Gosh. It’s good to know nothing is kept secret anymore. Anger rises in me, but it’s an addict’s anger, a thing that swells at the realization that everyone seems to know my business. It’s something I’ve had to work through ever since Bear and Otter sat me down and told me they knew I had a problem. I try to force it down, because it’s an unfounded thing. “Good to know,” I manage to say in a level voice.
Eddie’s eyes soften. There are more lines around his eyes than there used to be and his long hair is shot with gray, but he’s still the same guy I’ve known since I was nine years old. Hell, even the bead curtain to enter his office still hangs from the doorway, though a few strands are missing now. “I could spin you the whole song and dance,” he says. “Tell you it’s just because people love you and are concerned about you, but you know that already.”
I nod, because I do.
“And I could tell you that you’re smarter than that, that you should know better. But I don’t know the need to admonish you is necessary anymore, and I’m sure you’ve probably kicked your own ass enough about it. And, if not, I’d be willing to bet my therapy license that Derrick did it enough for you.”
“That might be the understatement of the century.”
Eddie nods. “He can be surprisingly scary when he wants to be.”
“So if you’re not mad and if you’re not going to tell me I’m better than it, then what did you want to accomplish by bringing it up?”
“The why of it, Tyson. Yes, we know you’re smarter than that, probably smarter than anyone else I’ve known, and yes, we know your brother is a horrifying man whose anger is like a great fury, but I want to know why.”
“That’s… huh.”
“What?” he asks, making another note.
“I just realized I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that question. Maybe told why, but never asked.”
“Everyone was concerned with the fixing of it, I’m sure,” he says. “How bad were the withdrawal symptoms?”
“Not as bad as you might think, I guess. The first few days were the hardest.”
“Hallucinations?”
I shake my head. “Not that I remember, anyway.”
“Nightmares?”
“No more than usual. I didn’t sleep for a few days, and I’m pretty sure I was drenched in sweat the whole time, but it passed.” Not to mention the nausea and the overwhelming sense that the whole world was about to collapse on top of me, and if I could just get one more pill, just even half of one to take the edge off, it’d be okay. I had begged, I had cajoled, I had yelled.
It could have been worse, I know.
Of course, it shouldn’t have happened at all.
“So, why?” he asks.
“Isn’t it the same with every addict?” I ask this of him not to be facetious, but out of curiosity.
“It might seem like that on the outside,” he says. “And I’m not an addiction specialist. I work with children mostly, as you know. But I have a feeling that regardless of the similarities between people and their addictions, the closer you get, the more differences appear.”
“It was easier,” I say. “I didn’t think as much.”
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“Took the edge off?”
“You could say that, I guess. More like I didn’t care what edges there were. And even if they were there, they were blurred, so I couldn’t find reason to care.”
“What drugs were you given, specifically?”
He knows this already, I think, but he’s trying to gauge my sincerity. Unfortunately, addicts are known liars. Not because they want to be, but because it’s just the way it is. It’s hard to trust someone when they’re high or trying to cover the fact that they are. “Started with Xanax. It wasn’t working, so I was given Klonopin instead.” The difference is like starting with a match and then being given a piece of dynamite.
“Why wasn’t Xanax working?”
Another trap of sorts. He’s wanting to know if the high wasn’t high enough. It was. The Xanax was never about that. I shrug. “I still couldn’t breathe.”