We ripped the cake apart with our bare hands.
The clock struck a soft 7pm on Sunday and there were dozens of us hunched over a cafeteria table. Grit clinging to the edges of the metal folds of the folding chairs we used to sit on during therapy.
I was the youngest there. 17 in a place made for people in their 30s. And now it was my birthday. I was becoming an adult.
The gravity of it would hit me that night, and with that, the tears would too. A soft sob caught in my throat while I tried to grasp what was so fundamentally wrong about my existence in that cell. Alone. Rooms that stunk of vomit and human waste. The smell barged into your nose like an unwanted guest.
The worst part is that I knew who it belonged to by name. I’d have lunch with them that day - if they were well enough.
We asked for a knife to cut the cake. A brief look of confusion washed over us before we remembered where we were.
We dug our fists in instead.
Tearing chunks of the creamy chocolate dessert and jamming them onto plates. We didn’t care much for hygiene. We were all well acquainted with each other - and what disgusts most people doesn’t disgust you quite the same when you live in a building where the smell of urine, feces and vomit mix into an omnipotent presence.
I snapped back into my seat when a hand slapped down on my shoulder.
Beanie.
That’s what we called him.
A man in his 30s who was addicted to more pills than there were letters in the English language. I don’t know a substance he hadn’t tried.
Here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you enter rehab - you don’t talk less about drugs. You trade information like they’re Pokémon cards. Everyone has a story and everyone has different experiences. When I entered rehab I was a rookie. By the time I left, I knew how to find a cannabis dealer in my area by the type of car they drove and the location they’d park it.
Beanie was a kind of smart you’d only find at the bottom of a pill bottle. He was witty, funny - but the pills had hijacked his mind and taken his soul from right under him. He was a junkie but he was a good person.
Beanie clutched my shoulder.
“Smile more dude. It’s your birthday.”
“I don’t feel like celebrating. I feel like shit in this hell hole.”
He was optimistic for a guy dealing with withdrawals.
“We all feel like shit — but hey, you’re getting out in 10 days. I’m leaving in 5. Don’t worry, I’ll bring everyone takeout from the outside.”
That turned out to be a lie.
You feel so happy about leaving rehab. And when you finally do, you realize being outside after 3 months inside is more restricting than your time inside. It’s painful to realise you’re being monitored. They don’t want you to talk to active rehab members once you leave - a rule enforced to ensure no one shares information about drugs, to reduce relapse occurrences.
It never worked.
That night I crawled into my sheets and thought about everything that led me to where I was.
I didn’t know it yet, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to my girlfriend after rehab for another 7 months. It was a long distance relationship. When I returned, she was gone. I lost someone I had known for 4 years because they thought I had abandoned them or died - I’m not sure which one. I never got closure.
I remember the pain I caused the people that led me to rehab. I had the letters they wrote me on my desk. In a pink bag my younger sister made.
It hurt to read them. I was guilty - even though I pretended not to feel bad for my actions. I needed to act strong. It’s how I survived.
I had a journal with notes from therapy. I wrote my first poems in that until I lost the original copy. I wasn’t a good writer back then but I had a passion for it.
The night wrapped around me like nocturne - swept down and kissed my eyelids.
I was a child. I didn’t need to be there. But I was. And I did.
The only thing keeping me out of the grave was myself and it scared me. I had nothing to live for at 17.
I cried like I had never cried before. A sob I had long forgotten - tears soaking my pillow, my heart wrenching like I had just died temporarily.
I was a kid. A bad one.
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