Group therapy

I was late, I always am. Running stop signs and getting sweared at.

The lady at the front desk was cold, I think she likes to be. Likes to make you wait while she colour codes her biros. She pointed down the hall. Right to the end she said. Right to the very end.

I could tell which room it was straight away, the only room with a closed door. As soon as I walked in, the chatter skipped a beat. I could feel their eyes. But there was one red chair left, mine, so I hunched myself up in it, trying to keep warm. A bosomy grandmother-type wearing a pink and purple tracksuit offered me a cup of tea. I gripped that tea in both hands. Hoping it would help me blend in. Stop my hands shaking.

But I wanted to look at each of them, as much as they did at me. Study their faces. Other people with problems. Worse problems. Sadder stories. Better excuses. We sat there together like mismatched toys, thrown in a heap. I'm not sure which toy I am yet. I want to be one of the repairable ones.

Like everyone else there does.

You can stop feeling sorry for me

There was a big storm here while I was sick. The doors kept slamming with the wind, and the sea sounded like it was tearing the beach apart. It's not all calm yet, but everything is very bright and shiny and washed clean. A bit like me. But still, the swell is strong.

Do you get that funny burning sensation in your nose when you're trying not to cry?

My dad says it's better to talk about your (bad) past experiences in 3rd person. So they don't/ won't effect you so much. He read that somewhere.

Thank-you Erin Brockovich, Elaine, George, Jerry, John Maclain... all the distractors, when reading was impossible.

And thanks to all of you out there who actually passed a thought my way. It worked.

shakytummychurninghotcolddiarrheaheadspinningclimbingthe
wallsthosefuckingrestlesslegswon'tcan'tliestillpouringsweathead
soreeverythingsorerestlesssoveryrestless

Soon

3 days left of methadone.

Nights

The earthquakes are frequent. Like a giant child picking up a mysterious present and shaking it, to see what's inside. But it's our house, and we're inside, tiny heads shuddering on tiny pillows. It always happens in the pre-dawn hours. Knick knacks, books, vases falling off shelves. New Zealand is a very shaky island. A monsterous living thing, stirring in its sleep. Drills all through my school years. Giggling, sighing, hiding under chewing gummed desks. We're supposed to be tense, waiting for the BIG one. Like one in the 60s, in Napier, when the earth literally opened up, buses and people walking dogs tumbled into it, down down down. I think the earth closed again, then. A nifty time to fake a disappearance.

Remembering

I woke up with the dream still under my skin. Jealousy hot in my veins. I loved him again, last night. So much, it was like at first. The way we were at first. When his smell, his touch, everything drove me mad. We had to sleep close, wrapped up in each other, as tight as we could. Until death do us part. It wasn't death though. It was drugs. For him, jail. His hands swollen and bleeding. His eyes weren't his any more, and face, gone. The baby face cracked away, a mask, a skeleton of lies fidgeted in its place. The big brown eyes I would have done anything for, different, terrifying.
I'd said we wouldn't get addicted. It turns out that he was right to be afraid. I should never have laughed. He knew himself better than I did.
But in just one dream, the resent, the calculated void, those feelings were flipped. Asleep, I let myself think about him, for the first time, not shake it off, or change the channel. And all I wanted, craved, was him back beside me, eyes and all. And to know if he made it. If he's still alive. If he's beautiful again.
I really, really hope so.