Renee had gone straight to bed after we had gotten back to the apartment. When I got up the next morning, she had already left for work. My plans to find out exactly what had gone down at the club were sidelined by my friend’s blatant avoidance.
I could tell she was embarrassed. Renee was easy to read. She wore her feelings on her sleeve. And when she became uncomfortable, her MO was to hide away until the dust settled.
I had hoped that Devon abandoning her at the club would have been the wake-up call she needed to make the final break, that it had put the nail in the proverbial coffin of her shitty relationship.
So it was with an almost homicidal frustration that I found Devon the Jackass sitting in our living room the next night acting like he belonged there.
His feet were propped up on the coffee table as he ate a sandwich, crumbs going everywhere. For a moment, I saw red. I gripped my keys in my hand and thought about flinging them at his arrogant, overly large head. You know, right before I kneed him in the junk.
Was this for real? Was Renee really going to allow this guy back into our home after he had left her, by herself, at Compulsion the night before?
I wanted to tell him to get his f**king feet off the furniture. I wanted to scream at Renee to wake up and smell the sucky-boyfriend coffee.
But I didn’t, because painful experience had taught me that saying anything would only accomplish the opposite.
Nothing pushed two people together more than a case of Romeo and Juliet syndrome brought on by thinking the whole world was against them.
It was at times like this that the similarities between Renee and my sister were so excruciating that it took my breath away.
I had played the sneering judgmental card once upon a time, and it had cost me dearly. Self-righteous disappointment got me nowhere.
So I had reined in my anger, and I had given my friend a smile, one that she hesitatingly returned, before going to my room to do my homework.
The days passed, and my relationship with Renee came to an uneasy standstill. She was still with her jerk of a boyfriend, and there still wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it.
But for the time being I had to focus my energies elsewhere.
Tonight was the first meeting of the campus substance-abuse support group. I had been reading up on curriculums and methodologies, trying to figure out the best approach for facilitating the sessions. When I couldn’t deal with things on an emotional level, it was always easier for me to surround myself with hard facts.
I knew that this would be hard for me, that it had the potential to trigger in me painful memories that perhaps were best left forgotten. But I was bound and determined to do it anyway. I was ultimately responsible for where my life was headed, and this was exactly what I wanted to do with it.
I grimaced at Kristie’s question. “They’re sneaky little bastards,” I said, repositioning the chairs until I was happy with the layout. When I was finished, I joined Kristie at the table and got the muffins and cookies out of the grocery bag on the floor.
Kristie held up her hand to show three fingers covered in Band-Aids. “They got me last week. Those chairs are merciless,” she joked. Kristie was in her late thirties and ran the outpatient program at the substance-abuse center in town. She had an unassuming air about her that was both relaxing and inviting. With frizzy black hair and green eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses, she was the epitome of the supportive counselor. I could easily see why people would be comfortable talking to her about their problems. Her demeanor lacked judgment, and her voice was soothing. I instantly liked her. Which was good, considering I would be co-facilitating this group with her for the next twelve weeks.
“Let’s have a look at the curriculum materials for the group today. Like I said on the phone when we talked last week, I won’t expect you to do much today. Just observe, get to know the group members, get a feel for how these things work. Today serves more as an introduction than anything else. It’s a ‘get to know you’ for everyone. Be prepared for some very resistant individuals, though. Not everyone is here voluntarily, and there’s always one or two who have to be an ass,” Kristie said, pulling her notebook out of her bag.
I sat down beside her as she began to flip through the pages. “Really? I thought this was a group people came to because they wanted the help,” I said in confusion. Kristie chuckled good-naturedly.
“I wish. That would make my job a heck of a lot easier. But no, some of these people have been court-ordered because of drug possession, usually a misdemeanor. Some are first-time offenders; others have been through the system a few times. You always hope they learn something from what you’re trying to teach them, but I can’t confess to being that naïve,” she said, handing me a stack of name tags.
“Wow, that sounds pretty jaded, Kristie,” I teased. Kristie snickered.
“I’ve been doing this group for almost five years. I will always have the hope that I’m making a difference, but I’m only human. And I’ve seen too many people end up at the bottom to think otherwise. But we keep on trucking. Because giving up isn’t an option,” she said sagely. I couldn’t say anything to that. I understood feeling jaded, but I was determined to feel the hope all the same.
“Do they all go to LU?” I asked. Kristie nodded.
“This group is for students. I facilitate several other groups in town as well. But we keep this one separate and just for the college community. These kids are dealing with issues that are very different from those of the addicts I see in the other meetings. The pressures, the expectations, and the failures of university life go hand in hand with their addiction.” I nodded.
Kristie wrote her name on one of the tags and peeled it off. She stuck it to the front of her shirt. I followed suit and then put a name tag and pen on each seat. I had a vague idea of what to expect from the group. Having an addict in the family gave you a front-row seat for that particular brand of f**ked-up.
But still . . . I was apprehensive.
And it all had to do with a night three years ago. A desperate phone call in the middle of the night that I had so quickly dismissed as inconsequential. Followed by days of guilt and fear when my fifteen-year-old sister, Jayme, never came home and the realization that her phone call hadn’t been so inconsequential after all. Then finally the morning when I had opened the door to find two police officers on our porch. Their sympathetic faces as they told us that Jayme had been found dead in some skeevy alleyway. Cold and alone. It was that moment that everything I had known, my entire world, was flipped on its axis.