Sometimes, its all in your head. With glazed over eyes, the truth seemed clear to him like the 2-D pop-up books. For the first time, the truth he tried so hard to ignore was right in front of him. He was addicted to the life he one had. Before the drug usage. Before the binges. Before the inevitable overdoses. Before the rehab therapy. The treatments. The mandatory meetings. The embarrassing confessions in front of fluctuating members of the same cause. With the same thoughts. Being a victim of the same career ending monster. The meeting counselor calls on him to voluntarily share his story, only to empower and encourage sobriety. His heart starts to race, making the veins scribbled on his forehead more noticeable than the "hi, my name is _____" name tag on his shirt. He hesitates but slowly stands. He fiddles his thumbs before taking a deep breath. perching his lips together, he announces his name and before the audience greets him, begins to tell his story. He was a 32 year old honors graduate from Cornell University. A double major in pre-law and public relations. He had it all. the house with a yard and a patio. The wonderful, supportive wife and son. The family dog. The masters degrees. The high paying job. The big bank accounts. The fast flashy sports car. The expensive china. The social life, equipt with the high class friends. Their favorite past time was to meet up for wine and share memories of law school. He surely had the life all would kill to have but it wasn't him. The lifestyle came with the needs of the industry, The reputation of the job and the addicting fur fetish of his money smuggling wife. When the economy crashed, his law firm stopped getting clients. His business went bankrupt. His high class friends disappeared. His flashy car got reposessed. His wife divorced him and moved far away. His house was foreclosed. He became the very thing he looked down upon. He rented a cheap motel and did side jobs just to survive. His depression lead to him being a drunk. Eventually he experimented with hard drugs and often blacked out. By the good grace of god, he crawled into a building for shelter and ironically, it was a rehab center. Finally, he snaps out of his trace and looks up at the audience. Everyone is quiet with puzzling looks on their faces. Embarrassed, he turns around and walks toward the double doors of the meeting room. He'd rather be alone. Thinking about the life he once had. The feeling of being a part of society. The feeling of having power and being free. Thinking about how he'd life differently if he could turn back the hands of time. But he can't. This is his reality and going cold turkey is too much to sweat out. the clock strikes twelve o'clock and the tape recorder stops. That's all he can remember today. He talked so long that it ran out of tape. He normally takes up more than his allotted time although the therapist doesn't seem to mind much. The therapist notes substancial emprovement and schedules another meeting. buzzing sound fills the room and the therapy doors open. Two guards come in with a stray jacket in hand. Although being semi catatonic, he knows the procedure. He puts his arm straight up in the air so the guards can easily put his jacket on. Once the straps on his back are fastened, he stands up as the guards escort him out of the room as the doors slam behind them.
1:12 a.m. - 2010-03-18
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