only one struggling
with someone who has an addiction. You aren't as alone as you think you are, Addison.
Around every corner is a possibility: a possibility of hope, of friendship, of support.
This week, try and put yourself out there. Tell them your name, open up to them, give
them something. Show them who you are and don't be afraid. No one can help you, no one WILL help
you, if you won't let them. For God's sakes, let them help you so I can stop giving
you these boring lectures."
She punctuates her statement with a short, loud laugh exactly like my mother's. For
a moment, it's easy to imagine her sitting across from me instead of Dr. Thompson. I would have immediately taken her
advice without a second though had it been my mother doling out words of wisdom.
I pull into the parking lot of the hospital at quarter past eight in the evening and
have to wait another ten minutes for an elevator. Regardless of the fact that I absolutely
hate these meetings, I hate the fact that they have to be here— the same place where I spent the better part of my last two years of high school.
I hate the smells, I hate the sights, and I hate that I continue to come here week
after week and subject myself to this torture.
At 7:50 I was adamant that I wasn't going to another meeting since it was pointless
to keep going to something that clearly wasn't helping me at all.
At 8:00 I was starting up my car and cursing loudly as I backed out of the driveway
of my apartment.
The elevator takes its sweet time going up and stops on almost every floor. I let
out a growl of frustration as it stops on the seventh floor and my eyes pop out of
my head when I see who gets on.
What the hell is HE doing here?
It's the guy from the coffee shop. The one I pretend to never notice but think about
constantly. The one who always smiles at me and who wrote me a note on a napkin. A
napkin I swore I would throw away, but now it sits next to my laptop at home, smoothed
out from the irritated crumple I gave it.
His footsteps falter as our eyes meet, but he quickly recovers and smiles broadly
at me as he gets on and stands right next to me.
"Ten, please," he happily tells the woman standing directly in front of the elevator
buttons as he shifts his backpack up a little higher on the shoulder he has it slung
over. I stare straight ahead at the closing doors, wishing I could make my feet move
to run out of there. I refuse to look at "Napkin Guy" even though I can see him staring
down at me out of the corner of my eye.
The elevator crawls up to the next floor and dings its arrival before the doors open
again. I silently curse the person who gets on and stands right in front of me, blocking
my escape.
"Fancy meeting you here, Bakery Girl," he finally whispers to me in the crowded elevator.
Bakery Girl? Did he just call me Bakery Girl?
I grind my teeth and finally turn to face him, my breath catching in my throat when
I see how close his face is to mine. He's about a head taller than me, and he bends
down so he can speak without being overheard. I've always noticed how cute he was
from a few feet away at the bakery, but being this close to him is distracting.
"Are you stalking me?" I whisper angrily, saying the first thing that comes to my
jumbled mind.
His smile immediately broadens and he chuckles to himself as he moves in even closer
and speaks right next to my ear, his chest brushing up against my arm.
"If I was, this would be the most boring and depressing place for me to show off my
mad stalking skills. This place is sick. Literally."
The clean, manly smell of his cologne is disrupting my concentration, and his nearness
and joking manner make me feel nervous. Aside from Meg, people don't joke around with
me anymore. Lately, I don't really have the type of personality that begs to be played
with or teased in any way.
I take a step away from him, forcing me to bump up against
with someone who has an addiction. You aren't as alone as you think you are, Addison.
Around every corner is a possibility: a possibility of hope, of friendship, of support.
This week, try and put yourself out there. Tell them your name, open up to them, give
them something. Show them who you are and don't be afraid. No one can help you, no one WILL help
you, if you won't let them. For God's sakes, let them help you so I can stop giving
you these boring lectures."
She punctuates her statement with a short, loud laugh exactly like my mother's. For
a moment, it's easy to imagine her sitting across from me instead of Dr. Thompson. I would have immediately taken her
advice without a second though had it been my mother doling out words of wisdom.
I pull into the parking lot of the hospital at quarter past eight in the evening and
have to wait another ten minutes for an elevator. Regardless of the fact that I absolutely
hate these meetings, I hate the fact that they have to be here— the same place where I spent the better part of my last two years of high school.
I hate the smells, I hate the sights, and I hate that I continue to come here week
after week and subject myself to this torture.
At 7:50 I was adamant that I wasn't going to another meeting since it was pointless
to keep going to something that clearly wasn't helping me at all.
At 8:00 I was starting up my car and cursing loudly as I backed out of the driveway
of my apartment.
The elevator takes its sweet time going up and stops on almost every floor. I let
out a growl of frustration as it stops on the seventh floor and my eyes pop out of
my head when I see who gets on.
What the hell is HE doing here?
It's the guy from the coffee shop. The one I pretend to never notice but think about
constantly. The one who always smiles at me and who wrote me a note on a napkin. A
napkin I swore I would throw away, but now it sits next to my laptop at home, smoothed
out from the irritated crumple I gave it.
His footsteps falter as our eyes meet, but he quickly recovers and smiles broadly
at me as he gets on and stands right next to me.
"Ten, please," he happily tells the woman standing directly in front of the elevator
buttons as he shifts his backpack up a little higher on the shoulder he has it slung
over. I stare straight ahead at the closing doors, wishing I could make my feet move
to run out of there. I refuse to look at "Napkin Guy" even though I can see him staring
down at me out of the corner of my eye.
The elevator crawls up to the next floor and dings its arrival before the doors open
again. I silently curse the person who gets on and stands right in front of me, blocking
my escape.
"Fancy meeting you here, Bakery Girl," he finally whispers to me in the crowded elevator.
Bakery Girl? Did he just call me Bakery Girl?
I grind my teeth and finally turn to face him, my breath catching in my throat when
I see how close his face is to mine. He's about a head taller than me, and he bends
down so he can speak without being overheard. I've always noticed how cute he was
from a few feet away at the bakery, but being this close to him is distracting.
"Are you stalking me?" I whisper angrily, saying the first thing that comes to my
jumbled mind.
His smile immediately broadens and he chuckles to himself as he moves in even closer
and speaks right next to my ear, his chest brushing up against my arm.
"If I was, this would be the most boring and depressing place for me to show off my
mad stalking skills. This place is sick. Literally."
The clean, manly smell of his cologne is disrupting my concentration, and his nearness
and joking manner make me feel nervous. Aside from Meg, people don't joke around with
me anymore. Lately, I don't really have the type of personality that begs to be played
with or teased in any way.
I take a step away from him, forcing me to bump up against
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