Life Will Out

1

As I push through the brown doors of our house, arms laden with more groceries than any man could carry in a single trip, there's a sense of determination in my stride. This isn't just about proving to Mom that I can handle responsibilities; it's a carefully choreographed performance to convince her I'm sober. Of course, the truth is a bit more complicated. No one really needs to know what's going on inside my head, do they?
It's been about five days since my last at-home drug test. A test I passed, but not because I'm clean. I had spotted the test kit in the shopping bag two days before Mom decided to use it. Quick thinking and a bit of cunning allowed me to use something I knew wouldn't show up on the test. So, here I am, clinging to this lie a little longer, weaving my deception with a practiced ease.

If someone asked me outright if I wanted to quit, my immediate response would be a vehement "Hell No," unless that someone was my mother. I can't even begin to describe how much I've dragged her through with my actions. It's like I've taken her on a tour through hell, yet I feel powerless to stop. The truth is, the feeling I get from using... it's indescribable. It's an escape, a momentary relief from a reality that I can't seem to face sober. And in those fleeting moments of euphoria, all my troubles just melt away. But as soon as the high fades, the guilt sets in, the weight of what I'm doing to myself and to her. It's a vicious cycle, one I'm caught in, struggling between the guilt and the allure of that escape. 

As I meticulously unbag each grocery item, placing them on the table with a deliberate show of sobriety and helpfulness, I'm conscious of every movement, every gesture that could prove my worth and capability to Mom. She enters the kitchen, her touch gentle on my shoulder, and I can't help but stiffen slightly under her hand. When she speaks, her voice is soft, filled with that maternal concern that's become all too familiar. "Hey honey, it's okay. I can put them up. I appreciate you bringing them in."I turn away, breaking the eye contact that feels too intimate, too revealing. "No, Mom, it's okay. I'm more than capable of putting the groceries away. I mean, you let Liz do it all the time and she's not that much older than me." My words come out sharper than I intend, laced with a snarkiness that I can't fully control. Mom's response is tinged with caution, a careful balancing act between encouragement and concern. "Well, Amelia, I just don't want you to feel like I'm putting too much pressure on you. We don't want another relapse on our hands." Her words sting, a reminder of my tangled web of lies and deceit. She thinks I relapsed a month ago when the test came back positive for opioids. But the truth is, I never really stopped using. The oxy I did that morning was a foolish gamble, one that shattered her illusion of my recovery. I muster up a facade of indignation, "I'm not going to relapse, Mom. I'm like three weeks clean and counting." Saying those words, and watching her eyes light up with hope and relief, fills me with an overwhelming sense of guilt. But the alternative, the truth, is something I'm not ready to face. Not yet. So I continue to play the part, clinging to this lie, while inside, I'm torn between the desire to be the daughter she sees and the reality of the addiction that holds me in its grasp.

In the midst of the tension, Kathleen bursts through the front door, her excitement palpable. "MOM!" she yells, her voice echoing through the house, instantly grating on my already frayed nerves. "MOM! I got asked to prom!" She's practically bouncing with joy. From my spot inside the refrigerator, I can't help but make a snide remark. "Great, now you have something to focus on other than me." It's an instinctive jab, born from a mix of jealousy and irritation. Kathleen, quick to retort, snaps back. "Oh shut up, Amelia. It's not my fault no one wants to look after a junkie." Her words cut deep, and in a flash of anger, I slam the fridge door and storm towards her." Kathleen, I swear to God, you're such a condescending, conniving bitch," I spit out, the words laced with venom. But she isn't backing down. "And you're such a drug-abusing, lying asshole. Why can't you just be happy for me? Instead, you go and make everything about yourself, as usual."Her accusation stings, and before I know it, my hand has connected with her cheek, leaving a bright red mark. The sound of the slap echoes in the kitchen, a stark reminder of how quickly things have escalated."Oh, you little..." Kathleen is cut off as Mom enters, alarmed by the commotion. "Girls, what is the matter?" she asks, her voice filled with concern and confusion. Kathleen and I speak over each other, each trying to get our side of the story out. "Kathleen called me names and said things that really hurt me," I say, trying to paint myself as the victim. But she is quick to counter. "Mom, she's as high as a kite. It's not like what I said really left any track marks." She turns to me with a snarky look, her words loaded with accusation."I am not high," I insist, my voice faltering slightly. I turn to walk back into the kitchen, a mix of anger and embarrassment churning inside me. I know that if anyone can tell when I'm high, it's Kathleen. And worse, I know Mom knows that too. "she's just mad because I called her out," I say, trying to deflect the attention from myself. But deep down, I'm aware of the truth in Kathleen's words and the growing rift between us, a chasm widened by my own actions and secrets.  

 Kathleen's words hang in the air, a veiled threat of exposure. "Kathleen, your sister is fine. She just told me she's three weeks clean." Of course, Mom had to go and tell her the grand ol number of three weeks. "Oh, three weeks she claims... that's so funny because—" Her sentence is abruptly cut off as I shout, "Shut up, Kathleen, God, don't you ever know when to stop talking?" I can feel the tension rising, my words a desperate attempt to silence her.

I glance up at Mom, her expression a mix of confusion and concern as she looks between us. "Amelia, is there something you need to tell me?" she asks, her voice adopting a more parental tone."No, of course not. I said three weeks. I meant three weeks," I reply, my tone sharper than intended, silently pleading with Kathleen to just go along with it."Kathleen?" Mom prompts her, looking for confirmation."Yeah, three weeks, whatever. I'm just upset," Kathleen replies, her words offering me a temporary reprieve. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, giving Kathleen a look of begrudging gratitude."Well, alright then," Mom says, seeming to accept our explanations for the moment. She turns to walk away, but Kathleen moves closer to me, her voice low as she confronts me in the kitchen."Amy, you haven't told her yet?" she asks quietly, her words heavy with implication."Told her what?" I feign ignorance, even though I know exactly what she's referring to."Amelia, I literally saw you buying from Louis three days ago. Remember... or is all the drugs getting to you?" she says, tapping my head mockingly."Will you stop that? I only bought weed. Weed is fine, literally, everyone smokes it. You even smoke it," I retort defensively, trying to downplay the seriousness of my actions." Well, I'm not an addict, Amelia," she responds, her words sharp and unyielding."Yeah, we know, and I'm sure Mom loves that for you," I snap back, a mix of resentment and defensiveness coloring my tone. The conversation with Kathleen leaves me feeling exposed and agitated, a stark reminder of the growing chasm between my reality and the facade I'm desperately trying to maintain."Well, I guess Amelia's got it all figured out then," Kathleen says with a tone that drips with sarcasm."Amelia has it all figured out," I echo back, my voice heavy with mockery, drawing out each word to mirror her tone. Watching her retreat upstairs and close her door, I'm left alone, the tension in the air dissipating with her departure.

Finally, alone, the mask I've been wearing all day starts to slip off. The whole fight with Kathleen, the act of being the helpful, sober daughter while putting away the groceries – it all seems so distant now. I give in to the familiar, comforting warmth of heroin as it flows through me. It's like a sigh of relief, pulling me away from the constant pressure of having to pretend, to fight, to somehow fit into a world that just doesn't feel like mine. I find myself sitting on the kitchen counter, a spot that used to be lined with alcohol bottles before I began to swipe them. As the drug takes hold, my body begins to drift into that unmistakable high. I'm too dazed to make it to my room, but still just aware enough to snap out of it if anyone walks in. Lost in the serene haze of my high, a thought crosses my mind: 'If this is what heaven feels like, never resuscitate me.' It's a dark thought, but in the embrace of heroin, it feels like the only truth I know. The kitchen, which was once a lively center of family life, now silently watches over me, the only witness to the lonely path I've found myself on.