by Delia Steele
“Guess shit was deep then.” His laugh vibrates through me. “I was pissed when Clay told me you fought that loser off until he stood up and went all Yoda, plunger-style. Then I just laughed, thinking about my little Jedi.” He winks, knowing I appreciate the effort he tries to put into Star Wars, even though he hates it. I glance at the clock, wishing it wasn’t so late. I want to cuddle and kiss on my children, but I won’t wake them.
“Guys, I’m telling you, the girl I just left at Gran’s…that’s our girl. Just watch. We’ll be ready to beat her when she comes home. She’s going to be our fun-loving, quirky, crazy Mexican again; I just know it. Y’all wait and see.” I smile, knowing I’m right. I can feel it. I just wish I had known there was a problem sooner. No matter our distance, a good friend should have noticed an issue that had been present so many years. I knew she drank, but not to the point of destroying the girl we love. I hope Clay can wait just a little bit longer. It’s not fair to ask him to keep putting his life on hold, but does it count if his life is her?
(Mando)
It’s a long quiet drive. We stick to the East Coast and ride it all the way to the treatment center. The ocean looks beautiful out my left window. At least I am going to get some sun. I hope that it’s a little warmer in Florida. A girl can dream, right?
I need to speak to my mother. I need to tell her how I feel, but I’m not sure I can. I mainly had her ride so she could take my car back home. Since I obviously like to run, I don’t need my car sitting outside for me to jump in and go.
We have to be close now. The sun seems to be cresting, causing an eerie yellow glow all around. I see a food sign and decide to go ahead and pull over. Mom drove the first six hours so I could rest, and now I have the last two. But I need to rejuvenate myself. I need to gear up. I am about to go to war with myself. I’m already cranky and shaky from withdrawals. Luckily, Mama knew I’d need a pick-me-up and bought me a beer. She isn’t being an enabler, just keeping me sane for the trip. It’s likely the last one I’ll ever have. It’s a bittersweet thought. I’ve used alcohol for so long to numb the pain—to fade all emotions from my mind—but it’s taken everything from me in the process. It’s an old friend, but it’s time I cut ties with the bitch-ass drunk before it ruins what’s left of me. The beer took the edge off, but only for a minute. It wasn’t strong enough, and right now, I feel like I’m walking a tight rope that could snap at any second.
“Mija, you stop. We eat, no?” I look at her and roll my eyes. I’m aware it’s rude and disrespectful, but at some point, even parents have to earn it. After so many bad things and her overlooking the life we lived… Yeah, she needs to earn it.
“Yes. I need food and to piss,” I say, jerking into the dirt lot. The place seems legit—a twenty-four hour breakfast buffet seems like my kind of place. I jump out, and Mama follows, saying nothing as we grab a booth in the back. The waitress shows up being flat-out bitchy, so I snuff her out and hand her ass to her on a plate before making my way to the bathroom. Inside, I find this weird chick, all torn clothes and ratty hair. She has a big bag, and her uniform is sticking out of it.
“Hey, you got a smoke?” I turn and look at her before washing my hands.
“Do I fuckin’ look like I got a smoke? Even if I did, why the fuck would I give it to you?” I ask her, staring right in her dead fish eyes.
“Hey, watch who you mouth off to, hoe! I just asked a question.” I turn back around and start washing my hands, when I hear the door click open. I glance in the mirror and see the girl is looking at me. “With an attitude like that, you best check under yo beds at night. Something’s gonna get’cha foul ass.” Then she shuts the door behind her as she leaves. She had to be an overworked addict of some sort. She looked weak with ghost white skin, dead eyes, and sores. I turn back and look at myself in the mirror. Sadly, I see the same in me. I don’t look olive and plump with life anymore, and my eyes don’t sparkle. At least I don’t have sores…not visible ones anyway.
I keep staring at the person in the mirror, and after an eternity, I whisper, “Who needs to check under the bed when I know exactly where my monsters live? Inside me.”
I leave the bathroom with more determination to fix myself than I had before, and that was a lot. Hell, I’m on my way to rehab, and this just validated and solidified my action.
I take my seat across from my mother, and for the first time in a long time, I really look at her. She looks old, tired, and shattered. I’m quivering with need right now—jerky hands and sweating profusely. But I still can’t ignore the pain on my mother’s face. I ask her if she’s OK, and she simply nods her head as she slowly eats her food, never looking up at me. But she doesn’t have to look up for me to see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“Mija…” I watch her as she struggles to tell me what she wants. Not sure why she doesn’t just say it in Spanish, I try to help her out.
“Mama, just say it in Spanish; its fine.” I don’t have a problem with it, just Gran. My mother is from southern Mexico, and her dialect is so different from what’s normally heard, even here in the States.
“No. With Papi gone, I have learn,” she says, and I give her a sympathetic smile. She believes he will be gone a long time. No matter how he treated her or me, she loves him, and I need to remember that. As bad as I despise him, she doesn’t. In her mind, he brought us to America to live a good life. No matter how it was provided, she had a nice home and slept safely. In her eyes, that’s what constitutes a good man. She isn’t about the money, but she is about family and safety.
“I will do right. I will fix. I promise,” she says, watching me.
“Mama, all you need to do is be strong. I’m OK…or in time, I will be. Don’t worry about me. That time has come and gone. Just trust me. Have some type of faith in me. That’s what I need right now.” I reach across the table for her hand, and she gives it to me. We sit this way for a while, just watching each other, wondering who will break first. It won’t ever be me. I can’t break again. There isn’t anyone to pick up the pieces but me, and I’m not strong enough yet.
“You think me weak, pequeña rosa. I’m no weak. I stayed for you. I live.” I squeeze her hand, and a single tear slides down my cheek. She’s right. All this time, I’ve seen her weak, but she stayed with him for security, which was probably tougher than leaving at times. It’s in this moment that I regain my respect for my mother. I realize we have both been thirsting for someone to love us, when all this time—all these years—we’ve had each other. I was too busy rebelling and she was too busy surviving for either of us to see it. I lurch across the booth so fast I knock everything to the floor. I don’t care who sees us or what those bastards think. I’ve needed my mama for so long, and she’s been there the whole time. I’ve just been too blind to see it.
I slip over the Formica-topped table and down into my mother’s lap. She cradles me like a baby and even starts to rock me. “I’m here for you, mi hija. Always,” she croons.
I can only hope I am as strong as she is. While she is alone, trying to survive with her husband and daughter both gone, I will be fighting my own demons. They have won every battle for the last five years. It’s time I win the fucking war. I sit up and look at my battered mother.
“Let’s go, Mama. This malfucktioning glitch has a war to win.” The glint returns to my mother’s eyes as she touches her chest over her heart. “Strong.” She beats her fist twice. “Like me, you win.”
We hug again before leaving the roadside breakfast feast of champions. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want this. I want my mama to finally be proud of who I am. We walk to my car, hand in hand, smiling with reassurance and purpose. #warfaceon
Chapter Twelve
Rehab is for cumdumpsters. Oh…and me, apparently.
I’m not blind. I see the way they stare at me. As if I’m contagious with a flesh eating disease. Well, I’m not! I’m aware I am sick and scary right now, but I’m not some lab rat to poke at or o
bserve.
I hate feeling so trapped and useless—strapped to a hard board, flat on my back. I’m here on my own accord, and they go and strap me down as if I’m being prepped for the lethal injection. I mean, can’t a girl at least get a good spanking or something kinky like that if she’s gonna be restrained? #pagingmrgrey What a bunch of gonad guzzlers! They all stand around me in their crisp white overcoats, talking about me as if I’m not here, and make notes on their clipboards in all that medical gibberish. This could very well be worse than prison.
“Hey, motherfuckers! You do realize I’m right here, right? I bet if you sniff hard enough, you can smell the sweat between my ass cheeks. I mean, if you want to know if I am on anything or doing anything, you can just ask. And you, Mr. Too-damn-tall-for-your-own-good, don’t look down your nose at me again, or when they let me up, imma punch you right in the nut sack. Bet. I am not a crack head, I have zero infectious oozing sores, I am not homicidal or repressed, I don’t want to do dirty things with my daddy, and I don’t keep my mom’s remains in a basement for daily conversation. I drink too fucking much, and I lash out at those I love the most. I tend to be a bitch to my best friend because, deep inside my jagged little heart, I detest her perfection, the perfection that I lack. That’s the diagnosis. Now, it’s you bitch-ass, snotty, fucking turds’ turn to fix me so I can get back to a life worth living and earn back the love of my best people.” I plop my head back on the board and roll my eyes. “And can someone, for fuck’s sake, scratch my nose? Seriously! I won’t eat your finger off, I swear.”
Mr. Too-tall sticks his hand down—after a short deliberation—and attempts to scratch my nose. Even though my nose seriously itches, I can’t resist. As soon as his finger touches my nose, I snap my teeth in his direction, causing him to jerk back with fear in his eyes. I laugh so hard I start shaking the board bed they have me strapped to. And, for some reason, that makes me laugh harder. To them, this seems like craziness, but to me, this is me feeling better, knowing I am on my way to a better tomorrow.
“I really did admit myself, doc. I won’t hurt anyone. Nut sack’s honor.” I hold up a peace sign as far as the straps will allow.
“What is your obsession with that word, Miss Riaz?” the heavyset doctor asks me.
“Wow! A white coat speaks to me. Urm…no obsession. I just like to say nut sack. It rolls off the tongue, and it makes people roll their eyes—an action I find entertaining. I can be uppity, too, when needed. I wrote a poem once. Wanna hear it?” Without pausing to give him a chance to answer, I continue as I stare at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Imagine a white, stubby-legged bulldog walking in five inches of snow, looking for that perfect place to pee.” I clear my throat.
“I see him wandering way out there.
He sniffs and searches in the air.
I see him moving to and fro,
That saggy nut sack swinging in the snow.”
I watch the doctor’s face as his eyes squint in anger and his nostrils flare. I’ve hit it a nerve with my antics.
“Must you always play games, girl? Rehab is not a laughing matter; it’s serious,” he spits at me. I, of course, do what I do best: I laugh it off.
“Dude, seriously, I know you can see through this white gauze gown, and you thinking with that big ole PhD that a girl in pink sparkle panties takes shit serious is hilarious. I mean, for fuck’s sake, doctor, they have a taco on them that says ‘EAT ME!’”
It’s funny, watching his face contort in pure hatred. It should bother me, but it doesn’t. I admitted myself. I have a problem, and I am dealing with it. It’s his job to fix me, not to like me. This is my coping mechanism, and I’ll use it if it makes me feel better whether he likes it or not.
“Rehabilitation for addiction is no laughing matter. I couldn’t care less about your undergarments, Miss Riaz. Detoxification is going to be hard on you, and you are making jokes. You won’t be laughing soon.”
After I yawn wide enough to pop my jaw out of place, I mock him, being the bitch he is making me out to be. “Dr. Chunky has a panty hater degree, everyone. He doesn’t approve of my sparkling taco ways. Now, kind doctor, please wheel me to my personal detox torture room and be on your merry way before I retract my check.”
Once inside the small room surrounded by windows, I yawn for real as I watch the doctor turn to leave.
“Yo, doc. Just for the record, I know this is serious. I put myself here for that reason. However, I joke. It’s who I am. And no matter what you do to me, I will always be me—just less drunk, I hope. So don’t demean me because you think my addiction is causing me to be a snarky butt clench. It’s not your place to judge me; it’s God’s, and I am well aware He isn’t happy with me right now. But your sin is still a sin, fathead. Ye shall be judged equally. So, if you can’t stop being a know-it-all ass hat, then maybe you should go take another hit off your prescription of choice from the medicine closet. You wanna act like you are so much better than me. I can only imagine how full your skeleton closet is. Hashtag getrightorgetout, motherfucker.”
I turn my head away from him, knowing what I say won’t matter. In his eyes, I am a nobody. Identified only by my addiction. In reality, he is less than that for assuming he is better than another human being when he isn’t. Fuck him, and fuck his world. I’m doing this for me. It’s time to get this shitshow on the road. Let’s dehydrate me and sober me up for good. #letsdothisshit
Chapter Thirteen
No, it’s not normal to be strapped down during detox, but when you’ve demonstrated such self-hate, they sometimes deem it necessary to keep you from hurting yourself. In my case, since I’m not showing signs of caring at all, they strapped me down because sometimes shutting down is worse than the lashing out.
“Alright, Miss Riaz, someone will be right outside watching at all times. The machines will monitor your heart rate and hydration levels, but please let us know if anything else can be done for you. It’s commendable that you chose this yourself, and I expect you will do well, but it’s not going to be easy. You should prepare yourself for the following: For the first six to twelve hours, expect sweats, nausea, shakes, minor nightmares, rapid heartbeat, and even bouts of depression. This is why we restrain you with the straps. We can remove them in the morning if you feel stable; however, with your extreme dependency, we are worried about the more serious issues you could experience for up to twenty-four hours. Things such as: hallucinations, seizures, convulsions, confusion, and blacking out, to name a few. We have to monitor you closely. We want to help you. Over the next few days, you will be here with me. Once detox is complete—usually after about forty-eight hours—you will be given your therapist, residence, and activities list. Everything we do is set in place to help you, not hurt you. Please try to remember that for the remainder of your detox and stay. Also, try to remember that you wanted to do this. Focus on those you are doing it for.”
Though she stands rod straight and has her hair pinned back in a tight ponytail, the assistant is pretty. She could and should have been a model versus being here, putting up with substance abusing assholes like me.
“Ten-four, Dexter,” I say to her, retreating back to my snarkiness. This shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll move during the day and strap on at night for safety. Too bad it’s not the kind of strap-on I could use on Clay. He would likely clinch that little ass so tight he wouldn’t be able to pass gas. He tends to tighten his whole body when my hands roam too close to it.
I smile, thinking about Clay and everything he has done to keep me. I hope he knows I am doing this for me so I can be the girl he deserves. If he moves on while I am here, I’ll understand. He deserves to be happy. I won’t like it, but I’ll get it. I’d like to say I am doing this for him, but it would be a lie. I am doing this for me. I have to. I won’t make it out any other way. Sometimes, it does pay to be a selfish cunt. Sometimes…
“No, Clay, no… How could you touch her? How could you want her? You’re supposed to love me! No one loves me. Wh
y? Please, stop touching her. No, don’t kiss her! CLAY, STOP!” I sob uncontrollably, “Why aren’t you listening to me? No, don’t rub your hands up her sides! Clay, please touch me, hold me,” I cry as I pound my hands against my chest. I reach for him, but I stop mid-reach when he looks into her eyes and says, “I love you so much, baby. Stay with me forever?”
I can’t breathe. My whole world has just flipped, and when I see her face, I lunge with all my strength. I know the girl…but who is she?
I never make it to the girl because I jerk awake with sweat in my eyes and my heart pounding furiously. Looking around, I try to sit up and realize I can’t. Something is holding me down. I pull hard a few times and blink, trying to get a grip, but I can’t. I start screaming.
“Someone help me! Please! I can’t… Please!”
My heart rate won’t calm down, and I am burning up. The door opens and in walks the girl—Clay’s forever.
“You bitch! I will fucking kill you! Do you hear me, motherfucker?” I spit at her, jerking my body towards her in anger. “Let me up!”
“Miss Riaz, have you ever kindled?”
I detest the sight and voice of this whore.
“Have I what? Do I look like I read, bitch?”
She jerks out of reach when I attempt to lunge again.
“No, Amandolette. Kindling is when you have been through withdrawals regularly. If you have kindled, your detox could likely be worse than if you haven’t.” The word detox pulls me out of my confusion, and I remember where I am.
“Oh, fuck me! Sorry. I forgot. I had a…” I trail off because she is smiling at me reassuringly.
“You had a nightmare, which has led to sweats and heart rate issues. Don’t worry. I’m here for you.” She moves forward and touches my arm gently. “I will help you, I promise.” The kindness in her eyes burns me to my soul. Her eyes are the same as Clay’s, not in color but in sincerity.