His Darkness (bxb)

epilogue: noah's pov

well, i don't wanna touch the sky no more

i just wanna feel the ground when i'm coming down

it's been way too long

and i don't even wanna get high no more

just want it out of my life, out of my life

i wanna cut you out of my dreams

till i'm bleeding out, till i'm bleeding

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Rehab is not as therapeutic as people make it out to be. 

It's not some summer retreat you spend a few weeks in, eating organic kale and talking about your feelings with ten other like-minded individuals. 

It was hard. It was painful. 

But it was one of the best things I could do for myself. 

I admitted myself, surprisingly, shortly after I was discharged from the hospital. Believe it or not, I enjoyed the stable hands, lack of nausea and mental clarity that not being constantly hooked on heroin provided. I also kept thinking back to the night I overdosed, to the way my mom already had Narcan stashed away in the medicine cupboard, prepared for me to fuck up so she can clean up my messes after me. I can't do that to her again. Ella has also promised me that I can be in my niece's life as soon as I get clean. So, I take every dull chip that marks a milestone in my journey to sobriety with my chin up, wearing a bright smile. 

Mom visits me every week. It's been nice watching her smile more in my presence as she, too, notices the positive effects that getting clean has had on me. These days, I find myself smiling more, too. Ella has come to see me once or twice, too, though she seems more cautious about letting me win her trust back. I've apologised to the both of them for the pain I've caused them, even though I know simple words will never make any of it right. 

I owe it to them to get clean. To show them I won't always be this burden they'll carry around till the day I OD.

Elijah hasn't visited. Not once. I asked Mom about him the first few weeks, but gave up soon enough. I'm still working on learning to let him go. 

The therapists here are quite helpful. I have a one-on-one session with a sweet woman named Adeline who appears to be in her forties thrice a week, and the rest of my time is split between group therapy and a bunch of other activities, like writing assignment, a mindfulness class, a yoga class, a class where I heal my trauma through painting - it hasn't worked yet - NA meetings and trauma support groups. 

But I think what's got me the furthest in this journey is the people I've met here. A lot of the faces I see at group therapy are very young - younger than me. Hearing their stories makes me think of how tragic my story sounds to others. There's a sixteen-year old who got addicted to morphine after a basketball injury. There's an older man who got addicted to sleeping pills after the birth of his first child. A woman who appears to be around my age told us she was homeless for a while and took Vicodin to keep her warm on snowy nights. Just as my eyes teared when hearing their stories, so did theirs when I told mine. 

One thing I will complain about is the amount of writing they make us do. Every day, they give us a simple writing prompt and provide us with an hour to write in our journals. The assignments are often pretty standard. What scares you the most in recovery? Write a letter to your past/present/future self. What are some questions you desperately need answers to? What would your life look like right now if you weren't in recovery?

The closest I've come to wanting to relapse is the day we were given that last question to answer. Inevitably, I thought back to Oliver and broke down as the memories of what my life looked like with him haunted me. Adeline tells me if won't get better any soon, that I'll live with this trauma for a very long time, but that I can find ways to manage it and soothe its effects when the memories do materialise in my mind on a sleepless night or at breakfast or whenever someone slightly raises their voice at me. 

I filed a restraining order against him as soon as I left the hospital. Just as I expected, an investigation was never opened after I was found by the police, unconscious on the kitchen floor in my apartment, and taken to the hospital in an ambulance.  Of course not. Why would that be necessary? So, I did the best I could do to protect myself. Most nights, I can prevent myself from dwelling too long on the fact that a measly piece of paper won't do much to keep me protected if he really chose to come after me. 

At one of my one-on-one sessions with Adeline, she complimented my writing style. She said it was incredibly articulate and wondered if I had ever thought about pursuing a career in writing. For a while, I insisted that I'm much more comfortable as a reader than a writer, but when an idea for a novel came to me as I was trying to fell asleep, I jotted it down in my journal. I came back to it a few days later during one of my free time sessions and developed it further. 

It took me weeks to build the courage to show it to Adeline, but when I did, she was thoroughly impressed and urged me to keep working on it. Now, I spend most of my free time writing, which functions as a good distraction from the mental anguish I feel when I'm bored, sober or - worst of all - a combination of both. 

My biggest fear at the moment, is leaving these four walls and running straight back into the warm, familiar arms of heroin and morphine. I've formulated a plan to prevent me from relapsing - keep busy with a job, keep attending NA meetings, build a support system of close friends and family - but the thought is always at the back of my mind. Most days, I think to myself 'if I could live permanently in rehab to make sure I never relapsed again, I would'. 

Then, I smile at the fact that I really don't want to relapse. 

Honestly, I have no clue what the future has in store for me. I don't know whether I will go back to uni and finish my degree - I can't ask Mom to pay for another four years when she's already paid for rehab. I'm just going to follow my plan and see where it takes me. The only thing I want more than staying alive is staying clean and all I can do is hope that's enough. 

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i keep telling myself i don't need it anymore

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