Group therapy. It’s not supposed to be spill-your-guts and be judged, but feels that way. Surreptitious glances are thrown your way. Musician. Drug overdose. Cliché.
“Are you 27?” a large-eyed girl asks.
Random, you think.
“Lots of rock stars die at 27. It’s a thing,” she says.
You shake your head. Suicide wasn’t your intention. You were just trying to feel better. Just another syringe of heroin.
You’ve been clean 17 days. The emergency room visit convinced you.
“Lucy, do you want to talk?” the group leader, Ann, asks.
“Not really,” you say.
“Tell us why you think you’re here.”
“Because I overdosed and my Dad really hated that.”
Ann smiles. “Why were you an addict?”
An addict. You can’t stop yourself from visibly wincing. You never thought yourself an addict. That was Nick with the endless supply of heroin he shared because he wanted you to feel as good as he did. For a while, you did.
“I wasn’t,” you say and feel it’s truthful.
The guy next to you snorts, receiving a rebuking glance from Ann.
“No, seriously. Things were great. My boyfriend wanted to share this with me. I wanted to make him happy. Before the gig I discovered he was cheating and I shot up and then because I was screwing up, I shot up some more. I was desperate. Or desperately unhappy and stupid. Maybe just stupid.”
Ann nods, encouraging.
“It’s always a guy,” the big eyed girl says.
“It was me,” you say.