It's right next to my mockup for Iris's tattoo.
She wanted simple text, but I wanted to try adorning it. There's one with hearts. One with flowers. One dripping blood.
She loved them all.
But, still, she wanted simple text.
She thought she was breaking my heart rejecting my mock-ups.
But I don't let my ego get wrapped up in this shit.
There's only one thing that breaks my heart.
And I really am fucking done.
I move into the shower. Strip. Run the faucet hot.
The water washes away the day.
But that voice is still echoing around my head.
Fuck, I'm never getting close to an addict again.
To anyone.
Chapter Eight
Iris
Streaming a yoga video washes away the stress of studying psychological statistics, but it does nothing to distract me from my problems.
It's a recovery focused yoga series.
It's supposed to help.
And it does.
But it forces me to confront all the ugly parts of my past. The nearly three years of lying to my coworkers and friends, of running away from my problems, of escaping every intense feeling for a calm, easy opiate high.
I've been clean almost three months now.
It's good. Better. But it's scary being a blank slate. I'm tired of being Iris, the recovering addict. There's more to me. I know there is.
Which is why I'm reading this horrifyingly cheesy pop-psychology self-help checklist.
Finding Yourself After Falling: An Addicts Guide to Life After Recovery.
I know. It's ridiculous.
But I don't have much else to go on beyond purple and coffee and you are not your mistakes.
I fix a frozen dinner, bring it to the couch, scoop soggy green beans to my mouth. They're more palatable than this chapter.
A Ten Step Checklist to Finding Yourself After Addiction.
One. Eat Well.
I stare at my Lean Cuisine. This is well. Ish. I never paid much attention to what I ate when I was using. It was whatever was around. A bagel from the break room. A takeout sandwich at the place near the office, whatever Ross was eating.
I guess I can work on this one.
Two. Exercise.
In progress. I'm doing this yoga recovery program. And sometimes, I do weights at the gym. But I don't really enjoy it. Or focus on my body. I tune out with pop-culture podcasts that don't quite hit the spot.
Three. Make amends for past mistakes.
Uh… Next.
Four. Find sober friends.
Not going that well. I force myself to go to Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings, but everyone is so… positive and encouraging and it feels weird. Wrong. Fake. I don't click with those people.
I can talk to my classmates and my adviser and my supervising psychologist about research. But it never gets deeper than that. I tried telling a friend about rehab. Alice was as interested in addiction research as I am. She was open-minded. Hell, she was madly in love with some celebrity who had just publicly admitted to his history of drug addiction.
But as soon as I told her about rehab, she stopped returning my texts. She started avoiding me in class. She acted like I didn't exist.
If an informed PhD candidate can't accept my past, who the hell can?
Five. Get enough rest.
Coffee makes this difficult. As does staying up all night, poring over past mistakes.
Six. Figure out your goals.
This one is done. My next five and a half years are devoted to my goal—becoming a research psychologist.
Seven. Keep a journal.
Eight. Read.
Nine. Find new hobbies and passions.
Ten. Accept yourself.
I toss the book on the couch and focus on scooping my TV dinner. The green beans are still mushy. The steak is overcooked. The potatoes are far from crispy.
It's food.
It satisfies my hunger.
But it's not enough. Not really. I want something good. Something better.
Maybe I can learn to cook.
That's a hobby. A passion even.
That—number nine—is where I need the most help.
I have no idea what I love. Or what I want out of life besides finishing school.
I'm going to figure it out. By the end of the quarter. That's my deadline for picking a summer internship. If I don't know what I want to do here, in Los Angeles, I'm taking an internship in New York.
I can't be here unless I know why I want to stay sober. Not over the summer. There are too many bad memories. Too many opportunities to fall back into old habits.
With school, it's easy. I'm distracted. Focused. Enthralled. The long periods of nothing and grunt work that come with internships…
I can't handle that.
I finish the TV dinner, clean the tray, toss it in the recycling. It's late. Almost midnight.
But I'm wide awake.
I grab my current book from the shelf, set up on the couch, and try to lose myself in the words. It's not exactly literature, but it's an interesting story. It feels like something I should love.
But I don't.
I like it.
It passes the time.
But it doesn't grab my heart and refuse to let go.
That's a lot to ask from one book. Not every book can be amazing. But what if none of them are? What if all those years of drug use killed my ability to feel passionately about anything besides school?
I get through three chapters.
Then my phone buzzes.
My lips curl into a smile as I read the text.
Walker: Hey babe, it's your booty call. What are you up to? Ready for some epic bragging?
Iris: Reading.
Walker: One of those Star Wars books?
Iris: Maybe.
Walker: It's cute that it embarrasses you.
Iris: What are you up to?
Walker: Texting you.
Iris: Before that.
Walker: Watching a movie.
Iris: Anything good?
Walker: No. Can't even remember the name. I couldn't concentrate.
Iris: Is this where you say you were too busy thinking of me?
Walker: I have some game.
Iris: You sure about that?
Walker: Shit. Where's my marker? I need to make another note. Remind babes you're thinking of them.
Iris: Were you?
Walker: Yeah. I was thinking about how good my name sounds on your lips.
Iris: It does.
Walker: About pinning your thighs to my bed and licking you until you're screaming it again.
Iris: I didn't scream.
Walker: I didn't bark.
Iris: Point taken.
Walker: How was studying?
Iris: Hard. Statistics aren't my strong suit. I need to really understand them to do research.
Walker: Makes sense.
Iris: It's late.
Walker: Is that a "I'm heading to bed" or "this is a booty call, isn't it?"
Iris: Isn't it?
Walker: No. I have family staying at my place. And I'm not that tacky.
Iris: No?
Walker: What about me is tacky?
Iris: What about me being fresh out of a relationship is "ah"?
Walker: You seemed like you wanted to be out of your head.
Iris: I did. Nothing about you is tacky. Assuming you're not about to send a dick pic.
Walker: Only if you ask nicely.
Iris: Would you really?
Walker: Don't know. I never have. I don't really think about shit that way. I take things as they come.