American Outlaw - Jesse James [138]
“Jesse,” she said, “now that you’re here, we ask that you make a commitment to stay with us for thirty days. Can you do that?”
I nodded. “Yes. I want to be here.”
As I said it, I realized it was the truth. I had only been inside the building for fifteen minutes, but already, my pulse had slowed. It was quiet here. Slowly, the realization that no paparazzi were allowed inside these doors came to me. I smiled, tentatively, feeling the importance of the victory.
“Here’s your bedding, and some towels,” another staff member said. “There’s already soap in your bathroom.” I was shown to a room of my own. It was nothing special at all: bare white walls and a bunk bed. It reminded me of a college dorm more than anything else.
“If you need anything else, just come up to the front desk. You’ll have a meeting with Dr. Thomas at one o’clock. She’ll acquaint you further with our program. Lunch is at noon. Until then, feel free to relax and enjoy yourself.”
She waved good-bye, closing the door behind her. I dropped my bag on the floor, tossing my bedding onto the desk in the corner of the room. I lay back on top of the bare mattress, my feet still on the floor, and studied the ceiling of my room, as if there were some answer there. Soon my eyelids grew heavy, and then closed. Minutes later, I was asleep.
——
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
“Well, you made it,” said Dr. Thomas, a friendly, middle-aged woman. She smiled at me, as we conducted my intake interview, a clipboard with my paperwork in her hand. “That’s the first step.”
“But, I mean . . . aren’t I supposed to know, like, what’s wrong with me?”
“You’ll figure that out,” she said. “Over time. Everything takes time. We have people here who are dealing with chemical addiction, eating disorders, anxiety, depression . . .”
“But I don’t have any of that,” I said. “I’ve been sober for almost ten years. I eat just fine. I’m not a depressed person.”
Dr. Thomas smiled at me patiently. “But still, you felt the need to be here.”
“Yeah,” I admitted.
“Be patient,” she advised. “Do our program. It’s pretty rigorous, that much I can tell you. You’ll have individual therapy, group therapy, EMDR, if you want it, not to mention all sorts of meetings. You’ll find yourself pretty busy, I guarantee that much.”
I gritted my teeth. “So, there’s lots of talking here, huh?”
“Yes, that’s true. You can gain a lot, in fact, just by listening to what other people are going through. Think you’re up for it?”
“I guess so,” I said. “I don’t really know if I’ll be any good at it, but I can try.”
“That’s all we ask of you, Jesse,” she said, patting me on the hand. “So come on. You’ve got your first group session this afternoon. Step lively.”
Half an hour later, I walked downstairs to a large meeting room, where about fifteen residents gathered.
“How’s everyone doing?” asked a male therapist, a young man named Ben. “We have a new member of our group joining us today. Everyone, this is Jesse.”
Most of the members of the group waved to me. “Hi, Jesse.”
I waved back tentatively. “Hi.”
“Does anyone want to start us off today?” Ben asked. “What’s on everyone’s mind?”
After a few seconds, an older woman raised her hand.
“Hi. I’m Jill. Most of you know me already. For those who don’t, I’ve been battling with addiction to alcohol and drugs for more than ten years. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks, and each day, it seems like I’m getting a little bit better. I mean, it’s still hard . . .”
Her voice broke off.
“What’s the hard part, Jill?”
“I just don’t know if things will change when I leave here . . . I mean, it’s pretty easy to be sober here, but I’m scared that when I leave, I’ll just go back to my old ways.”
Jeez, I thought. How about just trying to be tougher? I mean, if you don’t want to drink, then just don’t drink.
A young girl, not much older than Chandler, raised her hand.
“I’d like to share.”
“Go right ahead.”
“I’m Catherina. The reason I’m here is, I’ve been struggling with an eating disorder. I’m anorexic, and it makes me so unhappy . . . every day, I wake up with this feeling