32. Eli

Eli

One Month

W ell. I’m not getting my phone back like all the other newbs.

I probably shouldn’t have punched that nurse or tried to strangle myself with my shirt. I really couldn’t hang those first few days. Whereas my nurse, Brenda, has been patient and kind, my other nurse, Connor, is a dickhead. He’s all tough love and no wiggle room.

And don’t even get me started on my therapist. He just slurps my trauma right out of the lockbox I keep it in and throws it all out there in the open.

So, yeah, I lost my shit.

I tried to run away on the third day. Saw an open door and fucking bolted. I got sedated for that one, and it was nowhere near as fun as the Ramones song says it is. I’m…better now. Marginally.

I’m in the recreational room, playing checkers with this kid named Patrick. He’s fucking weird and twitches a lot. But he’s a beast at this game, and if I have one goal before leaving this hellhole, it’s to beat his ass.

“Your move,” he tells me, stealing one of my pieces.

“Bullshit!” I huff. This game isn’t complicated. It isn’t like chess, so I have no clue why I can’t win!

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says as I lift one of my remaining pieces.

“Patrick, I swear to god,” I grumble and move to a different spot.

He chuckles and swipes my piece. “You suck at this.”

“Your face sucks at this,” I retort and scratch my chest.

In two more moves, he wins, and I’m ready to flip the table. I’ve never been overly competitive, but this kid makes me want to destroy him. He’s so smug, too, grinning and resetting the board. He’s undefeated, and it’s pissing me off. I take a break, sit in one of the armchairs, and watch reruns of Friends. I hate this show, but they don’t let you watch anything good here—lighthearted, stupid shows to help keep a positive, healthy outlook on life.

I should’ve chosen outpatient care.

It’s difficult to focus on sobriety when a world of other things clogs my head. They’ve got me on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds because that was a pretty clean-cut diagnosis once I got in with the shrink.

Apparently, I also have PTSD.

Wonderful.

Huffing and puffing because fuck Patrick, I pick at the armrest, wondering what Phoenix is doing. He better appreciate this. Seriously.

I don’t think he realizes just how hard this is—how hard it is to open up to strangers. Well, I guess Dr. Langley isn’t too hard. He really does have a gift—definitely a good career choice. I will actually see him for my daily check-in soon. It’s a wonder he isn’t asking someone else to take me on instead because almost every session revolves around Phoenix. Since I can’t talk to him myself, I talk about him. But Dr. Langley listens and then asks me these sneaky questions that lead to my childhood and Tracy.

Part of me wants to tell him about her house. How I got high as fuck and set it on fire. But I don’t want to be in jail. Don’t want that shit on my record. So, I keep that part a secret. The craziest part is that I finally understand why my head works the way it does. Having suffered from severe neglect, abuse, and grooming, no wonder I can’t ever get my thoughts to shut up.

I guess it’s a pretty common reason why people turn to drugs.

In group, we all have to say this stupid mantra at the end. I am in control of my own choices, and I am making better ones than I was yesterday. I’ve mumbled it a few times but do not believe it yet. But it’s only been one month. I wish I could have my phone. I wish I could have passed the stupid test that says I’m ready for it. Maybe if I could talk to Phoenix, I’d feel like what I’m doing is helping… working.

Brenda said I could try for my phone next month. This means I have to be good, participate in all the activities, and not cause problems, which is fine, I suppose.

I guess I can do better. And since I won’t have anything else to distract me, I can hone in on my checker skills and beat Patrick.

Baby steps. I got this.

I don’t got this.

Nope.

Fuck no.

“It’s alright, Elijah,” Dr. Langely says gently while I sob into some tissues. “The cravings will be there for a while.”

“It’s not a craving,” I growl, stuck on the sofa across from him. It’s ridiculously cozy and slurps your whole body into it like jello. “It’s a need . I can’t sleep. I don’t want to eat. I’m over this. Over it. ” I slash my hand through the air.

“What are you over?”

“Being here!” I yell. “Thirty-three days of this bullshit, and I still hurt everywhere! When does it get better? The meds you make me take don’t help.”

He jots something down, crossing his leg. “We can adjust your medication in two weeks. It takes time for the brain chemistry to respond to them.”

“Bullshit,” I growl. “ My medicine works instantly. ”

“What did we say?”

I glare at him, wanting to stab that pen through his orbital socket. He waits for me to answer him, but I don’t want to do it. I hate this. Hate it all.

“Elijah.”

“It’s not medicine if I prescribe it myself,” I grumble.

“That’s right. Now, let’s circle back to what has you feeling so distraught.”

“Everything.”

“Vague answers are no good in my office.”

I huff, folding my arms and crumpling the tissue in my fist. I sniffle loudly. “I miss Phoenix. I miss him and want to talk to him.”

“Understandable. Do you think talking with him will help?”

“It might.” I shrug.

“Do you know why our patients are isolated from friends, family, and partners?”

“Because they’re liable to enable me. Loved ones want to make me happy and therefore hinder my recovery,” I repeat his jargon like a good boy.

“Correct. See, you pay attention more than you claim to.”

“Phoenix isn’t an enabler. He’d never let me relapse,” I argue. “He’s my only supporter. The only one in my corner.”

“Am I not?” The good doctor’s eyebrow arches.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He smirks. “But you’ve told me more than you’ve told anyone else. We have trust. And one of our goals is for you to trust Phoenix.”

“I do.” His eyes narrow. “Alright, fine. I guess it could be…more.”

“And to trust him, you have to trust yourself.”