Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [74]
“No, no, we don’t,” he said quietly.
I took the stairs to Ron's office.
The door was open. I didn’t bother to knock. He knew I was coming. I strolled in.
“I’m here. The question is why am I here? I’m already scheduled to see you later this week.”
“I’m wounded. You don’t enjoy spending time with me?”
“Don’t play around. I’m not in the mood. I’ve had enough of this place. I’ve had enough of these people. I get it now. Don’t drink. Can I go home?”
“Have a seat. One issue at a time.”
“I don’t want a seat. I’m tired of sitting. I’m tired of everyone but me having control over my life. When do I get to decide?”
I didn’t want to cry, but it was too late. I wiped my cheeks with the backs of my hands. Frustration gripped my chest. The tears came in spasms. I grabbed the box of tissue from Ron's desk and sat down.
“Rough weekend, huh? So I heard. You need a minute?”
I rubbed my fingers to sop up the wet under my eyes. Blew the nose.
“You were a voluntary admission. You were free to come. You’re equally as free to go. You don’t have to be in my office right now. After the staff talked about your weekend, I’m the one who suggested you have this time. I thought you might want to talk about it in here first. But, hey, take it to group. You decide.”
“I’m so stupid. I was such a brat to Matthew when he told me about coming here. Probably worse than mean. I sounded like a ten-year-old having a temper tantrum. I’m sure I pouted.”
“You can apologize when you see him. If it's any reassurance, you’re right where we expect you to be. This is the tough time in treatment. One month seems long, especially to people waiting on the outside. But only thirty days to unravel a lifetime? Difficult even in the best of cases. Almost impossible in some. And then once we take it apart, people have to leave with tools to construct something out of the mess.”
“Well enough to know I’m sick, but sick enough to think I’m well,” I said.
“Yep. That's it. If you don’t get it—that's trouble waiting to happen.”
“I feel like my skin's been peeled off. And spare me the onion analogy. Shrek ruined that one for me. I’m raw. Stuff I thought I’d drowned years ago, it's all coming up for air.”
“That's part of the seduction of alcohol. Or drugs, food, sex. Anything you use to feel numb. Your disease convinces you it took care of the pain while you were drinking, drugging, eating, having sex. But none of it dies a natural death. It's just suspended, like in cryogenics. So you stop drinking and things start thawing. You start feeling.”
“Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life feeling every little thing that happens? How do people live like that?” Hysteria hijacked my voice.
“Addiction tricks us into thinking we can pick and choose what we feel. We can’t. Real life means feeling. Life's supposed to have an edge. If it didn’t, how would you know if you were falling off?”
I hung my snotty-nosed, runny-eyed head over the back of the chair. “I hate all this. I want recess. Is there ever recess? I knew I missed first grade.”
“Let's get back to the feeling. When Carl lied to his parents about why you’re here, now that felt like something, didn’t it?”
“Betrayal. That's what it felt like. He sold me out for his parents.”
“Is that the first time he's ever done that? Sold you out?”
“Well, yes. I guess. I mean it's never been an issue before. Carl's whole family operates in a universe I’ve never been a part of—socially or financially. Since we’ve been married there have been times I’ve been ticked because of their demands … go here, be there, dress like this … but I knew Carl wanted to make them happy. So if I had to go to an afternoon tea with blue-haired ladies, no biggie. Sometimes the vacations drove me crazy. Ski lodge, lake house. Under their roof 24/7. Carl's mom obsessing about lettuce. But they’re his parents. He's all they have.”
“Was your parents’ relationship like yours?”
I snorted. “Not quite. My dad did whatever he could to keep my mom happy. At least it seemed that way to