A Relapse Story

      It was a scorching hot day in Mid-July. The thermometer in the factory topped out at one hundred and eighteen degrees that afternoon. Perspiration poured down my face throughout the day as I labored. We were short staffed and somehow I ended up responsible for two other men’s jobs in addition to my own. My supervisor was cranky like the rest of us, making it a hellish day all around.
     My father picked me up on his way home from work. This had been going on for three years because my Driver’s License had been revoked. It was no secret that he resented me for it. He blamed me for every problem in his life whether it was my fault or not. At times he was happy but his rage was always boiling beneath the surface. The tough part was that I was living under his roof because I was being paid a measly sixteen bucks an hour, despite my contributions to the company.
     He pulled into the parking lot and I climbed into his Chevy Trailblazer.
     “Hey, Dad.”
     “Hi,” he replied.
     “How’s it going?”
     “Okay.”
     I could tell he wasn’t okay though. He was in one of his moods. The excessive heat must have caused him a more wicked hangover than usual this morning. I had a rough morning, as well, and was running on three hours of sleep. I had been up until two A.M. with my girlfriend who lived down in Knoxville, Tennessee. Her schedule was different than mine so if we wanted to communicate it had to be late at night.
     I was exhausted and fell asleep two minutes into the half hour ride home. We were about five minutes from home when another driver didn’t want to let us into his lane.
     My father yelled, “You stupid fuck!” waking me up.
     “What happened?” I asked.
     “This dick head won’t let me in!”
     “Oh.”
     Then he sarcastically stated, “He must be important! He has to be somewhere, and fuck everyone else!”
     When we arrived at the house, I went upstairs and got right in the shower. I was refreshed but still tired. My stomach was growling so I went downstairs to make dinner.
     “Come over here,” said my dad.
     “What’s up?” I asked, as I followed him to the dining room.
     “What the fuck is this?”
     He was pointing at a cigarette burn hole in the carpet. I never spent any time in the dining room but he often did when he drank. Furthermore, I always smoked outside because it would get too smoky if we both smoked in the house. I knew at once, that he did it whilst drinking and had probably blacked out, leaving no recollection of the incident.
     “That’s not from me,” I said, “You know I smoke outside.”
     “Are you using again?” he asked.
     “No! What the hell does that have to do with your carpet anyway?”
     “When you burned a hole in the living room carpet, you were using too!”
     “It wasn’t me, Dad. I’ll be happy to repair it for you though.”
     “If you’re using again, you’re fucking out of here!”
     “I’m not fucking using!”
     I had eighty-seven days clean. Plus, he was blaming me for some shit that he did. For a brief moment, I thought that if I’m being accused of using then I might as well do it. I walked out of the house and went for a walk to cool down; as much as anyone could cool down in the wicked heat.
     My A.A. sponsor lived across the street from me. I didn’t see his car in the driveway. I hadn’t talked to him in a few days and hadn’t been to an A.A. meeting in a week or so. I tried calling Scott, my sponsor, and got his voicemail. My phone rang a moment later and I figured it was Scott calling back. Instead, it was a familiar number but I couldn’t place it. I answered anyway.
     “Hello?”
     “Hey, Bro. What are you doing?”
     It was Rick. He was the one who would give me rides to cop dope before I sobered up. In return, I’d buy him some dope.
     “Hey, buddy. I just walked out of the house. My dad’s being a fucking ass hole today. What are you up too.?”
     “I’m wanting to go see Red but I don’t have any money. I’m about two minutes from your house. You want to go?”
     “Yeah. Fuck it. Come get me. I’ll buy you a half a jab. I’ll meet you down the street.”
     “Alright. I’ll be there in a minute”
     The thought of my sobriety crossed my mind as I glanced at Scott’s house and I felt of twinge of guilt that I quickly buried within me. I had eighty-seven days clean but it wasn’t like the last time when I blew a year and a half. Besides, I had a rough week at work and a pretty shitty day. It was a Friday. I had the whole weekend to recover. This would just be a one time thing and then I would get back on track.
     Rick picked me up. We stopped at Walgreens to hit the ATM and pick up a pack of rigs. Then we headed out to the city. It took about sixty minutes in rush hour traffic and even though I was exhausted, the adrenaline rush I got from going to score dope for the first time in three months kept me awake and alert.
     We exited on Western Avenue and called Red. He told us where to meet him just off of Western and we told him that we needed a jab and a half; a half for Rick and one for me. I figured that if I was going to use, I might as well do it right. We waited five minutes before Red pulled up and served us. My heart was racing with excitement and recovery was nowhere in my mind.
     We drove a few blocks until we found somewhere safe to shoot up. Rick was dope sick so I let him cook up his first. Then I cooked, drew, and shot just two bags. I felt the rush but not much after that. It seemed I still had a decent tolerance. I decided I’d shoot more when I got home.
     My dad wasn’t home when I got there. He must’ve gone to his girlfriends house. I ended up staying awake all night shooting dope and nodding off in bed. I shot my last few bags around four in the morning and went to sleep.
     I woke up around eleven A.M. feeling sick. It wasn’t horrible but it was bad enough to make me want to score some more dope. Besides, I had a little money saved that I could afford to burn. I figured that I would still have Sunday to recover for work and get back on track. The only person I was fooling was myself. The fact was that I was quickly strung out again and my life was bound to get worse than ever.


*This was an assignment that I had to do in rehab in which I told a story of what my next relapse would look like if it happened so this wasn't written as much for creative purposes as it was to recognize the symptoms leading to relapse. But I figured I'd share it with you folks anyway. -Gemini