reflect on everything that's happened since you arrived here. It might be a good thing to do once you've finished your time here. It might give you some clarity and some way to remind yourself that you made it. So, that's how it's a goal." He looked at me curiously, probably watching all of the emotions and expressions dancing across my face.

"I think we can make that a goal. Write it all out for a week...Go from there?" I asked, feeling a bit hopeful as I push through this shitty feeling. I know it's going to get worse before it gets better. I googled withdrawal symptoms. I'm fucking scared. Something to write in my journal.
"Okay good, so we have a goal set. We can talk about how it's going at our daily sessions, or you can leave it until the week is up and then tell me about it if you want to. I'm really proud of you for setting a goal for yourself, Alex." I watched his expression, his eyes hold nothing but pure thoughtfulness, compassion and sweetness. The way his features are completely relaxed, I can tell that he means every word. He really is proud of me.
Someone is proud of me.
I didn't notice that I was crying until he held a box of tissues out to me.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked me gently.
"It's n-nice to hear someone..." I choked out, then wiped my nose with a tissue, "Tell me th-that they're proud o-of me." I covered my face and let it out.
Jack let me cry, but I needed something. Someone.
"Can I hug you?" I asked, keeping my face hidden.
"Of course you can."

He stood up and moved next to me on the couch. I put my arms around him and hugged him tight. He returned my tight hug with the same squeeze, and god the compression felt great. I can feel myself breathe, my heart rate slow down, so I just closed my eyes for a minute with my chin rested on his shoulder.
He smells good. I've smelled that cologne before, but I don't know where. Either way, it smells lovely on him. 
Jack tried to pull back a couple times, but I wouldn't let him. He's safe territory.
"Alex, I have another session, but hey. We'll talk more tomorrow?" I finally let him pull back.
I nodded, looking a little disappointed.
"You'll see me after group therapy and after lunch. If it helps any, our volunteers are doing store runs. Tawny is the one who'd be doing yours. Make a list of things you'd like, snack wise and all that. She'll take the money you've brought with you and do your shopping. So that's something to potentially look forward to, right?" He looked at me, but I couldn't look back. I was too busy toying with the hem of my shirt. I saw him in my peripheral vision just fine.
"I don't want to go to group therapy..." I whispered, feeling sick.
"Let's set another goal then."
I looked up at him.
"You try some things for the first week here, and we'll talk about each thing and our goal will be to decide what we think will work best for you. I'll let you decide what you like and don't like, and I'll weigh in with what I think you need, then we'll compromise. Sound like a good goal?" He went back to his armchair and wrote more down in my file.
I nodded slowly, wondering why I'm agreeing to this.
"Okay...I'll try." I sighed.
He smiled, "Good. I'm proud of you. You're good to go now if you still want to leave,  I can call my other session in early." 
I nodded, got up and walked out.
I saw who was going in next and my heart broke.
A skinny woman, dangerously skinny with so many more track marks than me. They littered her arms, her neck, her legs, her hands. I'm sure they littered more places too. 
She looks weak and exhausted, and her eyes were just nowhere. completely unfocused. She must be one of the patients Jack described to me. Lost to the drug.
I don't want to be like her. I don't want that to be my future. 
I went back to my room and sat on my bed, sighing.
I got out one of the books I brought, The Mist by Stephen King. Good, long one for me to read. Reading is a good hobby right?
I'm trying so hard to ignore the pain radiating through my body, the anxiety that's giving me anxiety and the sheer craving I have for that beautiful drug. I can see it in my mind.
So I go back to reading. My feet are twitching, it's hard to focus, but I have to fight through it. I have to. I don't want to be like that lady.