Coherent

by Livia Jamerlan

  Once the warm water from the showerhead hit my skin, I screeched from the pain, my body pulled and tugged in different directions. The ants were gone, replaced with bees that stung multiple times with the water cascading over us.

  “No! It hurts! Please stop!” I cried, pulling away from his grip, then burying my face in his chest, crying uncontrollably.

  “Shh…” He ran his hands up and down my back, unclasping my bra so he could massage my skin. “It’s okay. I told you I wasn’t going to leave you again, and I’m not. I’m here for you.” His tone was soft as he tried to comfort me. “Its just water, Braelynn. Try to focus on that. It’s only water.”

  My nails dug into his back. My skin was on fire, but I was cold and shivering at the same time. “It hurts Peyton. Please.”

  Peyton reached for the detachable showerhead and brought it closer to my body. He loosened his grasp and instructed me to sit on the tub floor. Peyton sat on the ledge of the tub with one hand holding the showerhead and the other massaging my skin where the water hit me so the pain was more tolerable.

  “Is that better?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I brought my knees closer to my chest and hugged them.

  Kennedy left the bathroom with tears in her eyes, mumbling that she had to change my bed sheet. Peyton bathed me, his hands running down my hair as I cried. It had been three days, and I had survived. I was going to get better; it was only a matter of time.

  Day Six.

  The painful itching was gone, and all that was left in my body was the insomnia, the cold sweats and the flu-like symptoms. I had asked Peyton to leave after the bathroom incident. Not because I didn’t want him near me, but having him close by was too much for me to take. Kennedy mentioned he put up a fight at first, but eventually agreed, returning every night to check on me. Gus and Kennedy took turns watching me. She had left for work right after Gus showed up today, and I’d asked him to stay in my room to watch television.

  I lay on his chest as he flicked through the daytime soap operas. Memories of my life began to float inside my mind. I was a different person now. I couldn’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror. The Braelynn I once was, was over. Done.

  And my life would never be the same.

  “Hey.” Gus pushed on my shoulders, lifting me off his chest. “What’s the matter, baby girl?”

  I sat on the bed, my head lowered as I wiped the tears. Unable to meet his eyes, I merely shook my head. His hand reached under my chin, lifting it up to him.

  “Tell me what’s the matter.”

  “I’m this broken person unable to mend the pieces. It’s like my life is over. Finished. Done. I have nothing left. Nothing to give.” I tugged my chin from his grasp, and looked back down at my fingernails.

  “Look at me, Braelynn,” He pulled my chin up again. “You’re not done. Nor are you broken. You, baby girl, are an unfinished story. You can’t quit and stop fighting because you don’t know what the world has in store for you tomorrow. You can’t say you’re finished because you don’t know the point of the book until it’s all written. This book—the book that you write every day— is your life. You’re still here, still fighting. So no, baby girl, you are not done. You’re a working manuscript. You’re the author.”

  I leaped off the bed and wrapped my arms around his neck. Hugging him tightly, I thanked Gus for saving me in more ways than one.

  Braelynn

  It had been two weeks since I’d knocked on Kennedy’s door asking for help. I was fourteen days clean, and sleep had finally found me again. Kennedy had given me tea to help me relax and have a peaceful night, and Gus had installed dark curtains in my room to keep the sunlight out as I slept most of the day. Hunger had also found me, and my appetite woke me from my sleep. I peeled my eyes open and looked at my alarm clock on my nightstand. One in the afternoon; time to get up. Stretching my arms above my head, I tossed the covers to the side. After I was done in the restroom, I followed the voices to the kitchen. Gus was filling Kennedy in on my behavior for the past two days. I chuckled, but not before I thanked God for blessing me with exceptional friends.

  “Morning,” I said, squinting my eyes against the bright sun.

  “Good afternoon, you mean.” Gus smiled.

  I stuck my tongue out at the both of them and turned back to the coffee machine. The extra bold coffee poured out of the machine and into my mug. Gus and Kennedy continued to whisper behind me.

  I took my steaming mug and pulled up a chair next to them. “What’s so secretive that you both are whispering?” I asked, taking a sip of the black, bitter coffee.

  Gus and Kennedy eyed each other before they turned their gaze toward me. I raised both hands in the air. “Hey, I didn’t do anything. I’ve been clean for two weeks now.”

  Kennedy shook her head. “No, silly.” She reached toward the chair beside her and pulled out a blue glossy folder. In gold letters it read, The First Steps. “We have something for you, but I don’t want you to overreact.” She pushed the folder towards me. I reached across the table, pulling it closer.

  I opened the folder and was surprised to see what was inside. Pamphlets and articles about the First Step Rehabilitation Center filled half of the folder; the other half contained the treatment options and costs.

  “Rehab?” I pulled out the pamphlet, looking at the pictures of the giant house near the water.

  “Brae, don’t be mad. You’ve done such a great job these past few weeks, but we think you can really benefit from the counseling and other programs they offer.”

  Gus reached for Kenn’s hand, and they both waited for my reaction. I studied each article, making them sweat a bit more.

  “Well?” Gus asked.

  “Guys, I think it’s great. Really. I would love to go, but I can’t afford this. Twenty-thousand dollars is out of my price range, and I doubt any bank is going to give my unemployed ass a loan right now. It’s bad enough I owe you four months rent, Kenn.”

  Kennedy looked at Gus and worried her bottom lip. Something was going on. I knew her like the back of my hand, and there were no pills in my system to cloud my judgment.

  “What?”

  “It’s already taken care of,” Gus said, releasing Kennedy’s hand and wrapping his arms around his chest.

  “Don’t be mad.” Kennedy brought her hands up to stop whatever emotion I was beginning to demonstrate.

  “Why did you guys pay for this?”

  “We didn’t,” Gus interrupted.

  Confused by what they were saying, I raised an eyebrow. It was now my turn to cross my arms over my chest as I waited for a response.

  Sighing loudly, Kennedy bowed her head. “Peyton paid for it.”

  “He what?” I didn’t mean to slam my hands on the table, but I couldn’t help my reaction.

  “Look, baby girl. That guy is in love with you. He came by every night demanding a full report of the past twenty-four hours. Every. Night.”

  “Kenn?”

  “Ever since you were in the hospital he’s been checking in on you.” She raised her head and finally looked me in the eye. “After you moved out, I ran into him at some charity golf event I had to attend with Caleb. You were the first thing he asked about. When I told him you’d moved out he didn’t seem upset, just concerned. After a month had passed, Caleb told me he wasn’t himself anymore. I paid him a visit and the man was a mess. A few days later, some guy named Harold showed up with cash from Peyton.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “He’s been paying your rent since then. Well, technically he’s been paying yours, mine, and all of our utilities.”

  He was paying for all of this?

  My focus for the last couple of weeks had been me. When he’d bathed me, I’d kept my head lowered, unable to meet his eyes, I knew he said he would always be here for me, but I didn’t think there could be a relationship between us anymore. But God knew how much I missed him. Craved his touch. Missed the way his hands cupped my face.

  “So is it
safe to assume he’s paying for this as well?” I closed the folder and slid it back towards Kennedy.

  “After I saw you for brunch that day I knew you were using. After the engagement party, he pulled Gus and me to the corner and demanded to know what was going on. The day you showed up here I called him and he’s been here ever since.” Kennedy walked over to the fridge and pulled out the ingredients to make lunch. “He came by work two days ago and dropped the folder off.”

  I stared at the glossy portfolio, contemplating my options. I hated to admit it but I was an addict and the urge to use still haunted the back of my mind.

  “Okay. When do I go?”

  Excitement immediately filled Gus’s face. “Really?”

  “Yeah. If I’m going to nip this in the butt, I have to do everything possible, right?”

  Kennedy set a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches on the table between us. “I’ll call Caleb and ask to borrow his car.” Walking over, she wrapped her arms around me and kissed the top of my head. “You, my friend, are going to kick ass!”

  The ride up to Connecticut was quiet. I sat in the back and let the passing cars distract my wandering mind. Loren had wanted to be there with us, but I had to keep my sister at a distance. I was terrified to see her; the look I imagined that she would have frightened me. I knew I had let her .

  I was both excited and nervous about my two–month stay in rehab. I wasn’t allowed to have visitors for the first month of treatment, and my phone call privileges were limited to one call per week.

  After I’d said good-bye to Kennedy and Gus, I handed over my phone. It would be a week before I spoke to anyone again. The massive home that was the rehabilitation center was beautiful, and right on the water was a large outside patio where a circle of people sat. My room was a standard bed, nightstand, and bathroom type. I sat on the soft pillow-top mattress and stared out the window. This was home for the next sixty days.

  Braelynn

  “Why do you think you turned to drugs?” My counselor Janet asked for the second time since I’d arrived in her office. I watched the dial on the clock pass each second as I thought about the question. Why had I turned to drugs? It was like asking a tired person why they turned to coffee.

  It was my second time in therapy, and I felt like I was going nowhere. During my first therapy session, I’d sat on the cool leather chair, unable to speak. My eyes danced around the room as my brain tried to form words, but it was a complete blank. Janet waited patiently for me, but my words never came.

  I had already been there for fifteen minutes now, and again I was unable to form an answer to her question. Why had I turned to drugs?

  It wasn’t that I’d turned to them because I enjoyed the high; they were merely an escape from reality. A place where I could run and hide from the dark cloud that followed me around.

  “We have a scheduled session every morning. You don’t have to figure out everything all at once. This takes time,” she explained when another minute passed. “But know that I can’t help you unless you open up to me.”

  “I was taken,” I whispered, my hands locked together as I pressed my nails into each other. “That much I know, and I lost a week from my life that I’ll never get back.” My words finally rose from within.

  If I were honest with myself, I’d turned to drugs because I didn’t know where my life had spiraled, and I was a person who needed a vice grip on the control of my life.

  “Taken?” she questioned, looking through her file. Her eyebrows furrowed when she looked up at me. “You’re saying that you turned to drugs because you were taken?”

  “I doubt it’s in the file.” I laughed—a painful laugh as I recalled what John Varrasso has written in my file. “In there it probably states hallucinations.” A product of my imagination as I remember them saying to Loren.

  Janet brought her pen to her lips, and her eyes looked over me. Dropping her pen in her notepad, she closed it and smiled at me. “I’m trained to doubt everything you say. I have been working here for a long time. I have heard every excuse there is.”

  I understood why she was being so hard on me. How many times had I read about people who go to rehab only to relapse again?

  “I’m not everyone else. I’m an addict, yes. I can admit that. But I don’t have any excuses for you. I was taken a few steps from my front door. I woke up a week later in a hospital bed with a heroin scab on my arm and a new addiction for painkillers. I understand that people lie to you every day. But I don’t have a reason too. You can doubt me, that’s fine. I’m here for me, to better myself. You asked why I turned to drugs, and I told you I was taken. Whether you believe me or not is your problem.” I crossed my arms, knowing I probably had stepped over the line.

  “Your body language changed when you stated that you doubt it’s in your file. Your hands clenched into a fist and your nose flared. But when you told me you were taken you seemed scared. Why do you think that is?”

  “I have tried to remember what happened to me. I can feel it—the blow to my head and flashes of memory haunt me in my dreams, yet I’ve been told on multiple occasions that it didn’t happen.” I let the tear drip from my eyes. “I woke up in a hospital bed with a week of my life missing. I had one doctor tell me I had party drugs in my system and a police officer tell me it looked like I was out partying. Then four different therapists suggested I suffered from every type of PTSD, but that was after I almost contemplated sleeping with my first therapist so I could steal his prescription pad.”

  Janet didn’t flinch, but tears grew in my eyes when I began to admit the horrible things I had done to get high.

  “When people suffer from an addiction they only see the high. They will do anything possible to get high. Almost sleeping with your therapist doesn’t define your character.” I nodded as I listened to her speak, but humiliation crept over me. “Do you think because you can’t properly remember what happened to you, you turned to drugs as an escape?”

  Escape. Yes!

  “I turned to drugs because it was the only way I knew how to feel numb. It was the only way I knew how to make the emptiness I felt disappear. When I woke up, I lied to Kennedy–my best friend who also interns at the hospital–about my pain and she gave me morphine. Once the IV was connected to my arm nothing mattered. I craved it.”

  “How did you keep up with your need to be high?”

  “I had my own prescription pad to write whatever I wanted. All I needed were the painkillers.”

  “Do you think you’ll go back to using once your sixty days are up?”

  “I can’t tell. I’ve been clean for two weeks, and I want to stop. I don’t like the person I’ve become. But I’ll admit I crave the emptiness because it’s the only way I know how to turn my mind off.”

  “Tell me what you remember?”

  I looked away from her and back to the clock on the wall. There was no way to make this easier. Closing my eyes, I rested my head against the chair and took a deep breath.

  “I was walking home when it happened. There was a sharp pain that made my sense of hearing and sight disappear, and I fell to the ground. My last bit of reality was the lamppost above. The rest is mixed and blurred. But there are security camera recordings and credit card authorizations that say otherwise. How is a person supposed to cope with waking up in a hospital bed, a week of their life missing and enough drugs in their system to cause an overdose, when they don’t remember anything?”

  I tried to stay positive. I practice the breathing exercises I had learned in the group meeting that morning, but they weren’t helping. I was trapped—unable to explain what I felt, unable to articulate what was wrong. What the hell was wrong with me?

  “When I was locked away by a 5150, I found a way to steal his prescription booklet. I needed an out for the pain.” I held my eyelids closed as the words escaped my lips. “And then I stole his prescription pad so I could write my own.” My lips pouted, the courage to meet her gaze finally returning to me. “I need
ed an out from the unknown.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I have certain images about what happened to me that week, but none of it makes sense. That. That’s why I turned to drugs.”

  She wrote on her legal pad, her hand moving the pen quickly across the paper. I tried not to focus on what she was writing, but rather the reason I was there. I needed to get help and clouding my mind with my therapist’s opinions of me were only going to take me the wrong direction.

  She closed her notepad. “I’m sorry if my questions seem redundant, but I’m trying to get to the root of the problem with you. Most patients come in here still using, and the process is vigorous and painful for both parties as we sit in here day after day fighting their demons. But you’re a step ahead of them, and I’d like to offer you something that I think may help.”

  She stood, and walking over to her bookcase, pulled a pamphlet from a folder. She laid it on the table next to me as she looked down at me, her smile genuine. She wasn’t judging me. She was actually concerned for my well-being.

  I took the folded up paper in my hand, reading the front page. “Hypnosis.”

  “Hypnotherapy,” she corrected me. “I’m not licensed to do it but we have a psychiatrist on our team who can help. There’s a possibility that your brain has shut out that week as a way to protect you from the pain, making it impossible for you to remember.” I held the paper firmly as she continued. “Hypnotherapy is subjective, but if there is a possibility of you remembering that week, I think it will help you kick your addiction.”

  “There were drugs in my system. How will I know what is real and what isn’t?”

  “We won’t know until we try it. It might give you the closure you need, or it might not give you anything. It’s an option.” The red light on her office wall turned off, the signal that our session was over. “Take the brochure with you. If you’re interested, we can try it.”