Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
No, this is very different.
This place reminds me of a luxury spa, and yes, there might be therapists on staff, but they act more like friends you would drink coffee with.
I spend my day getting massages, painting, reading, and yes, talking to the doctor.
But today we don’t meet in her office. Instead, we are having herbal tea on the terrace.
The temperature is perfect. There is a light breeze in the air, and under the canopy where we sit, we have the perfect view of the gardens without the blaring sun beating down on us.
Dr. Roberts lifts her cup and takes a seat, and then she smiles. Yesterday, I told her my story. Today is when it will get harder.
Recounting facts is never the issue. It’s the root of the problem that is.
Like a dead tree, you don’t just cut the leaves. The whole thing must go, roots uplifted, that way you can plant something new.
I’m that tree. The work in progress, but hopefully, after I’m done here, I’ll be able to grow.
“Tell me the way you felt that night. Tell me the way you felt all the nights.”
“You can’t possibly want me to go over every night I ever got drunk.”
She lets out a chuckle. “Not every night, but how about the ones that stand out.”
I lean forward in my chair, hands on the teacup. My fingers warm, and I continue to hold them there despite the heat.
A night that stands out . . .
Other than the obvious, I try to remember how I felt the last time I got high before.
“Helpless.” I close my eyes. “Less than. A failure.” My eyes open. “Not good enough. Rejected.”
“And the night of the incident?” she asks.
“Helpless. Less than. A failure. Not good enough. Rejected,” I repeat.
“I think we found your catalyst. Now to work on these feelings. To find the root . . .”
“The thing is, other than feeling those things, I don’t remember why I decided to do drugs. Why I needed more to make me numb that time. In the past it was always pills. Never cocaine . . .”
“It could have been the alcohol.”
“Wouldn’t I remember now?” I ask.
“The mind is a complex place, sometimes we protect ourselves.”
“You think not remembering taking drugs is a coping method?”
“It could be. You could have blacked it out for many reasons. Or”—she shrugs—“you were too impaired to remember. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Without the proper tools, sobriety will be a lifelong battle.”
I nod my head. I’m not sure what else to say. I sit back, not speaking. Time does pass, but it passes in an uncomfortable silence I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I don’t have to stay silent for long because she starts firing off questions about my family. It’s easy to talk about them. Much easier than talking about me.
At first, the days go by rather slow, but before I know it, a week has passed. For the first time in a long time, I feel refreshed. It’s funny that it would take a stint in rehab to make me feel like this. But it’s true, nonetheless. I feel like a new person.
Each day I work out. Each day I do yoga. I’ve learned how to meditate. Old Bailey would’ve laughed at all the stuff I’ve done. Making pottery would’ve been something I would’ve only done drunk with friends. But now I see that painting can be therapeutic.
New Bailey. Sober and clean Bailey has a better outlook on life.
It’s only been one week, but it’s as if my depleted battery is finally starting to charge and I can thank Drew for pushing me toward this.
With my therapist this past week, we reflected so much on my childhood.
We reflected on the fact that my catalyst stems from there. That I believe I’m worthless because of my mom. How after my father died, I felt I had no one. She was absent in my life, and instead of understanding it was her way of grieving, I thought it meant she didn’t love me. That was why I started drinking. The pills followed next, after the accident. The blame I unfairly put on myself.
Rationally, I know it’s true, but irrationally I’m still working hard to believe it wasn’t my fault.
I am still trying to forgive myself for my part in it.
52
Drew
Time has moved really fucking slowly since Bailey has left.
I try to keep myself busy and with the impending sale of Silver, it shouldn’t be hard, but it actually is.
Her presence is missing. Not just in my bed. Or in the club.
It’s missing everywhere.
As much as I never want to walk into the club again, I have to. The paperwork is still being finalized. To make sure it doesn’t fall through, I have to go in. I’m up earlier than normal today. It’s only six. Normally, this would be the time that I’d be closing down the club and coming home, but a lot changed when I became involved with Bailey. Now, I’m up for the day.