High Achiever Read online

  Tears began falling from my eyes as I took my first breath of fresh air in 120 days. I listened to the birds singing in the background, the cars zooming past in the distance, and the hum of the air conditioner on the side of the building. It was the most beautiful moment I’d ever experienced in my entire life.

  “I don’t want to ruin this moment for you, but, uh, we have Dr. Peters at the house waiting for you,” Stephanie whispered.

  Nothing could have ruined that moment for me. I was free.

  “Do you smoke?” Stephanie asked as she pulled out of the parking lot. I hadn’t smoked in 120 days, and I certainly shouldn’t start now.

  “Yes, yes I do.”

  “Here,” she said as she passed back a cigarette and a lighter. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I closed my eyes and took a long slow drag of my cigarette. The nicotine filled my lungs, and my body started tingling with relaxation as it was carried through my bloodstream.

  “What is the one food you missed the most while in jail?” Stephanie asked as she reached back to retrieve her lighter.

  “Okay, honestly? I know it sounds stupid, but I craved Taco Bell like it was nobody’s business in there. Specifically, a chicken quesadilla. I would have killed for one.”

  She turned up the radio and a song I didn’t recognize began blaring through the speakers. The bass of the music was in sync with my heartbeat; it felt like it had been years since I’d heard the melody of a song. The moment was so surreal. Not being watched like a hawk, wearing normal clothes, smoking a cigarette, and listening to music. I had taken so much of this for granted before.

  I closed my eyes to listen to the words, and my eyes were still closed when she promptly turned the music down and I heard a voice say, “Thank you for choosing Taco Bell, what can I get for you?”

  * * *

  —

  I sat on the soft leather chair in Dr. Peters’s office and watched as her fingers danced along the file folders in her cabinet. “Aha,” she said, stopping on one and checking the name on the label, “this is you, Miss Tiffany.”

  As soon as we had arrived at the house, I was sent to meet with the therapist. My throat still burned from the spices in the quesadilla I’d just inhaled, but it was the greatest burn I’d ever experienced.

  “Okay. Welcome to Horizons. I’m Dr. Peters and I’m a certified addiction specialist with a master’s in psychology. I’d like to get some information from you before you get settled, if that’s all right,” she said. She was beautiful and I wondered how she could have all those fancy certificates because she seemed younger than me.

  “Absolutely,” I replied, fidgeting with the bottom of my shirt. Why was I nervous?

  “All right. So. You spent around four months in jail, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that your first time?”

  “It was, yes, and hopefully last,” I said, and laughed nervously.

  “Well, good, we hope so,” she said, smiling. “So, what brought you to jail, Tiffany? What happened?”

  “Ha. It’s a long story.”

  “Well, that’s all right, I’ve got time.”

  I thought back to when it all started and knew that there was no way in hell this lady “had time” for the story I had to tell.

  “Yeah, it’s…I don’t know. Hard to explain. It’s complicated and…it’s kind of crazy. It would be hard to tell you what exactly happened because it’s more like a million shitty things happening to lead up to it,” I said.

  It had been a long day, I was tired, and this lady was sweet. If I told her what happened right off the bat, she would think I was a lunatic.

  “It’s okay, Tiffany, I don’t have anywhere else to be. You can trust me, and I encourage you to talk to me about anything. In order to understand the type of treatment that would best suit you, I need to know what happened. Besides, there’s nothing you can tell me that I haven’t already heard before,” she said, laughing.

  This silly woman. She thought she had heard it all. She thought she was prepared for what I was about to throw at her. She had no idea what I’d been through, the things I’d done, the people I’d hurt. I was sure she had heard her share of stories, but I knew she hadn’t heard anything like this. I took a deep, hesitant breath and looked into her eyes and smiled.

  “Well,” I started. “You asked for it.”

  26

  As I sat on my roommate Brandon’s couch, stuffing Cheetos into my face and watching Animal Planet, I suddenly realized it was exactly four months since I’d left rehab.

  Which means it was exactly four months and two weeks since my mom died.

  I knew that my mom’s friend had set up a trust fund for me and my sister with an insane amount of money. I also knew that if I was given access to that money, I would buy all the drugs in the world and do them in one shot.

  I confessed to my mom’s friend that I’d been popping pills and felt sick without them, so he spent $30,000 on my rehab. The money, in essence, ended up going to drugs anyway, but in a roundabout way. I would have detoxed in my fucking car if I’d known he was spending my trust fund money on that bogus-ass place.

  I cringed as I thought about the last time I saw my mom. I was holding her hand when she passed. I rubbed her head and told her that it was “okay to let go”—the hardest fucking sentence I’d ever uttered. I didn’t want her to “let go.” I wanted her to stay. I wanted her to get up out of the hospice bed and dance around the living room to Tom Petty like she used to.

  I wanted her to sit in the front row at my wedding, beaming with pride. I wanted her to rock my future children to sleep in her arms as she hummed “You Are My Sunshine” like she used to with me. I didn’t want her to let go. She did anyway.

  Any time my sister and I had left the house as teenagers, my mom walked us out and stood at the end of the driveway giving us the “princess wave.” So when they carried her out and drove her away for the last time, my sister and I did the same. We stood at the end of the driveway and waved goodbye.

  Fuck, man, why was I thinking about this right now?

  “Pass that shit, will you?” I said to Brandon, reaching for the blunt. He ignored me, staring at the zebras on TV in amazement. “PASS THAT SHIT, MAN!” I said louder, bringing him back to reality.

  “Oh, here,” he said, and handed it to me without taking his eyes off the screen. I had moved in with Brandon when I left rehab, mainly because he was one of only a few true friends I’d had. Plus, he didn’t do pills. So I was safe here.

  I held the blunt between my fingers and inhaled a long, slow drag deep into my lungs. I held it there for a moment and closed my eyes. Thank God for weed. I wouldn’t have made it through all this shit if I didn’t have it. The people at rehab tried to tell me I couldn’t smoke weed, and I stood straight up out of my chair and called them on their bullshit. Weed was a plant, and weed wasn’t my problem, pills were, and they were crazy if they thought I wasn’t gonna smoke when I got out of there.

  Things were good right then and I didn’t want to do anything to fuck that up. I hadn’t done pills in like four months and I had a steady job. Weed didn’t make me sick if I didn’t have it, it just made me feel awesome when I did.

  “You want a beer?” Brandon asked, standing up and heading to the fridge.

  “Ummm, fuck it, just one beer won’t hurt, why not?” I replied.

  Oh, and I was drinking.

  But I wasn’t getting drunk like I used to; I drank at home. I knew my tolerance level and I never got drunk. Just a beer after work to take the edge off. Besides, I was afraid to get too drunk around Brandon, because even though he had a girlfriend, he was always giving me “the look,” you know? The “I would bang you in a second if I had a chance” look.

  My phone buzzed from the coffee table and I was immediately overwhelmed with dread. I hate
d talking to people when I was high, especially my boyfriend. He knew I smoked, but he didn’t approve of it, and he hated talking to me when I was high.

  “Uh-oh. You better answer,” Brandon said, looking down at the caller ID and seeing who it was the same time I did. It was him.

  “Nope. I can’t. Let me drink a few more of these and I’ll just drunk-dial him and blame it on the beer,” I said, taking a big swig of my bottle. I loved the way the ice-cold bubbles lathered in my throat. How the hell is anyone supposed to go their entire life without drinking? Dumbest shit I ever heard.

  One hour and multiple bong rips later, Brandon stood up abruptly and grabbed his keys.

  “Whoa, dude, don’t move so fucking fast, you scared the shit out of me. I thought the fucking cops were here or something,” I said, placing my hand on my heart.

  “Ha-ha, you wish,” he said, shoving his Marlboros into the pocket of his jeans.

  “Oh yeah, I would love for the cops to show up at my pot-growing roommate’s house when I can barely open my fucking eyes, idiot.”

  “I’m going to Stacy’s, don’t wait up,” he said giving me a wink. Honestly it creeped me out. Stacy was his cousin and I’m pretty sure they were banging, but that’s a whole other story.

  “A’right. Hey, well, if you’re gonna be gone all night, can you leave me some green?” I said, giving him the puppy-dog eyes. They worked every time.

  “Just grab it when you want, it’s in my top drawer. Leave me some, though, Cheech, I know how you get when I’m not here to regulate your smoking,” he said, laughing.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said, chucking a pillow at him as he left. It bounced off the door as he shut it behind him.

  I decided to call my boyfriend before I melted into the couch in a hazy fog. I took a deep breath and dialed his number. It rang, and rang, and rang. I was relieved when the voicemail picked up, and I quickly hung up, not wanting to leave evidence of my current state on a recording.

  All righty, then, I tried, I thought as I stood up from the couch.

  I shut all the lights off, locked the front door, and headed to grab some buds out of Brandon’s secret stash. I flipped his bedroom lights on and glanced around at his pigsty of a room. Cigarette ashes and empty fast-food wrappers littered the floor. I stepped over a pair of dirty boxers and pulled the top drawer of his oak dresser open. Knives and random objects began thumping around in the drawer as I rifled through to locate the bag.

  Where the fuck was this thing?

  Suddenly my fingers hit something hard and plastic. It definitely wasn’t a bag. I began to sweat as my knuckles turned white from grasping the tube so hard. I gave it a shake and my suspicions were confirmed.

  Pills rattled inside the bottle as I pulled it out from under the socks to get a better look. I should have let go and run out of the room, but curiosity had gotten the best of me. I looked at the label and didn’t recognize the name of the person they were prescribed to, but I recognized the drug immediately. They were Oxy 80s.

  One of the most powerful pills one could get. One pill costs like forty bucks. What the fuck was he doing with these?

  My palms were clammy around the bottle, but I couldn’t let go. My heart was rapping the inside of my rib cage and I began salivating. It felt like I was possessed.

  Put them back, you fucking idiot. You are clean. You got clean for your mother. She is watching you right now. Don’t do this, I said to myself. There was an inner battle going on in my mind between my addiction and myself; turmoil and angst swarmed around inside me like bees.

  Suddenly, and before I had time to think, I threw the bottle into the drawer and left the room; I didn’t even bother closing the drawer, I had to get out of there. I wasn’t going to let my addiction win this time. I had come so far and was not about to give up now.

  I made it two steps out of the bedroom when suddenly my mind was hijacked. A dark force took over the helm and I was merely a helpless bystander. I watched from somewhere far away as my body turned around and my legs began moving toward the dresser before my brain could process what was happening.

  “Stop!” I yelled out loud to myself. “Nooooooo!” The tears began streaming down my face. I couldn’t stop what was happening. I was powerless.

  The familiar pop of the lid being opened was the most rewarding and heartbreaking sound I’d ever heard. I knew what came next.

  I shook a pill into the palm of my hand and returned the bottle to its resting place.

  A few moments later I was staring down at the white line in front of me. It looked like powdered snow. I had licked the coating off the Oxy and smashed it to smithereens without a single thought. It was mechanical; I’d done it so many times that it was programmed into my mind.

  Without hesitation, I placed the rolled-up dollar bill in my nose, leaned down, and snorted deeply. The powder coated the back of my throat as the familiar burn in my nose greeted me like an old friend.

  I shoved the rolled-up bill into my bra just as my brain turned to Jell-O and the warm sensation of liquid relaxation began flowing through my veins. Holy shit, I missed this feeling. Fuck, why would anyone voluntarily stop taking these things?

  It felt as if I were being wrapped in a warm hug. A hug I couldn’t receive from anyone else.

  All at once the world around me began to slow down and my arms felt as if they were twenty pounds each. I rolled onto my side to light a cigarette and realized I could hardly move a muscle. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I was in the same position, but light was beaming through my blinds and onto the wall. I checked the time on my phone and realized I’d missed three calls and two texts from my boyfriend. Panic rose within me and I racked my brain trying to remember when I fell asleep. More important, why the hell was I sleeping with my shoes on?

  The memories of the night before suddenly came rushing in like a tidal wave.

  Oh my God. I relapsed.

  I reached down to my bra and felt the rolled-up dollar bill and froze. It happened. It wasn’t a dream. My head started pounding and I felt nauseous. I leaned over the side of my bed and vomited all over the clean clothes I’d been neglecting to fold.

  My head rested on my arm as a million thoughts zoomed through my mind. This was too much. The disappointment, guilt, and shame were overwhelming. How could I do this? I wept as I realized how badly I’d fucked up and immediately decided I didn’t want to feel this way anymore. I needed to numb it, make this hurt go away long enough for me to sort my thoughts. I needed a line.

  I began crushing the remaining half of last night’s pill, and then a knock at the door made me jump ten feet into the air.

  I quickly shoved the paraphernalia into my top drawer and pulled the blinds down to peek outside and see who the hell was here. My heart dropped when my eyes focused on the visitor.

  A cop car was sitting in the driveway.

  You gotta be kidding me. I glanced quickly at myself in the mirror and attempted to fix my hair as I sprinted toward the front door. I took a deep breath, swung it open, and smiled…

  “Well, hello, Officer. Visiting me while on duty? How romantic!” I exclaimed, leaning forward to give my boyfriend a kiss.

  27

  “Okay, um, hold on,” Dr. Peters said, holding up her hand.

  She was looking at me like I was a calculus problem she had to solve.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m confused?” she said, obviously perplexed by something I’d said.

  “What? Did you not read my file?” I hadn’t even gotten to any of the crazy parts; what the hell was up with this lady’s face? She’s a doctor, or psychiatrist, or something; I mean, is she not used to talking to whackjobs?

  “Um, well,” she said, looking uneasy, “apparently I missed some things while reviewing your folder. I read your charges from the jail, but, I didn’t realize th
at he…”

  “Was my boyfriend?” I interrupted.

  “Right.” She looked nervous, or uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure.

  “Yeah, I know. Sounds like something out of a movie, right?” I laughed. I didn’t find my situation funny; it’s just that suddenly I felt really awkward. I mean, what are you supposed to say at this point? OMG I know, I’m a total piece of shit, right? High five.

  She stared at me over the rim of her glasses for a moment, and it reminded me of the look my mother used to give me right before she grounded the shit out of me. I think I’m in trouble.

  “Should we, I’m sorry, should we stop? Do you want me to stop? Because if you need to like review my file some more or something—”

  “No. No, we will keep going. I apologize. I’m just surprised, is all. You can keep going. We will just, um, see how far we get. Okay?” she said, glancing at her watch.

  “Okay, so, where should I…um…start from, then?”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me what happened that morning when he showed up at your house, after you relapsed?”

  “Sure,” I said, leaning back in my seat to get comfortable. I wondered for a moment if I should sugarcoat it. Maybe she wasn’t prepared for this kind of thing, and I certainly didn’t want to overwhelm her. Fuck it, I thought, might as well get it all out in the open so she actually has a shot at fixing whatever’s broken inside my fucked-up head.

  * * *

  —

  The morning Eliot showed up at my house—uninvited, I might add—nothing remarkable happened. He didn’t come in, thankfully, because the place smelled like they were filming Half-Baked 2 in a back room somewhere.

  He had just stopped by to bring me a coffee, and we chatted for a bit and he left. As I watched his taillights fade from view, I felt a pang of guilt. He looked so happy today. How the hell was I supposed to tell him I relapsed and break his heart? This was going to be harder than I thought.