Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“Me neither,” I laughed. “I like it when they’re funny or a little outlandish.”
“Real life is harsh,” he agreed. “I want my movies to be as far from real life as possible.”
We had hit on an intimate subject, and I maneuvered back to the surface for professional talk. “You had your first group session yesterday,” I read from his chart.
He nodded.
“How was it?”
“It was fine,” he said. “Nice to see people in the same situation.”
“I imagine,” I empathized. I had my own trauma to deal with, and part of this job was an attempt to heal. But while all my patients were struggling with personal addictions, the rest of the staff and I attempted to understand our reactions to it. It was nice to have someone in the same boat.
“You said you had been in treatment before,” I urged him to make the connection between his previous success and his future success.
“Yeah, it was a twelve-step program,” he agreed. “It worked for a while, until I stopped going to meetings.”
“Why do you think you stopped?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it was a bit overwhelming.”
“One day at a time.” I repeated the mantra of the alcoholic treatment program.
“Yeah, except it became more than one day at a time.” He shifted uncomfortably, relaxing onto the cot, moving his knee away from mine. I felt its absence like a sore tooth. “I rented a room from this guy I met in the program, and I got invited to all these cookouts, and people were really getting on with their lives. I felt like I didn’t belong. Like no one knew what kind of scum I really was, and if they knew, they’d all abandon me.”
“That’s the addiction talking,” I reminded him.
“I know,” he sighed, as if he knew but he didn’t really know.
“With feelings, it can get tangled,” I began. My own feelings were that confused around him, but I dared not admit it. I resisted the urge to pat his hand, instead trying to communicate the same comfort through a simple smile. “My own family is, or was, difficult.”
“Are they all gone?”
“No.” I shook my head. “My mom is gone but I have two brothers that are still living.” I didn’t want to tell him that he worked for my father. I didn’t want to build a larger connection with him. I kept that to myself. “My mother was an addict and so is my older brother, so I know some of what you’re dealing with in terms of the thoughts of low self-worth.”
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” He saw through my professional posturing and spoke to the real me.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Why did you choose to come to work at a treatment center?” he asked, curious now.
“I feel like I can help people like you.” I chanced a look into his eyes and found only compassion.
“On behalf of people like me, thank you.” He winked.
I couldn’t believe he actually winked. Were we flirting? We absolutely should not be flirting. I blushed and turned away. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Seriously, doesn’t it disturb you to see people relapse?” He asked a more lucid question than I would have thought possible at this point in his treatment.
“It disturbs me greatly,” I admitted. “But I believe in second chances.”
“What about third chances and fourth chances?”
“I believe in those too,” I said.
He sighed and put his head into one palm. “I’m sure everyone you see feels the same way, but I can’t help thinking I’m a lost cause.”
I found my professional footing. “You are definitely not a lost cause. On average it takes people more than ten tries to quit drinking or using most drugs. If you’re on try number four, you’re way ahead of the game.”
“I don’t ever want to go back,” he said seriously. “My life was a train wreck. I paid for three months on my room, but there’s gonna be some heavy-duty cleaning to do when I get back. I can’t even…” He trailed off, presumably imagining having to scrub floors and walls.
“Just the fact that you had a room puts you at an advantage,” I told him. “Most people who come in here are homeless or couch surfing, or worse.”
“What could be worse?” he wondered.
“On their way to jail, getting out of jail, kicked out of their family’s home,” I elaborated, spinning some of the more impressive tales I had heard.
“But I had a job and a room,” he said haltingly, as if trying out the phrases.
“That’s right—you have a job, if I understand correctly.”
He nodded. “My boss said he’d save it for me.”
“So, you’re not a lost cause,” I concluded, proud of my father for being so kind.
“It’s just so hard,” he murmured.
“We’ll get through it together,” I promised, though I didn’t know why. It wasn’t professional to make that kind of offer, but the words just tumbled out.