He drags his fingertips up my arm.
"I hadn't been drinking. I knew better than to mix opiates and alcohol. Well, back then, I cared enough not to do it. And it wasn't like the guy was doing heroin. He was just swallowing some prescription stuff. Stuff I could get from a doctor. I convinced myself it couldn't be too bad. After all, I'd taken Vicodin when I got my wisdom teeth out. It didn't make me feel much besides tired. So when he offered me one, I took it."
"Was that the first time?"
"Besides after my wisdom teeth, yeah."
"How did it feel?"
"Like nothing would ever hurt me again."
"You hated your life that much?"
"Yeah." I stare at the bright stars. "I wasn't ready to confront it. I wanted to feel anything else. Anything good. But I wasn't going to start using drugs like one of the people I'd read about. Like some pathetic addict. I convinced myself it was like drinking. It is. Just stronger. More addictive. Dangerously addictive."
His exhale is heavy.
"For a while, I'd get high on the weekends. Then it was all weekend. Then most nights. I… I made a lot of bad decisions. But I held it together pretty well. Until I didn't. I'd get to work late. Skip meetings. I got reprimanded. I told myself I'd stop. And I did, for a while. I tried, I really did. But I couldn't take the withdrawal. I caved."
"How many times?"
"Half a dozen."
"For how long?"
"Two and a half years. More or less. I tried, hard, to stop after my sister found my stash. We were getting ready for a wedding. She saw it in my makeup bag and freaked out. Threatened to tell our parents. I promised I'd stop."
"Did you mean it?" He stares into my eyes, demanding an explanation.
I wish I had a better one. I wish the truth was less ugly.
But it is ugly.
And I'm done running from it. "I wanted to stop. The look on her face—it was awful. I never wanted to see that again. I tried. But… you know what it's like when you try to kick caffeine?"
"I never have."
"When you go too long without a coffee? Get a headache? Get irritable? Want caffeine like you've never wanted anything?"
"Yeah."
"Multiply that by a thousand. I wanted to make her proud, but it was easier being high. More comfortable. She caught me again. Asked me to choose. I told her I chose her, but—"
"You stayed high?"
Is that judgment in his voice? Or is it understanding?
I don't know.
I need to tell him all of this.
And I need him to accept it.
I can't do anything about the latter. So I guess I have to focus on the former. "I wasn't ready to stop yet. I wasn't ready to let go of my comfortable numb, to feel everything. It got to be this cycle. I felt awful lying to her. Then pathetic for being so weak. Then I'd be more desperate to get out of my head. So I'd do whatever I could get my hands on."
He stares up at the stars.
"There was still a part of me that wanted more. I studied a lot. Managed to pass the GRE. Kept applying to grad schools. Then I got into UCLA. And I was sure that was it. That I'd stop."