Page 59 of The Blessing

Chapter 24

Got you (where I want you)

For the first time in my existence, I feel as though my life is nearly complete. I say “nearly” because the wounds of my past have not entirely healed. I still long for my brother and ache for the future I’ll never have with him; I long for all my old fucking vices I’ll never be able to indulge in again. I keep telling myself that I don’t have a problem, but I grow more and more confused every day. If my problem was so nonexistent, why am I still fucking struggling despite all the incredible things I have in my life? That constant thirst brought me here. October has brought so many changes in me and as the weather grows unbearable, I finally realize I need fucking help. I can’t do this shit alone.

I trudge toward the church door—barely able to put one foot in front of the other. I don’t know what my fucking problem is. It was my idea to come here, but for some reason the thought of going to an A.A. meeting makes me feel incredibly weak. I feel like some pussy who isn’t man enough to deal with his own problems. I felt that way when I first started therapy, as well. Hell, it took me a while to get comfortable going to my sessions with Dr. Russell. This is different. This irks me to my very core. If it weren’t for my almost slip up a few days ago—I wouldn’t have ever considered coming. I had a particularly bad fucking day on my brother’s birthday. October seventeenth brought me to my fucking knees. I just missed him. So. Fucking. Much. More than I could bare. Thank, God for Ronnie. She found me crying at my kitchen table, trying desperately not to give into temptation, get into my truck, and look for some sort of fix. Grey had been asleep at the time—thank fucking God—because I didn’t want him to see me like that. I didn’t want him to see his father acting so fucking gutless. Ronnie hadn’t judged me, she hadn’t been angry that her boyfriend was so fucking scared of going back to his old habits. She only comforted me and took me away from the kitchen and into the bathroom. She filled the tub and undressed us both, before pulling me into the warm water with her. She held me in her arms as we bathed together. If I hadn’t known I loved her already—I would’ve known it in that moment: in the warm bath water with her arms wrapped around me.

My nerves surrounding this meeting immobilize me outside the front doors—unable to gain the fucking courage to walk through them. What if I see someone I know? What if people judge my situation and don’t accept me? What if being here only makes things become worse for me? I stand there, wishing I had a fucking cigarette, something to just ease my damn anxiety. My hands begin to twitch with the dream of getting some nicotine in my system. Jesus, just being here makes me want to drink. How ironic is that? I close my eyes and imagine Ronnie and Grey’s faces in my mind, something which usually calms me when nothing else does. They’re part of the reason why I’m here… but not the whole reason. I’m here because of me. I’m here because I want to better myself. Them benefiting from it is just an added bonus. I want this change more than anything. I want to be free of all the problems I created for myself.

I watch people begin to filter in, but I can’t find the courage to move—so, I stay slouched against the outside of the building. I rub the scruff on my face with my hand, trying desperately to get the tense muscles of my jaw to relax and stop twitching. Knowing what I truly need, I dig into my pocket and grab my cell to call Ronnie. Her voice always makes me feel better. Just seeing her beautiful face in my contacts begins to calm me down. I lift the phone to my ear and listen to it ring as I watch more people head inside without making eye contact with me. They don’t look like the type of people I pictured. They don’t look like addicts, but then again, what do addicts really look like? They just look like normal men and women—just like me. I’m thrilled to find I don’t see a single person I know. I couldn’t imagine running into someone at this sort of thing.

“Trevor?”

I smile at the sound of my girlfriend’s voice. Fuck, I love her. I wish I could’ve brought her with me. She asked me if I wanted her to tag along, but I didn’t really know the rules for this type of thing. Besides, did I really want her to see me like this? I don’t want to mar her perception of me.

“Hey, baby,” I say after a long moment of listening to her breathe on the other end. “I just needed to hear your voice.” I can imagine her smiling at my comment—which calms down even more.

“How are things going, Trev?”

“I haven’t gone inside yet,” I admit. “I’ve been watching people filter in, but I’m stuck outside the door—unable to bring myself go in. I don’t know, Ronnie. I don’t know if I’m ready for this sort of thing.”

“Trev, I’m sure your fears are unfounded. Everyone’s nervous their first time doing anything,” She assures me, pausing for a moment. I imagine she’s biting her lip as she tries to find the words to say, “I can get Eden to watch Grey if you want me to meet you there?”

“No, that’s fine, babe. I appreciate you offering, but I know I’ve got to do this on my own. It’s just weird being here. I never really thought I had a problem.”

“I know, Trev, but it might just be nice to talk about things. You know, get some things off of your chest.” She doesn’t bring up that night at my kitchen table and I’m glad for that small blessing. While the connection between us strengthened that night, I didn’t want to think about the shit that had to happen to get us there. Through the tears and heartache, our bond was fortified. While love her now more than ever—love her more than I ever imagined was fucking possible—I don’t think I could stomach going through that shit again.

I look at my watch and find that the meeting is about to begin. Swallowing my pride and suppressing my nerves, I mutter, “Fuck it,” under my breath. What’s the worst thing that could possibly happen? “I’ve got to go, babe. The meeting is about to start.”

“Grey and I will be with you in spirit. You’ll be fine, baby. I promise. I’ll be waiting for you to get home when you’re finished.”

I smile at her words. Knowing I’ll see her after this meeting is over is probably the only thing that’ll get me through it. “Tell Grey I said ‘hi,’ ”

“I will. Good luck, Trev.”

“I’ll see you soon.” I don’t want to hang up the phone, but I know it’s time. We say our goodbyes and I end the call feeling so much more assured than I had before. I’m so fucking thankful for her. It’s because of her, I don’t feel so alone in the world. I honestly don’t know how I survived without her and Grey. I only thought I was living before I met them, but truly, I was just a shell of a man. When I was using, I always felt empty. I wanted to fill that hole in my life so fucking desperately, I allowed drugs and alcohol to consume me. Now, I realize that no matter how fucked up I got—I never felt whole… because I wasn’t. Now that the hole in my life is filled, I no longer have the desire to drink. It’s more like an itch I need to scratch every now and then. Hopefully, that itch will be fixed soon, and I’ll finally have the control I so desperately seek.

This is the first step of a lifelong journey. My anxiety skyrockets as I open the front door and begin to make my way down the church’s halls. I’m only here because this was the closest venue from my apartment. The other meetings were out of the way and I barely wanted to drive the twenty minutes to get to this location. These meetings aren’t religious—they take place in locations like these because they’re convenient. However, I don’t like the idea of God looming over me. For some reason, churches have always frightened me in an odd way. I don’t know when my fear started but growing up going to church with my mother had taught me to fear God. She used to threaten me after mass, saying that if I kept up my “bad behavior” I’d go straight to hell and never see my family. Looking back, I see it was a ridiculous thing to say to a ten-year-old. However, I hated myself growing up, so it was second nature for me to believe her harsh words.

I think I could’ve gotten better sooner if I’d given shit about myself. When you don’t give a fuck about your own life, you don’t exactly envision having a future to plan for. I never thought I’d live this long in all honesty. Considering the path I was going down, I should’ve died a long time ago. Despite myself, I’m alive and healthy; there are so many possibilities for my future, now. I can have a job, a happy family, and, if I play my cards right, a college degree. The best part is, I can do it all completely sober. That’s it, Trevor. Way to be positive.

The meeting is set up in a Sunday school room; It brings me back to a time that I’d spent with my brother, in a place similar to this. Mom insisted we go, even though we both loathed spending our mornings trapped inside a stuffy church. This classroom looks a lot like the one I remembered: kids’ drawings displayed on the walls and bible verses written on the whiteboard. Without making eye contact with a single person in the room, I take a seat in the very back—away from everyone else. I choose not to look around or to make conversation. Instead, I sit in silence waiting for the meeting to start. My eyes scan the walls, remembering times when I had drawn pictures similar to these. My dad used to keep every drawing I did in Sunday school and would display them proudly in his office. I choke up at the thought because he’d always been so fucking proud of me—even when I didn’t deserve it. Pulling myself together, my eyes scan the verses on the wall until I come across one I actually recognize. It’s Romans 8:18, which states: “The pain that you’re feeling, can’t compare to the joy that’s coming.”

Fuck, how I wish that were true. I look away from the verse and watch the last of the members take their seats. It’s an eclectic mix of people ranging from young to old and wealthy to poor. I guess addiction doesn’t discriminate. As I watch the stragglers trickle through, I’m shocked to find a face I recognize. A face of someone I grew up with.

Travis walks in with his hands in his pockets and his eyes cast down. What the fuck is he doing here? I didn’t know he had a problem. Since he knew about my past, you’d think he’d have mentioned something like that to me. I almost stand up, wanting to go talk to him, but the man who’s leading tonight’s meeting comes through the door with a binder in hand before I can make a move. Perhaps it’s for the best because he might not want to be seen here by someone he knows—just like I wouldn’t want to. I watch Travis as he takes a seat a few rows ahead of me and, to my surprise, he doesn’t seem to notice me. I hear the instructor begin the meeting, but I’m too focused on Travis to pay him any mind. He just looks so fucking messed up. So different from the last time I saw him. Maybe it was all just a front before and this is the man he’s really become. Or maybe these meetings just bring out all the emotions that he usually hides from everyone else. I’m so transfixed by what his truth is, I can’t seem to pay attention to anything else.

After a while, my thoughts are interrupted by the meeting leader as he invites a man to the podium at the front of the classroom. The man seems to be in his twenties, but there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t resemble any emotion that young of person should have. It’s apparent that he’s seen some shit—shit I probably couldn’t imagine. His skin is scarred from what must’ve been constant scratching—he looks like he belongs in N.A. rather than A.A.—and his eyes are surrounded by dark bags, giving them an eerie, sunken look. I realize this is what he must look like on a “good” day. I can’t imagine what he must’ve looked like before he made the decision to get clean. It’s hard for me to look at him because he reminds me of how a few people I used to frequently party with looked. I don’t remember their faces per se—but I remember the way they would scratch their skin until it bled, as if they were trying to dig bugs out of their pores.

“I’m Devon, and I’m an alcoholic.” Everyone greets him, but I remain silent in my chair. “My biggest excuse had always been, ‘I’ll make the change tomorrow.’ I would always tell myself, ‘Tomorrow you’ll get help,’ or ‘Tomorrow you’ll stop for good.’ Tomorrow would never seem to come—until the day my father died. I hadn’t seen him in years.” He pauses to take a deep breath and grips the podium with both hands. “I used to hate him. Once he stopped supporting my habits, I stopped having anything to do with him. I ripped him out of my life without a thought. It finally got to the point where I began stealing and pawning my belongings to support my drinking and coke habit. When I ran out of anything I had of value to pawn—my girlfriend and I would resort to stealing from our family and friends. We’d steal money and pawn anything we could get a buck for. I even pawned my mother’s wedding ring just so I could buy more cocaine and alcohol.

“When my dad died, my world came to a halt. Instead of going home to mourn with my family, I decided to get drunk at a bar. I stayed past last call and the bar closed. I got in my car and ended up wrapped around a tree. I was sitting in a jail cell the day of father’s funeral. I was having intense withdrawals by the time his death really begun to sink in. I’ll never get the chance to fix my relationship with him. I’ll never be able to go back in time and tell him how much I love him. My last words to my father were that I hated him and I wanted him out of my life. I’ll never be able to take those words back, no matter how much I wish I could. I really hope he knew deep down, I truly did love him. Even when I didn’t love myself.

“I’ve been sober for a little over four months. I know if my dad was looking down on me now, he’d be proud of me. I’m doing this for him—but, I’m also doing this for myself. I was tired of letting people down. I was tired of letting myself down. I’m just so thankful I had the support and the confidence to make this change.”

As I listened to his words, I began to tear up as I tried to remember my last words to Dean. I wish I hadn’t been so fucking high at the time because all the drugs have really messed with my memory. I remember our conversation, but it’s hazy and imperfect. He’d called me in May to ask if I was coming home for the summer to spend some time with him. Looking back on it, I think he was probably just worried about me. I was barely returning his calls and never checked in with my family. I’d been drifting around California at the time and wanted to be free of all the ties I had to Colorado—just for a little while. Now I realize I was just being fucking selfish. What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and do shit differently. I close my eyes, allowing my mind to conjure up all that I remember of my last conversation with Dean a month before him and Cat passed away.

“Come on, man. It’ll be just like old times,” Dean says, trying his best to sound convincing.