Everything I Used to be is Coming Back to Torture Me

With one hand on the doorknob, Clover looked over her shoulder and swept her gaze over her little apartment, making sure everything was in its proper place. Satisfied that everything was where it should be, she pulled open the door and stepped out into the hallway, checking that she had her key before locking the door behind her. She shifted the beach towel tucked underneath her arm to a more comfortable position and started down the hallway.

Clover’s withdrawal symptoms had mercifully subsided, allowing her to finally leave her apartment and mingle with the others in the rehabilitation center. Occasionally she’d get a sudden craving that felt like a hard fist clenching down hard over her entire body, and for just a moment she’d think how a line of cocaine or a few shots of vodka would help. She quickly became a near professional warding thoughts like that off; she simply thought of her friends back home and here at the center, envisioned their disappointment at her failure, and suddenly the craving would begin to weaken its hold. Alcoholism and addiction to drugs were risky business, something Clover knew all too well, and she made the decision to never go back to them. She figured, hey, she’d survived the past eighteen years of her life without drugs and alcohol; she could find it within herself to make it through the next sixty or so years without them as well.

Clover stopped at 16, Maggie’s room, and knocked gently on the door. They had grown remarkably close since Clover arrived; Maggie could always make her smile and she made the rehabilitation much easier to go through with. She was Clover’s Official Motivator, in Maggie’s words, here at the center. Almost instantly, the energetic redhead pulled open the door and stepped out of her apartment, closing and locking the door behind her. She too carried a beach towel in the crook of her elbow—Clover thought it looked like it had the Ireland flag printed on it—and smelled of freshly applied sunscreen. Clover didn’t blame her; looking at Maggie’s pale skin, she practically felt the sunburn herself. Maggie already wore her sunglasses; Clover had hers hooked onto the collar of her shirt by one of the earpieces.

“Happy to see you out and about,” Maggie said happily, grinning at Clover as they walked towards the exit. A therapy circle session was set to begin in five minutes; they were usually held informally on the beach and the patients were encouraged to bring towels, snacks, wear swimsuits, whatever they wanted.

Clover and Maggie wove their way through the garden out back that connected with the beach, making small talk. As they approached the circle, Clover saw that just about everybody had arrived. She scanned the people sitting in the circle and saw at least one unfamiliar one. Therapy circles were when new patients were introduced. Clover and Maggie rolled out their beach towels—Maggie’s was, indeed, a doppelganger of the Ireland flag—and took their places in the circle.

“Hello, Maggie, Clover,” Margarita greeted the two of them with a kindred smile and nod. Margarita usually directed these little therapy circles. “We have a newcomer with us today. Her name is Sammie. Sammie, these two women are Clover and Maggie.”

Margarita motioned towards a girl who looked to be about Clover’s age who sat beside Margarita. Clover said hello and Sammie mumbled something unintelligible back. Clover could tell that Sammie hadn’t been off whatever she got high from for long: she was twitchy and seemingly paranoid, constantly looking all around her like a hyperactive squirrel. Her body was emaciated and skinny; Clover hadn’t really used the drugs long enough to lose too much weight, but she had lost some and even that little bit had made her look too skinny. Sammie looked much worse than Clover ever had. Her eyes were sunken into her skull; sickly was the only word Clover could use to describe her. An addict only got like that from years and years of abuse. Clover wondered what Sammie’s story was.

“Alright, looks like everyone’s here,” Margarita said. “We can begin.”

Therapy sessions were carefully structured interactions. Everyone would have the chance to say what they wanted four times. They’d go around the circle four times, each time talking about something different. Each time went deeper and deeper into each patient’s struggles. The first time was usually light and fun: news from home. The second time was for a bit of inspiration, Clover felt like: personal breakthroughs. The third time looked towards the future with any new or updated plans for the future once the patients left Serenity Sobriety Center. The fourth and final time was completely serious: Clover referred to it as Confession Time. Confession Time was when one finally told the others about whatever caused one to start drugs or anything in one’s past that had been haunting one. It was when patients really began to connect; it was extremely helpful, Clover felt, to get dark secrets off one’s chest. She had told her own story in the second session she attended, and she’d felt like she’d gotten a ten ton weight off of her chest. No one had laughed. No one had poked fun. Everyone had been sympathetic and supportive. Clover felt it was an important part of recovery.

“So, any important news from home?” Margarita asked, looking towards Will who sat on her other side to begin. He began talking about how he had learned that his sister and her husband were expecting. Patients weren’t allowed to have cell phones inside the center, but they could receive letters and send out letters. Clover often wrote to Brian and Michelle and they always sent handwritten letters back that were never shorter than three pages long within the week.

“What about you, Clover?” Margarita asked when it came to Clover to talk. “Do you still get letters from Brian and Michelle?”

“Of course,” Clover answered with a smile. She’d told the group all about the guys and gals back home. “Nothing much is going on in Huntington right now. They said that the band’s waiting for me to return before they start working on new material. I still have a lot to learn about writing music, I suppose.”

This therapy session was slow on breakthroughs. Most of the people in the session had been there for as long as or longer than Clover, and almost all breakthroughs had been made. They still had some occasionally, but compared to the torrent of breakthroughs within the first three weeks of being in the center, what they had now was just a trickle. It only took five minutes to get through breakthroughs and then they moved onto something that interested Clover quite a bit: the future. Clover enjoyed hearing what everyone else wanted to do with their lives now that they were sober.

Maggie, for instance, wanted to return to college to study journalism. Will, a middle-aged former alcoholic, planned on spending more time with his children that he’d neglected during the years he drank. Others planned on travelling to get a fresh perspective on the world; many wanted to return to college; still others planned on getting a job and trying to get back a normal life. Clover just wanted to return to her friends and show them she could contribute to the band outside of just tours.

Confession Time was pretty slow too. Usually, everyone said a little something, divulging just one more detail about their pasts. Most of them had talked about their past, but not all: occasionally, they’d still hear an entire story from someone. Clover hadn’t expected Sammie to divulge her past and she was proven correct: when it came to Sammie, she simply said “Pass”.

The therapy circle lasted about an hour to an hour and a half. Clover enjoyed it because she could see that she wasn’t alone in this. Other people, not just her, made bad decisions and had the courage to turn their life back around. This was a support circle to Clover and she liked knowing that everyone here had her back and was rooting for her, and she was doing the same for them.

As Maggie and Clover packed up their beach towels, Sammie walked over. Clover straightened up, tucking her beach towel under her arm, and smiled, extending a hand for Sammie to shake. Sammie did, looking nervous but smiling weakly back at Clover.

“You replaced The Rev?” Sammie asked, her eyes showing some form of life for the first time.

“The guys and I don’t like to use ‘replaced’ because there’s just no replacing Jimmy, but yeah, I guess you could say I’m filling in,” Clover answered.

“I was so sad when he died,” Sammie said. “I don’t even remember anything until about January 5th after that happened because I just took in so many drugs to numb the pain. Their music was what kept me from just dying.”

“They’d be happy to hear that they had saved a life,” Clover told Sammie. “What’s your favorite album?”

“The newest one,” Sammie answered instantly. “No doubt. It left the others in the fucking dust. I’m not sure if you notice, but…Are they really that pretty? Or is it just Photoshop that makes them look so damn sexy?”

“They really are that pretty,” Clover said with a laugh. “And their beauty is more than skin deep. They are all very sweet men, even though they want everyone to believe that they’re hardasses.”

Sammie laughed. She looked like a whole new person when she laughed. Clover felt herself hoping that Sammie would find this rehabilitation helpful and she would return to the world sober and would remain that way for the rest of her life.

“Where’s your room? Do you want me to walk you there? It’s not often I find another Avenged fan here,” Clover said.

“I’m in Room 40,” Sammie answered. “And I’d love to talk to you more.”

“Maggie, do you mind?” Clover asked.

“Nah, spread some cheer, girl,” Maggie answered. The three of them walked back towards the building.