JOEY
ONE OF THE earliest steps in my treatment plan was to make amends, which was how I knew I would never get off the ladder of recovery for three reasons.
First, I wasn’t going to apologize to anyone for surviving.
Second, fuck that.
Third, I didn’t know if I had it in me to fight the battle that I was told would last a lifetime.
Because I was an addict.
I would always be an addict.
I would never stop wanting to use.
The prospect of fighting my urges for the rest of myself was depressing.
Still, I woke up this morning and dragged my ass out of bed, completed all of my chores, and sat my ass in the visitors’ room, with only one goal in my head.
Sit through a meeting with Darren and get that coveted phone call privilege.
Dr. B had convinced the whole treatment team that a reconciliation between me and Darren would be hugely beneficial to my recovery. In my humble opinion, I considered it to be the worst form of emotional blackmail, to dangle a call with my girlfriend in front of me like carrot. But hey, the fuck did I know?
I wasn’t the one with the fancy degree.
I was the washed-up addict, depending on these people to patch me up and send me back into the world.
Dammit, though, I hated that it had to be Darren.
I would have preferred anyone else to walk through that visitors’ room door and that was not an exaggeration.
Hell, I would have even preferred Gussie.
At least he would have smuggled me some cigarettes.
Pushing the sleeves of my grey jumper down to my wrists, I concealed the scars and marks on my veins. Jesus, it felt like a lifetime ago, but I knew I was only one slip away from returning to that world.
It couldn’t happen.
Now that I had a clear head, I knew that I could never go back.
Not even weed.
It was too fucking risky.
The urge was still there, though, bubbling away just beneath the surface, and I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that it would never entirely leave me.
I would always crave opioids.
I would always crave heroin.
In a fucked-up way, I was starting to make peace with it.
When Dr. B finally walked into the room with my brother in tow, I felt the walls I’d been trying to lower shoot back up at a rapid rate.
“Joey,” Darren acknowledged, eyes filling with tears, as he stood in the middle of the room with a bunch of flowers in his hands. “It’s good to see you, brother.”
“Darren.” I stood up and offered him a curt nod. “Please tell me those aren’t for me.”
He glanced down at the flowers in his hand and choked out a laugh, as tears trickled down his cheeks. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“I wish you had,” I drawled sarcastically. “You’re going to ruin my street-cred in here.”
“Nah,” he chuckled, closing the space between us. “You’re too notorious.”
When he pulled me in for a hug, I forced myself to not shove him away. Instead, I offered him a small pat on the back.
It was the best I could do.
It was progress.
“Let’s sit down and get started, shall we?” Dr. B suggested, leading my brother over to a large leather couch.
Instinctively, I walked over to the one opposite.
“You have no idea how happy I was to get the call,” Darren got the ball rolling by saying. “When I got home from work and Alex told me that your doctor had called to say I could visit —”
“Hold up,” I interrupted, leaning back on the couch and folding my arms across my chest. “You’re back in Belfast.”
He nodded.
“Since when?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how long did it take before you left the kids?” I arched a brow. “How long did it take before you went back to your real life?”
“Joey.”
“Hey, I’m not judging you.” I shrugged. “Look at where I’m sitting, Dar. I’m in no position to throw stones.”
“They’re in good hands with John and Edel.”
Yeah, I didn’t doubt it. But it still pissed me off that he left them. Especially when I wasn’t there for them, either.
“Joey,” Dr. B interjected. “Remember how we talked about relinquishing control. You are not your siblings’ parent, and neither is Darren.”
I didn’t respond, because I wanted to get my damn phone call, and the explicit words on the tip of my tongue would assure that I didn’t.
The good doctor and Darren delved into deep conversation then.
About my issues.
About my recovery.
About my sixty-day chip.
About what a good little recovering addict I was.
About bla-fucking-bla.
Entirely uninterested, I zoned in and out of the conversation, I nodded at all the right cues, not really giving two shits what he thought about me. My feelings towards him were too complicated to be worked through in a therapy session.
They had built up over the course of almost six years.
It would take at least that amount to time to resolve them.
It was only the mention of an extended stay in treatment that had my ears pricking up and my attention riveted to the conversation. “What the fuck?”
“Joey, calm down please, it’s just a suggestion,” the doctor began to say, but I was already on my feet.
“No.” I shook my head and paced the room. “No, no, no. I’m out of here in three weeks. I’ve done my time.”
“Joe, if the medical team feel that you’ll benefit from an extra couple of months, then I think you need to listen to them,” Darren tried to interject, but I wasn’t having it.
“They didn’t suggest it, asshole,” I shot back. “You did.”
“Because I think you need it,” he argued. “I think it might be good for you.”
“And I think you need to shut the fuck up,” I sneered. “I’ve done everything I’ve been asked to do. I’ve done the detoxing. I’ve done the counseling. I’ve done the group fucking therapy. I’ve planted the fucking flowers and painted the pottery.” Furious, I turned to glare at the doctor. “I agreed to do two weeks of detox and twelve weeks of treatment. Not a day over it.”
“Actually, once you voluntarily signed yourself into our care, the length of your treatment is at our discretion.”
“Bullshit.”
“Sit down, Joe,” Darren tried again. “Just hear us out, will you?”
“I’m not staying here another day longer than I agreed to,” I warned, shaking my head at the both of them. “My girlfriend is due in September. Not that either one of you give a shit, but I’ve already missed most of her pregnancy, but if you think that I’m missing the birth, too, then you’re fucking crazier than I am!”
“This is exactly what I was telling you on the phone,” Darren told the doctor. “He can’t see beyond her. He’ll put her needs first, even if it’s not what he needs.”
“Excuse me?” I glared at my brother. “You two were talking about me?”
“It’s protocol to have an informal weekly meeting with your next of kin to discuss your treatment,” Dr. B explained calmly. “You already know this.”
“Except that he’s not my next of fucking anything,” I snapped. “I thought you were giving the updates to Edel and John. They’re the ones footing the bill for this place, aren’t they?”
“We’ve been informing Mr. and Mrs. Kavanagh of your progress, but neither one is your next of kin, so the information we’ve been able to provide them with has been limited.”
“Who put him down?”
“You did, Joe,” Darren offered calmly.
“No.” I shook my head. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“You signed the forms, Joe.”
“The forms you filled in. The ones you had me sign,” I shot back accusingly. “You shouldn’t have done that, Dar. You know it should have been her,” I continued to argue, voice rising. “I have three weeks left, and I’m out of here. I don’t care what either one of you say.”
“Listen,” my brother tried to placate. “Nothing’s set in stone, okay? All I’m saying is that I think it might be better for you to stay for another few months.”
“And miss the birth of my child?”
“Please just consider what I’m saying,” he tried to argue. “Think about the pressure that kind of an environment would be on you. You’re just coming out the other side of this, Joe. What you’ve been through this year? I swear to you that Aoife will understand. And the baby? The baby wouldn’t even know. I mean, fathers in Ireland didn’t even attend the births until —”
“Okay, you need to leave.”
“Joey, come on.“
“No, you need to get the fuck away from me before I lose my mind,” I warned, holding a hand up to warn him off when he moved towards me. “Now, Darren.”
“I think that might be best,” Dr. B said when he looked to her for help.
“Joe, please…”
When he tried to speak to me again, I turned my back and walked over to the window, refusing point blank to engage with him.
It wasn’t until my brother had left the room, that I released the death grip I had on the windowsill.
“How are you feeling after that, Joey?” Dr. B asked, returning to her perch on the couch.
“Like I want to put my fist through the wall,” I bit out.
“And?”
“And through my brother’s head.”
“Tell me something,” she pushed. “When your back was to the ropes just now, what was your first thought? Your immediate inclination?”
“My immediate inclination was to put my fist through my brother’s head,” I repeated in a flat tone. “And the wall. But his head more.”
The doctor smiled. “Then you passed.”
“What?”
Her smile widened. “You were thrust into confrontation with a person who triggers you like few can, and your immediate urge wasn’t to use.”
“I wanted to physically harm him,” I said, brows furrowed in confusion. “How does that mean I passed anything?”
“Did you harm him?”
“In my head.”
“In your head is acceptable,” she laughed. “Congratulations, Joey. You’ve earned yourself a phone call.”
