a helpline or even the hospital. “Delay going out as long as possible. Even one hour. And if you do choose to go out and use, never ever mix, especially sedatives with alcohol.”
She makes me write a list of personal max amounts I won’t go over, no matter what. I have to do it for each drug: alcohol, K, E, coke. “You need to draw a line, right now. A line that you will never ever cross in terms of your use. You might not stick to it, but if you clearly think about it ahead of time, you’ll be more likely to reconsider in the moment.”
Just when I think we’re finished, she makes me go over all the dangers related to my high use. Like rape, drunk driving, accidents, poor judgment, blah blah blah.
Finally, she leaves me to set a substance abuse goal for the week. I plan no more than one gram a day and no alcohol. “I’m keeping weed,” I announce firmly when she walks back into the room. “I need something.”
“We have a harm reduction philosophy, Melissa. You don’t have to stop everything. And it’s your goal. It’s up to you,” she agrees.
I finish up with my strategies: not to hang out with friends who use, not to carry money on me, to keep seeing Eric, go straight home after school, and write in my journal when things are bothering me. When we’re done, Sheila takes my sheet, follows me back into the classroom, and makes sure I put it in my binder.
Fifty-Nine
My goals are easy to keep. I stay home every night. I watch TV after school. It’s not like I’m trying to stay away from friends or drugs, it’s just that I don’t want to see them or use. I feel different inside. Not necessarily better—just different. Maybe it’s the depression medication, or maybe I just got scared. Whatever it is, I don’t think I’ll ever go back to being that old “Mel.” She’s gone. The fight is gone.
I almost forget about the OD until my mom sits me down at the kitchen table a few nights later. She has a folder in front of her, and she begins to lecture me about mixing drugs and E and alcohol. She draws diagrams and makes lists and gives me a ton of articles printed off the internet. And then she pushes a book on teenage drinking across the table toward me.
“My school already talked to me about this,” I say. It’s something new for her to do: act like a responsible parent. It’s something I suppose I had always wanted her to do, but I can’t take any more discussions about that night.
“I don’t want the next phone call from the hospital to say you’re dead.” She stares down at all the papers spread across the table. She looks tired.
I feel bad for putting her through all this. I should get up and hug her or something, but I just can’t bring myself to move. It’s not like she’s a terrible mom. Like it or not, we’re in this life, this apartment, together. I suppose we’re sort of stuck together. And really, she’s the only one who ever stands by me no matter what.
The thing about getting older is that you sometimes realize maybe you’re an idiot after all. Even more frightening is the sudden awareness of your “self ” in all of the mess. Before, you were always pointing a finger outward. Everything was outward. But then you turn sixteen and all of a sudden it occurs to you that perhaps you are part of the problem. Perhaps these fucked-up people around you are fucked up partly because of you.
Apparently, when you’re a little baby there’s some point when you suddenly realize that your body is separate from the rest of the world. That “you” actually end at your skin, and the rest of the world begins. I think you get a similar, second realization like this when you’re a teenager. Only it’s not about seeing you’re separate; it’s understanding that stuff you do actually influences other people’s lives. And then, on top of life sucking, you have to deal with the guilty burden of all that.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I’m not going to do it again.” It feels so good to finally have said it to her.
She smiles. I know my words meant a big deal to her. “You have to stop hanging out with those people,” she