I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...

“I’m not naming names.” I say, “but obviously, I got some drugs from someone.”

“What kind of drugs?” My therapist asks, and this feels way to much like a therapy session which feels way to much like a police interrogation. I’m breathing hard, partly from pain, partly because I’m nervous, and a little because I’m trying not to puke. Between breaths I choke out,

“Adderoll and Oxycodone, and if it helps I’ve been taking them since before I got here too.” I breathe, hard and long breaths before I say, “I don’t know how many I took, but I was up for the three days popping both right before I ran out. I was taking them for a week and a half total.” And it hurts, it hurts so much, and I can’t catch my breathe, and I can’t tell if I’m hot or cold, and I can feel the toilet paper wrapping on my arm soak through with blood, and I’m ruining my sweatshirt, and through painful winced breaths I say, “You don’t know what this feels like.” That old cliché. I breathe and say, “at least give me something to sleep.”

The doctor shakes his head and walks out, whether he needs to collect himself or he’s just abandoning me, I don’t really know, but the therapist kneels beside me. She says,

“It’s a good thing, you telling us.” And she rubs my shoulder a little. Normally I can’t stand people touching me, and with the stabbing sensation in my muscles her touch is anything but pleasant, but I don’t say anything. She says, “I know it’s hard, but you need to try and calm down. I know it seems impossible, but you need to try.” I wonder to myself if she’s a mom. If she isn’t she should be, she’s a lot better then my mom. She moves on from my shoulder to my head, and I don’t hate it so much.

The doctor comes back in, he tells me to come back to my bed. He reaches a hand out and I grab it with my shaky hand. He pulls me up, and the pulling makes my forearm feel like it’s going to tear. At least it’s like, when everything hurts, nothing really hurts that bad.

Grabbing on to walls and doorways the whole way I slowly make it back to my bed, it feels like miles.

Sitting against the wall is Jeremiah, he looks kind of like when Taylor died, except more afraid then mortified or anything else.

I lay down and the doctor moves the trash can over by the bed.

“In case you need to… you know.” He says.

My hands are shaking worse now, my right hand rattles against my theigh, each tiny bump sending pins and needles into the nerve endings and muscle tissue, each bump coming faster then I can count.

“Just try to relax.” The doctor says as he grabs my arm. “Try to hold him steady.” The doctor says to my therapist. Her hands feel like they’re ice cold… and he stabs me with the needle. The surprisingly doesn’t hurt at all… and I don’t get it. Her fingers fucking hurt but getting stuck isn’t even a minor annoyance. “This should help you sleep.” He says, “just try to relax.” He repeats.

“It’s all going to be okay.” The therapist says. I don’t want to sound stupid, but even now, nothing is more soothing then having a girl tell you it’s all going to be okay. I don’t care if she sounds like a man, or used to be a man, or whatever, any female can make me feel a little better when she says, “It’s all going to be okay.” The last thing I feel before I black out is her gently petting my hair. The last thing I see is Jeremiah silently on the verge of tears, because poor, naïve, wonderful Jeremiah thinks this is his fault.