Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“Great. Can we go home now?”
“Okay, okay.” She slides out of the parking space and into traffic while I glide farther down my seat, desperate to go undetected.
My outpatient meeting in rehab was a lot of things: eye-opening, depressing, horrifying…but it wasn’t great. The first portion was a one-on-one meeting with a counselor who asked a ton of invasive questions about my life.
I kept explaining to him that I wasn’t an addict, not according to the Merriam-Webster definition nor the clinical one, but he kept on nodding and jotting down notes. It was the first time someone didn’t take me seriously in a decade, and I didn’t like how it felt at all.
Then there was the support group. I didn’t speak a word there. They called us “survivors.” I felt like I was in an episode of The Last of Us. Even though I found some people’s stories heartbreaking, I couldn’t relate to any of them. They were actual addicts. One girl miscarried while going on a cocaine bender. Another guy DUI-ed, and his mom, who was in the car, lost an arm in the accident. Then there was the veteran who drank himself into a three-day coma. Me? Drug-free for almost a week and I’m doing just fine.
I mean, my injuries are killing me, and I wouldn’t put me in a closed room with my enemies and sharp objects, but other than that—totally great.
“Let’s go shopping!” Mom yelps. “And before you say anything, I actually found us some great sales, so you won’t have to use my credit card. All affordable stuff, I swear.”
I check the time on my watch. Lev should be getting out of school in the next hour or so.
He’ll probably stop by to check in on me after yesterday’s debacle, and I’m in the mood to see him grovel a little for his holier-than-thou attitude toward me. “Thanks, Mom, but I’m kind of tired.”
“Tired from what? You were home all day.”
What is she, the time police? “From the semester.”
“You have been working yourself to the bone…” She worries her lips, a tiny frown denting her forehead.
“Speaking of, did you hear anything from Juilliard?”
I know Mom is trying to shelter me from bad news. From any news. But this is my life we’re talking about. Or whatever’s left of it, anyway.
She hikes her Gucci shades up her pert nose. “No, and anyway, you should be focusing on your recovery.”
“From what? Your overprotectiveness?” I try to lighten up my tone, but it is obvious I’m annoyed.
“I’m not being overprotective. I’m being cautious.”
“You’re going through my text messages,” I hit back.
“If you act like a child, you’ll be treated as one.” Her head twists, and she gives me a disapproving glare. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, okay?”
No. Not okay. The opposite of okay.
She was the one who made me fall in love with ballet. The stage. The costumes. The dexterity of the human body. She sold me her dream, and I bought it with my last emotional penny without reading the fine print.
Mom put me on a pedestal as the talented ballerina, and I’ve spent every waking moment of my life since then trying to prove to her I was a fine investment.
It was all nice and dandy when I brought in championships, awards of honor, and medals. Now that the expectations are catching up with my body, all of a sudden, I can’t be trusted with a phone. That’s so hypocritical.
“You were the one who pushed me to choose Juilliard.” I fold my arms over my chest. “You literally threw away all other acceptance letters the minute we got in.”
And it was a we.
My journey was hers. I didn’t have a choice. She wanted me to fulfill the dream that slipped between her fingers, and I was too broken down to pirouette in another dream’s direction. Where Daria fought to discover her true self, I was content being molded by mom.
Even enjoyed it. Being the chosen one. The girl who succeeded.
“Well, my priorities changed.” She purses her lips.
My anxiety is a tide rolling over my entire body, sweeping me away until my head is about to go under. I’m drowning in my own fear, gasping for air. For relief. For drugs.
Then words fill the air, and horrifyingly, it seems like they’re coming from my mouth.
“Your priorities seem as fickle as your morals. And you slept with a student of yours, so that says a lot.”
I slap a hand over my mouth as soon as the words leave it. Mom flinches visibly but doesn’t answer.
What in the world did I just say to her? I’m horrified and disgusted with myself. But honestly, my anxiety is so bad, I feel like I’m trapped in a stranger’s body, and that body is lit on fire. Kind of how I was with Lev yesterday.