Day 12, I think . . . losing track of the days in here. Feeling good today. The concrete on my feet seems to have fallen off. Energy is high, and I’m mentally feeling good for the first time. The depression, feelings of hopelessness, and constant cravings are somewhat subsiding. Somewhat . . .

I got a new roommate. The last guy didn’t make it past day two and checked himself out. It’s hard, ya know? The first few days feel like drowning in despair. It’s not even about the physical withdrawals—which totally suck, don’t get me wrong—but the mental anxiety is impossible to deal with. The only addict that escapes paying the piper does so through death.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, dropping my pencil into the binding of my marbled notebook. My counselor thinks I have trouble connecting with my feelings and wants me to journal. When she first gave me the notebook, I sat staring at the blank page wondering what to write. “Connecting with my feelings” is what got me in trouble in the first place. It was too much all at once, a cannon shot of emotion blasting me in the gut. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I ran right back to the needle to stab them all out. A crazy theory, but I have a month to kill, and I’ll try anything if it means never having to see that fractured look in Kat’s eyes again. So I did. Before I even realized, I’d penned a two-page entry. Everything inside my head, as disorganized as it was, fell onto the paper, and I felt lighter, unburdened by the shit swimming in my brain. That feeling of freedom was a drug in and of itself.

Logan trudges into our room and plops onto his bed without a word. I try not to notice as he curls into the corner and opens his book as if I’m not even here. We’ve been living together for a handful of days, and he’s yet to say a single word. To anyone.

Dark eyes are all I see rising from beyond the open book obscuring his face, a creepy-looking bobblehead doll wearing a tiara and sash gracing the tattered cover. “Freak Show, huh? I know the feeling,” I grumble, rising from my bed with a stretch.

My clothes were already here when I arrived. Mostly sweats and a few of my favorite tees. Ones Kat hates but knows give me comfort. She shines like a diamond, and it shocks me that of all the men she’s been with, I’m the only one who noticed how amazing she actually is. I might be the only one who truly acknowledges the amount of heart she puts into everything she does, and how much she gives to those she cares about. Most people miss that about her. They walk into that salon thinking she’s nothing more than a vapid pretty face, yet all the while they’re getting waxed by the most incredible woman on Earth.

My gaze slides to the clock on the wall. The time here feels endless even though they keep us busy. It's a full schedule of various therapies—group, single, physical—and they even have acupuncture. The only thing they don’t have is phone privileges. Since I don't have a cell phone, I'm isolated from everyone. I haven’t talked to Kat in days, our last conversation being when she ripped into me about how much my addiction was destroying her. The memory of her sad face haunts me still, so seeing her smile again is what pushes me through. Being with her and starting the life I promised two years ago.

My relationships are becoming stronger, deeper, and more stable each day.

Securing my notebook under my arm, I wander to the door and reach for my smokes. From the corner of my eye, I see Logan’s book holding arm fall to his lap, his gaze staring blankly ahead. When we first met, Kat told me I was a quirky dude, but this kid’s looking at quirky in the rearview. Something is odd about him, and it’s not just the silence. I relate to the quiet. No, it’s more than that. There’s a way about him. Almost like mourning. Like the way I carried myself after Desiree died, after I cleaned up and looked at the pages of my life through clear eyes for the first time in years.

I shake off the sorrow emanating from the corner of the room. This is rehab. We’re all a little broken; otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t look older than seventeen, probably shoved in here by his parents against his will. For all I know, he’s grieving the loss of the dope.

The Daily Affirmation greets me out in the hall. I am the architect of my life; I build its foundation and choose its contents. Yesterday’s bulletin board read, My body is healthy; my mind is brilliant; my soul is tranquil. Hokey as they are, they make me smile. The last rehab I was in was a state-funded shithole with cinderblock walls painted the color of puke. This is definitely a step up. I realize that’s dumb. I mean, detoxing in a nicer facility is hardly an achievement, but on some level, it’s a sign of growth. It shows my life on the outside is better than it was before. Relapse aside, I’ve accomplished something. I flip open my journal to the very last page and jot down today’s quote to reflect upon later. They seem to be putting a positive spin on shit, and I like that.

I am superior to negative thoughts.

Out in the quad, the sun shines so brightly it burns my eyes. I squint, lighting the tip of my cigarette. Sweet smoke fills my lungs. I breathe deep, savoring it before blowing it out into the turquoise sky. It really is beautiful here. Stone pathways snake through beds of wildflowers to a circular patio in the center. Curved benches hug the perimeter. Everything in this place is designed around communication. Even the chairs in the common room face each other. Every morning, they collect the cell phones and don't return them until after dinner. A hippy-dippy commune of rejects forced to interact.

With smoke twirling about my lips, I watch a honeybee zip across the sunflowers. It crawls across the dark orange center, taking all the pollen from one and spreading it to another. Few people know this, but the success of sunflowers depends solely on bees. Without them, crops would die out and eventually grow extinct.

It makes me think of Kat.

Everything here reminds me of her. No matter how much I try to think of something else, to concentrate on myself, my mind wanders to her. I hate feeling like this. I don’t want to sleep unless she’s next to me. My dreams provide little comfort because I know when I wake, she won’t be here. I don’t know if things will ever be the same between us. That thought slowly tears me apart until I feel as though I’m going mad.

Though these times are difficult, they are only a short phase of life.

“Who is she?” The deep baritone pulls me back from the edge. When I turn toward the sound, I’m greeted by a middle-aged man in light blue scrubs. His gray hair is shaved close to the scalp, his deep brown eyes a perfect match with his smooth skin. A lanyard hangs around his neck. The name Rodney Thompson written in bold letters next to his image.

“Who’s who?”

The corner of his wide mouth curves. “The girl. There’s always a girl. She as pretty as the flower you’re staring so hard at?”

I return his grin. “Katarina. Prettier,” I say, bringing my cigarette to my lips.

“You got another one of those?” he asks. With the filter dangling from my lips, I dig out the hard pack and use my thumb to flip it open. He takes one, then leans into the sparked lighter cupped by my palm next. “Thanks.” He steps back, smoke curling from his nose like a dragon. “Rodney,” he states, extending his hand.

“Chase,” I reply with a firm shake.

I assume this conversation is over. Counselors and patients are usually kept separate. They have their own lounge and their own designated smoking area. Yet he doesn’t move from his spot on the patio. “So, Chase, what’s your story?”

I shrug. “Same as anyone else’s, I guess.”

“Nah. They may all start the same, but everyone’s story is unique.” He sucks on his smoke and lets it dribble out. “I’m goin’ on twenty-two years sober myself. Took me seven tries.”

“Twelve days. Take two.” I strip the head off my cigarette and kick at the tiny ball of ashes on the ground. Saying the number should be empowering, but for me, it’s another reminder of my failure. “What made it stick?”

“A girl.” His smile widens. “Annabelle.” The deep bass of his voice softens when he says her name. “I made her my wife, and I never looked back.”

“Simple as that, huh?”

A laugh rumbles in his chest like thunder. “There was nothing simple about it! I miss it every damn day of my life.”

“But what made that seventh try different than the rest?”

“The key was consistency. Addiction is a lifelong disease that must be actively controlled and managed every day during recovery. I always failed because I was expecting things to fall into place perfectly with minimal effort. I thought because I was sober, good things would happen, and life would just suddenly get better. Finally, I accepted that a healthy life isn't a constant dopamine rush. I knew I’d likely never be able to recreate that same feeling, but I stepped back one day and realized I got something better. I got results and accomplishments that I earned, that were not a result of instant gratification. I got to see the labor of my hard work bloom into something beautiful. Every day, people traipse through those doors defeated and walk out brand new with their whole lives ahead of them. The first time I found myself on the other side, that was my ah-ha moment. Giving back. Using what I know to help others. It turned my affliction into a gift. The most rewarding payoffs take time. For me, it took seven tries. How many’s it gonna take you?”

“Two,” I answer without thought. The pride shining in his eyes is a beacon. Rodney’s story holds more power for me than all the therapy and daily phrases combined. I’ve been where he is. Flying on hope and the feeling that my story can somehow do good. Knowing that after twenty years, he still feels that tremendous power is encouragement enough to succeed. I picked myself up once before, and I can do it again. This time, there will be no setback. I am conquering my illness; I am defeating it steadily each day. I can’t look back. I’m not going that way. My past no longer defines me.

* * *

Rehab is weird. You can generally tell right away a person's drug of choice the minute they open their mouths. If a drawl comes out, there's a good chance that guy’s in for meth. Of course, they're easy to spot regardless. All they have to do is smile.

East Coasters are most likely heroin users. An epidemic that runs rampant in the tri-state area and Florida. Again, easy to spot by the needle marks and bruising. Some in our arms, some in our feet. The long-time users had to get creative and have marks on their necks and faces. Those ones are obvious, but others are sometimes harder to place. Alcoholics, for example, have no tell at all except for the candy usually stuffed in their pockets, their bodies screaming for the sugar. We're a motley group of fuckups united in weakness, bound by strength, and all looking for a way out. Morose faces staring around the group circle sharing their tales of woe.

Logan, however, is a total enigma. Too young to be an alcoholic, too handsome to be a tweaker, not a single mark in sight. Whatever it is was caught too early to leave a lasting impression, yet he still appears as though he’s ready to jump from his skin.

The counselor, a heavyset redhead named Sharon, sits back in her chair with a clipboard perched on her knee. She goes around the room asking everyone the same question. “What are you grateful for today?” This is how we open the session.

“Old-school punk and the way it makes me feel when I hear it,” says Bryan, a guy I’ve never spoken to. One who wears flannels and band tees, his eyes constantly bloodshot and his Converse tapping on the ground. He never looks straight ahead. Always down at his lap, twisting his fingers in a forever fight against each other.

“For my cute little monster of a nephew and my baby niece. For the way they still smile whenever they see me, unlike the rest of my family.” That was from Ann. A woman who stole her dead mother’s jewelry and pawned it for crack. Her face is a mess of yellowing bruises. She admitted that her boyfriend beats her, but she never left because he fed her addiction, forcing her to stay.

“That I woke up and didn’t have to stick myself today, yo,” adds Juan. Grumbles circle the crowd. He runs his fingers through his jet black hair, pushing it off his forehead, the thick silver chain around his neck glinting in the harsh fluorescent lighting. “And that I’m still young enough to start over. Ima go back to school when I’m outta here. Gonna earn a living and make some sweet coin.”

The counselor smiles and turns her attention to Logan. “Are you going to share with us today, Mr. Cooper?” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at his outstretched feet. “I know it’s hard, but communicating our feelings is the first step to maintaining a healthy lifestyle.”

“Logan’s grateful for the written words in books and the escape they provide,” I answer for him. His gaze snaps to his left. I feel it burning a hole in my cheek and turn my face to look at him. A moment passes between us. His lips quiver the tiniest bit, enough to show me that he appreciates the help.

“And you, Chase?”

A deep breath hits my lungs. “Kat.”

“You’re thankful for your cats?” Juan jokes, pulling rattling laughter from the group.

“No. My fiancée, Katarina. I’m grateful for her love, and her support, and her forgiveness.” The person I've been lately . . . he isn’t who I want to be. I've been a walking heartache. Most people would have left me already, but not Kat. She stood there right beside me, watched as the storm blew through, and then cleaned up the mess with her head held high. I’m not just grateful; I thank God for her every damn day of my life.

The rest of the group continues their deluge of positivity, and it eventually circles back around to Sharon again. “For many of you, this isn’t your first time in recovery. When someone relapses, their addiction is often worse than before. The feelings of shame and guilt further drive the substance abusing behavior in an effort to numb any uncomfortable emotions. But there is no shame in relapsing. The only shame comes from not asking for help when help is needed.”

More grumbles, a few nods. She opens the floor for people to share.

“I just feel so alone,” a small brunette says from the across the circle. I don’t remember her name, but her nose is pierced, and thick bangs cut across her eyes, making it hard to see their color. “Like an impulsive fucking idiot, I shared a needle with my ex-boyfriend. Fast forward a month, and I’m diagnosed with Hepatitis C. I am so disgusted and ashamed. I feel like a leper.

“I know there are great treatments out there nowadays, and it's curable, but I can’t stand that I got myself into this situation. I hate heroin. I hate that I still crave it. I hate that I feel so stuck in limbo from this diagnosis that a warm shot of H seems like the only thing that could make me feel okay. I'm scared and sad. I have no motivation and feel like a worthless piece of shit.”

“The hardest part of not using is filling up the empty space inside you,” I reply. All eyes land on me as if I possess the secret to life. I don’t usually say much in these sessions, but these days, there’s so much in my head that the only way to silence the screaming is to let it all out. “Before this little setback, I had four years under my belt. Whenever I thought about using, I liked to frame it as a choice. Saying things to myself like ‘I can't use’ frustrated me. Tell me I can’t do something and I’ll do it just to spite you. So every day, I’d wake up and think ‘Today, I choose not to use.’ That made me feel empowered, ya know? Because I was the one in control.”

“Some control,” she bites back. “When you’re sitting here as dope sick as the rest of us.”

“No one is exempt from doing the work. I got cocky. I got sloppy. I got lost along the way. It won’t happen again.”

Sharon jumps to my defense. “I think what Chase is trying to say is sobriety starts in the mind. We need to make a conscious effort every day to stay on the right path. Working toward small attainable goals we know we can achieve, taking accountability for the way our lives turned out, and always working toward becoming a better person.”

Bangs makes a pfft sound and crosses her arms in a huff. The hour moves, and soon enough, we’re shuffling toward the exit. “Chase! Hang back a second.” Sharon’s voice stops my flight, but my blood is screaming for nicotine. I step from the herding crowd, a cigarette already clenched between my teeth. “I just wanted to say good work today. You’ve been making great progress here.”

“Do I get a gold star?”

“Better. You get to live.”