Drugs & Candy

Chapter Eleven

May 1st 2013

I wake up and my head hurts, but I feel good. It's dark out based on how dim my house is and the fact that there's no light coming in through the windows, so I know I've been out for a while, the whole day since I got high around 8 AM. That sounds so pathetic. I am pathetic.
I feel warm, and I feel someone behind me, someone holding me.
I close my eyes again and scoot my back against that someone, they don't say a word.
I keep myself safe for a while before I finally speak up.
"You stayed." My tone is quiet, cautious.
"I did." He answers back in an equally quiet, cautious tone.
"You're holding me." I observe, he begins to let go but I grab his arm and stop him, "Don't stop."
I feel his arm relax over my waist again, "Okay. I won't. We need to talk though." 
I nod, "We do. I know we do." I sigh, not wanting to do this.
It's quiet for a while. Too long in my opinion, but who am I to make him speak? I don't even know where to begin, so I'm just as quiet.
Finally, that beautiful man speaks up, "You scared the shit out of me, you know. Watching you do that. I felt like I was watching you die. Your nose was bleeding and you just didn't care...You were smiling like you were so happy...Like that's the only thing that gives you joy..." He kept his tone calm. Almost like he's keeping up the calm voice that he uses on his patients, but also being completely open with me since I'm not his patient anymore. It's a bit confusing.
"It is." I answer quietly, truthfully. 
I hear him sigh and feel his warm breath against my neck. He tightens his arm around me and pulls me just a little closer. I'm basking in this, I'm not sure how long it'll last or if I'll ever get it back. I have no intentions of moving anytime soon. 

"You can't want me to be your therapist. You have to tell them you want to see a different therapist...I'm too far deep with you personally to be able to actually do my job with you and trying to fake it would be too hard to do, and you do need actual help. You're going back to get help. So you need a different therapist. Tell them that you learned a lot from me, but you want to try with another therapist who could possibly help you even more, give you some other coping mechanisms." Jack nuzzles his nose against the back of my neck, it tickles, so I smile a little despite the fact that I'm the furthest thing from happy. I feel safe, I feel cared about, but I'm not happy. I don't think I've been happy in a long, long time.
"So what do I do then?" I ask, playing with his fingers that rest against my stomach.
He sighs, "You go in by yourself. I have to work, so I go in and I make nothing known. I haven't seen you since you got out last time, I haven't caught up with you, I sure as hell didn't pick you up from jail and take you to my house, and above all else, I am not here right now holding you, I did not allow you to get high one last time, and I don't expect you to sign yourself back into rehab. Can you follow all that?" He's so serious that it's a little intimidating. 
I nod, "I can do that. So...What do I do then? Pack my stuff?" I roll over to face him instead, my stomach and chest pressed against his, our faces only inches apart. He put his arm over my waist again, "You pack your stuff. I leave. I go home. In the morning, I go to work, you take yourself there and check yourself in. You ask who you're assigned to. If it's me, tell them no. Do exactly what I told you to do. When you're there, you can't expect me to talk to you. I can't. I'll find ways to though, okay? We'll figure it out. You can ask for me sometimes since I used to be your doctor, but only sometimes, okay?" He's so serious, but his pretty eyes are so soft, like warm melted chocolate. His features are delicate and gentle. 
I'll do whatever he wants me to. 
"Okay." I whisper, "can I kiss you?"
Jack hesitates, "I don't know. Are you still super high?" He stares at me.
I shake my head "No...Completely lucid...Alexander William Gaskarth...25....12/14/1987...I live here, 5651 Clinton Street, West Hollywood California 90004. Favorite color switches but today it's green." I smile at him just a little.
Jack rolls his eyes at me but offers me that sweet smile back. 
I take that response as a not quite yes, but not exactly a no so I lean in, wondering if he'll pull back and he doesn't.
I have no idea what we're doing here, but right now I can't be bothered to give a damn as I press my lips to his, cautious for any sort of reaction.
The one I get is not the one I expected. He's kissing me back, tightening his arm around my waist. I part my lips as he parts his, and we dance together. I feel like I did that night in his office. Sure, I was being kind of an obnoxious little prick, but I felt right in that moment, and my god he looked so beautiful underneath me.
I snake my hand up his shirt.
"Alex" He whispers quietly, breaking our kiss.
"Hmm?" I respond, my fingers slowly running up and down his side, I feel the goosebumps on his skin.
"Not right now." He sits up. I feel rejected and disappointed. It's not fair for me to, and I know that, but I do and I can't help that.

Jack sighs, "I want to...You know I do, but this is stupid Alex...We can't be doing this right now, so fast. I don't want to do this with you until you can tell me with complete honesty that you're clean..." He runs his finger down my cheek, "Don't look so sad." 
I roll my eyes "I'm not sad." I mumble, lying of course.
"You don't have to hide from me you know...I'm not going to psychoanalyze you every five seconds...That's not my job anymore." He's waiting for me to look at him, I can feel his eyes on me.
I shake my head at him, "You psychoanalyze me all day long. You psychoanalyze everyone. It is your job. It's what you do. It's how your brain works. Just like my brain works with music. I hear something playing in the store, and I can tell how they mixed it. I can hear each individual instrument, tell exactly what synths were used or if they used any at all. It's how you're wired, Jack. You psychoanalyze without even meaning to. So don't tell me that you're not going to." I don't mean to sound so upset and bitter, but maybe he's right. Maybe I don't have to hide from him so I'll try not to.
"Let's just end this for tonight. You pack your stuff. If you don't show up tomorrow, I'll understand. I can't force you into anything, but I do want to be able to kiss you again and lay behind you while you sleep, and get to know you more as you, not recovering drug addict you." He stands up and I feel even more sad than before.
"I'll be there." I respond quietly. 
"Your house is really nice, by the way." He comments, looking around as I stand up to walk him out.
It is nice.
Four bedrooms, white walls, large windows, six bathrooms, nice dining room, huge kitchen, pool with a waterfall in the back, huge master bedroom with the biggest tub in the house... So on and so forth. Lifestyles of the rich and the famous, I guess. Minus the fact that I'm not famous unless you're the nerd who reads the inserts of CDs and reads up on sound guys online. Then maybe. Not that anyone would recognize me off the street.
"Thanks. I paid too much for it." I shrug.
"It looks like it's worth it though, compared to my crappy apartment. Maybe I should've gone into music instead." He raises an eyebrow at the view of my pool from where we stand in the living room.
"Maybe so. Or maybe you just need to work in the field longer and get rich like all doctors eventually do. Become one of the best in Los Angeles, then one of the best in California and you're set." I shrug, take his hand and walk him to the door.
He opens it, gives me a little smile and leaves without another word.

May 2nd 2013

Well. I'm keeping my promise.
I'm checked back in, and I ask to not be assigned to Jack. When I'm asked why, I go with the plan and say exactly what he suggested and I actually get praised for it, for wanting to see another person to get additional help on top of what Jack already gave me. I'm a huge liar, but I always have been so this is working out great.
My room is better than the last time, a little bigger. 
I unpack my things and sigh as I follow the old routine. I get a shower in first though.
Jack isn't around, of course he isn't. He said he wouldn't be. It sort of hurts though. 
My head hurts and once again, I'm going through the motions of wanting that sweet, sweet drug. It's barely been twenty four hours since the last time I used and I want to die.
My head is throbbing, I'm hungry but I'm not, I want to sleep but I can't. 
I want to write but I can't. I haven't written in forever. Maybe I'll force it.

I dig my journal out, sit on my bed and click my pen as I open a blank page. I glance at the last day that I wrote, it was the day I left here.
How fitting.

I'm back again. I don't want to be but I am. I know that I have to be, and not for him. Not really. I know it's not for him, although some part of it is. I'm back because I snorted oxy off of a filthy trash can. A trash can.
I couldn't even wait until I got home. I landed myself in jail. I've got a mugshot. I've never been arrested before, but I was because I couldn't control myself.
I'm not good. I can't be this bad.
I have to get clean.
I'm writing this right now for myself, and only myself. I care about him. I need him, but I can't have him unless I have me. Me is who I need to get back, so here's a letter to me:

You can do this. You are stronger than you think.
You've got a long life ahead of you if you can manage to not fuck it up. You've made so many mistakes that a novel wouldn't cover it. You'd need an entire book series, bigger than the Harry Potter series just to write it all down with vague descriptions. 
You have to fight through it.
It's going to hurt. You're going to get sick. You're going to cry. You're going to freak out and have panic attacks. That's when you can ask for him, though. He helped you through every single one you had here, so it wouldn't be suspicious.
I'm getting off topic. This isn't about him.
Get better. Work your ass off. Tell your boss that you're serious this time and to let you come back. Don't fuck it up even worse. You can do this. You can make yourself known on a wider scale. Be the guy that everyone wants working on their records.
Do that with your time.
Not waste it passed out wherever in your way too big for one person house with your nose bleeding because you can't control yourself.
Get better.
Get better.
Get better.

Read this over and over again if you need to.
This is a letter to you, written by the part of your brain that wants to succeed and do better, be better, be stronger, be smarter, and be sober.
You deserve to be sober.
You deserve to look at yourself in the mirror and not see someone that you hate.
You deserve to smile every day and find happiness in something other than a little pill that's trying to kill you each time you use it.
That's what it is.
A pill. A drug. A poison.
Not she. Not her. Not your best friend. Not the love of your life.
A pill.
A drug.
A poison.
Repeat that in your head over and over and over again while you're here and not doing good.
I have faith in you, now let's try to push that faith to the other part of your brain too.
Let's beat this demon and come out on top.

You can do this, Alex.
I believe in you.

I close my journal and tuck it under my pillow. 
I never thought I'd be here in the first place, let alone writing myself a letter on self care and how to achieve it. I thought I'd be dead by now.
Right now, I don't want to be, but I know in a week, I'll be so miserable that I'm begging for someone to put me out of my misery.
I'll be sweating, sick, my blood pressure will skyrocket, I'll be throwing up and unable to eat or keep anything down. I know how this is going to go and I'm terrified to feel that way again.
I have to though. That's part of getting the demon out. The monster that keeps trying to drag me down.
I have to let it drown so that I can swim.

AN://
If anyone's curious as to what Alex's house looks like, it's this one:

https://www.apartments.com/5651-clinton-st-los-angeles-ca/w7bhq6j/