Chapter 1: The Call That Changed Everything

Some moments whisper.

Others tear straight through the middle of your favorite song, no warning, no fade-out, and leave nothing intact.

I was seven.

And I knew.

I didn't understand the words yet. I didn't need to. Something shifted in the room, the kind of shift you feel in your body before your brain catches up. The air changed. The noise underneath everything, the hum of the television, the clink of dishes, the ordinary rhythm of a weekday, went quiet.

That's the thing about trauma. It doesn't check your age. It doesn't ask if you're ready. It just happens, and suddenly nothing is ever the same.

That was the day I learned silence could speak louder than explanation.

That grief could arrive before language.

And that fathers sometimes leave in ways you don't come back from.

Before the house on Wall, before the dim living room and the corded phone, there was the townhouse by the canal.

Two stories. Apartment complex. Water running behind the building like a quiet edge we weren't supposed to cross. My mom worked nights then, 11 p.m. to 7 a.m., and while she was gone, my dad stayed home with us.

The story, as my mom tells it, goes like this:

Sometime in the very early morning, when I was three or maybe four, I woke up. Or maybe I didn't wake up. Maybe I was already awake and had simply decided I was done being inside.

I went downstairs. Pulled a kitchen chair across the tile. Dragged it to the front door. Climbed up. Unlocked it.

And walked outside.

Still in pajamas. Still in a diaper.

No crying. No noise. Just movement.

I think I was curious. That's the version that feels true to me, even though I don't actually remember it. My mom is the one who carries this story. But when she tells it, I recognize something in it. Curious about the dark. Curious about the quiet. Curious about the canal that ran just beyond our building, the one that seemed to go on forever. Maybe I wanted to see what the world looked like before everyone else was awake.

By the time my mom got home from work that morning, the front door was open.

She checked my room.

Empty.

She said the panic hit instantly. The kind that doesn't build slowly but detonates. She called the police, then ran upstairs to wake my dad. They started searching.

I was just gone.

A little while later, the phone rang.

The police had me.

An officer had found me wandering and brought me to the station. When my mom arrived, she said I looked content. Calm. Still in my pajamas and diaper. The officers were keeping me entertained, giving me something to eat while they waited for her.

I try to picture it sometimes.

What was I thinking?

Did I understand that I had left?

Did I feel brave?

Or was I simply following a pull I couldn't yet explain?

The truth is I don't remember it clearly. What I remember is what I've been told, and memory borrows from the telling. It stitches itself together out of the way stories get handed down. But something about it stays with me.

At three or four years old, I moved a chair, unlocked a door, and walked into the world.

No drama. No announcement.

Just curiosity.

By the time we moved to the house on Wall, that curiosity hadn't gone anywhere. It had simply settled into me. Quiet, observant, watchful. The kind of child who sat very still in rooms and noticed everything.

The living room there was always dim, even in full Louisiana sunlight. The sliding glass door let light pour in, but it never quite reached the corners. Maybe it was the narrowness of the room. Maybe it was the brown-orange couch with its aggressively busy seventies pattern. That couch absorbed brightness instead of reflecting it.

It was ugly. It was comfortable. It swallowed you whole if you let it.

My mom used to say, it might be ugly, but it sure is comfy.

That couch held everything..

Sunday naps. Homework spread across the cushions. Arguments that started in the kitchen and ended there. Five-minute phone calls pressed between shoulder and ear, were the first grief of my life. Not the big grief. The small, daily kind. The voice on the other end of the line that I recognized but didn't quite know how to hold.

We eventually moved. Different house, different walls, different light coming through different windows. But the couch came with us. Of course it did. My mom wasn't about to leave the ugly comfortable thing behind.

And at the new house, it held more.

It held teenage secrets whispered into fabric like it could keep them safer than people could. Paperbacks cracked open across my chest while I underlined sentences that felt bigger than I was. Long afternoons of staring at the ceiling, building futures in my head I didn't yet know how to reach.

It held crushes. The first flicker of wanting to be wanted. The beginning of fantasies that felt innocent at first, romantic, cinematic, harmless.

It held cold cans of whatever we could get our hands on. First drinks that burned going down and made me feel braver than I really was. Early closeness that left me breathless and buzzing. Excited, alive, a little anxious.

Not because I was afraid of getting caught.

I was nervous about something else. About going too far. About things moving faster than I was ready for. About doing more than I was comfortable with and not knowing how to slow it down without breaking the moment. It wasn't always gradual, shared curiosity. Sometimes it felt like momentum, quiet, subtle, harder to interrupt than it should have been.

The shame didn't live there yet.

That came later, after I stopped trying to slow things down, after I learned how easy it was to override myself.

And much later still, that couch held darker rehearsals. Decisions that felt like power but were really hunger. Touch that blurred lines I didn't yet understand I was crossing. The slow shaping of escape disguised as choice.

If furniture could testify, that one would not need notes.

The kitchen sat just off to the side, galley-style. A long counter. Beige cabinets. A corded phone bolted to the wall, its spiral cord stretched and twisted like it had absorbed years of conversations no one wanted to finish.

My sister and I were planted in front of the TV. Not really watching, it was just on, background noise, comfort noise. My mom and Aunt Cassie stood in the kitchen, talking about nothing important.

Then the phone rang.

Aunt Cassie answered.

At first, everything sounded normal. Polite hellos. Casual tone. But something shifted fast. Not dramatically, just enough. Her face changed. She glanced over at us, then handed the phone to my mom without saying a word.

That was when I knew.

I've always been able to feel emotional shifts, even the ones people try to hide. As a kid, emotions felt enormous, like weather systems moving through a room. I didn't know what they meant yet. Only that they mattered. That day, I felt it before anyone said a word.

My mom's face drained of color. If my aunt hadn't been standing there, I think she would've collapsed. The air in the room went heavy, like something had pressed down on it.

Nobody told me it was bad.

I felt it.

I couldn't hear what was being said on the phone, but I didn't need to. Something had fallen through. Something irreversible.

My dad had been living in the Northeast. He left Louisiana when I was three, the same year I apparently walked out the front door of a canal side apartment and let the police find me eating a snack at the station.

After he left, our relationship became five-minute phone calls every day and two visits a year. That was the whole of it. The entirety of having a father, for me. A voice through a receiver and a couple of trips that felt enormous in the planning and were over before I'd fully adjusted to them.

I didn't know him the way my brother did. Didn't have the memories, the history, the before. My brother had four years with him in the house, four years of ordinary mornings and dinners and the particular knowledge you build just from being in the same rooms as someone over time. I had a voice. A phone call that started the same way every time. The scratch of his beard when he hugged me hello, which I can still feel if I try, the way sense memories outlast everything else.

He had auburn hair. Same as mine. I noticed that on the visits, the way we matched in ways I didn't match anyone else in my immediate world. There was something about it I couldn't name then and still struggle to name now, the particular comfort and grief of resembling someone you barely get to know.

He laughed loudly. A big, sudden laugh that filled whatever room he was in. I remember being startled by it the first time, then immediately wanting to hear it again.

He smoked. The smell of it clung to everything, his jacket, the car, the air around him. For years afterward, certain combinations of cologne and cigarette smoke would reach into my chest and do something to me before I knew what was happening.

That was the whole of him, in my experience. Fragments. The texture of a few days a year. A voice on the phone asking how school was and telling me he loved me and then the click when the call ended and the particular silence that followed.

I invented the rest. That's what children do with the parts of people they can't access. They fill in the outline with whatever materials are available: other people's stories, the details that fit the shape of the absence, wishful thinking dressed as memory. I invented a version of my father that was probably more mine than his. A composite. A father-shaped idea I carried and adjusted as I got older, adding and removing details as new information arrived.

He was still my dad. Still the voice on the other end of the line.

And suddenly, he wasn't, and never would be, again.

Later, my mom told us it was an accident. That he was cleaning his handgun, and it went off.

I believed it.

Or maybe I needed to. I was seven. What else do you do with the idea that your father ended his own life? What shape does that take inside a child who barely had a shape for him to begin with?

Now that I'm a mother, I understand the lie better. I've turned it over many times since I learned the truth, and I've never once blamed her for it. How do you tell a child that their dad didn't want to live anymore? How do you hand a seven year old that particular weight and expect them to carry it without it crushing everything else? You don't. You find a softer version. You give them something they can hold without bleeding.

She gave me what she could.

I just wish someone had told me the truth before I had to piece it together myself, years later, in the particular way you piece things together when nobody ever sits you down and explains. When you're grown, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and something someone says doesn't quite add up, and you start pulling at the thread, and the whole story comes apart in your hands and you're standing there holding the real version and nobody's around to help you put it down.

That was its own kind of grief. Not the original loss, but the unraveling of the story you'd been given to make it bearable. Losing the lie felt almost like losing him again, because the lie had been the only version of the story, you'd been able to hold without flinching.

I was angry for a while. Not at my mom, not really, not once I understood what she was protecting me from. More at the situation itself. At the years of carrying the wrong version. At the fact that nobody ever thought to sit me down when I was older and say: okay, you're ready now, here's what actually happened.

Instead, I found out the way people find out things they were never supposed to know. Sideways. Imperfectly. Without context or support or anyone to help me metabolize it.

I added it to the pile of things I carried quietly.

My brother was fourteen. Seven years older than me, and he always felt decades older. He had memories I didn't. A real relationship. A before and after. I spent years resenting that without fully understanding why, resenting that he had access to something I never really got to have. A father who was a person to him, not just a voice and a concept.

When my mom told us, she brought us into her bedroom.

I don't remember much about that part. Not the phrasing, not the exact reactions. What I remember clearly is my brother walking out. Straight through the sliding glass door. Onto the patio. Pale as a ghost.

His face went blank, like a curtain dropped inside him.

I didn't know it then, but I'd recognize it later. Shutdown. Survival. The quiet decision not to feel something because feeling it would break you, and breaking wasn't an option, and so you just go very still and very far away without leaving the room.

I'd learn that move myself eventually.

My sister was six. Too young to fully understand what had happened. It came out sideways in her later, school struggles, repeating third grade, emotional reactions that seemed outsized for the moment she was in. She was carrying the same weight. She just didn't have words for it either.

None of us did.

The days after were strange in a way I don't have clean language for even now.

Life kept moving in its ordinary rhythms, which felt wrong in a way I couldn't articulate. Meals happened. The TV went on. People came to the house and spoke in hushed voices in the kitchen, and I sat on that brown-orange couch and watched them from the other side of the sliding glass door, adults doing adult grief in ways I wasn't invited into.

Nobody explained anything to me, not really. There were soft, careful words. There was comfort offered in the form of food and presence and people touching my hair. Nobody sat down and said: this is what suicide is, this is what it means, this is why your dad made the choice he made, this is how we're going to talk about it.

So, I didn't talk about it. I did what I'd already begun to learn was the correct response to difficult feelings: I went quiet. I watched. I took it in and held it somewhere below the level of language where it couldn't be examined or questioned or required to make sense.

There's a version of me, seven years old, sitting on that couch in the dim room with the sliding glass door letting in Louisiana light, learning something enormous without knowing she was learning it. Not just that her dad was gone. Something bigger and more structural than that.

The lesson was this: things can be fine and then not fine, and nobody warns you first.

People can be present in your life in small, reliable ways, a voice every day, a visit twice a year, and then absent completely, and the absence doesn't make sense yet in the way adult absences make sense. It just sits there, large and confusing, pressing on a part of you that didn't know it needed protecting.

I didn't cry at first. That surprised me later, when I was older and thought about it. Seven year olds cry easily, usually. I went still instead. Froze in place and started learning how to hold things I didn't know how to name.

That was the beginning. Not the grief exactly, the grief would come later and keep coming for years in ways I didn't always recognize as grief. But something else. A posture. An orientation. A way of being in rooms that had changed while I was standing in them.

The story didn't explode after that. It settled. There was no dramatic rebellion. No visible collapse. Life kept moving, school mornings, homework, laughter in between. On the outside, we were fine.

I was fine.

That word became reflex.

But something small and steady had already taken root. A quiet alertness. A scanning. A readiness for the next shift in the room. I didn't become reckless.

I became watchful.

And watchful turns into something else if you let it.

It turns into hunger.

For certainty.

For attention.

For someone who stays.

That phone call wasn't just loss. It was the beginning of a question I would spend the next two decades trying to answer, one I didn't even know I was asking, not in those words, not for a long time.

But the question was already forming.

Already taking shape in the body of a seven year old girl standing very still in a dim living room, listening to silence where a voice used to be.

If people leave, how do you make them stay?

I didn't know yet.

But I was already starting to learn all the wrong answers.

Chapter 3 : the Seesaw Made of Glass

Colleen is my sister. But for a long time, she was also my mirror, my rival, and my ghost.

We were Irish twins, thirteen months apart, and when we were little, we were less like sisters and more like a matched set. Thick as thieves. Partners in mischief. People confused us all the time. We liked it that way. We liked pretending we were the same.

Until we weren't.

We used to make potions in the backyard. Dirt and water and whatever leaves or bugs we could justify tossing in, then pretend we were witches. We dared each other to drink them. It was usually me who did it.

I was the big sister. I needed to go first.

Call it protective. Call it naive. Either way, I did it every time, without thinking twice about it, because that's what you do when you trust someone completely. When it's us against them before you even know who they are. When you believe they'll never hurt you and would never let you get hurt. When the idea of going first doesn't feel like risk because you can't imagine a version of events where it ends badly for either of you.

That kind of trust is specific to childhood. You can't recreate it once it's gone. You can approximate it, build something that looks like it, but the original, the version where you just believe without evidence, only exists the first time.

I can still picture her face when I'd come back up from whatever concoction we'd made, grimacing, trying to look unbothered. The way she'd laugh. The way we'd both laugh. The whole afternoon available to us, no urgency, no agenda, nothing but the backyard and the dirt and each other.

We invented whole worlds out there. Rules nobody else knew. Languages that were ours. The kind of private universe that children build between themselves when they have enough time and enough proximity and enough trust to feel safe making things up. We were each other's first audience, first co-conspirator, first witness. Before either of us had language for what family was supposed to mean, we were already practicing it.

For a long time, that was us.

The shift didn't happen all at once. It crept in during our early teens, quiet at first, the way the most consequential changes always are.

I remember arguing with my mom about not wanting Colleen to come with me to a friend's birthday party. I didn't say why. I didn't have the words yet. But after she failed third grade and started gravitating toward younger kids, I noticed the gap widening between us. They were only a couple of years younger than me, but it felt enormous. They still played. They still sounded like little girls. I was in a hurry to grow up, to get somewhere, to be something other than what I currently was. I didn't have patience for backward motion.

I had it easier with my mom, or at least I made it look that way. I got good at playing the part, the quiet one, the good girl, the peacemaker. I found the workarounds. I figured out how to want things without showing it, how to be difficult in ways that didn't register as difficult.

Colleen didn't have that gear.

She was louder. Fiercer. She pushed against things instead of finding ways around them. When she didn't get what she wanted, the fights with my mom turned brutal, verbal, emotional, and sometimes physical, the kind that leave marks even when nobody's touching anybody. I hovered between them during those moments, trying to diffuse the damage before it spread, trying to be the thing that kept the temperature from reaching critical. When that didn't work, I turned my anger toward Colleen. I couldn't understand how she could talk to our mom that way. Didn't she know how much worse she was making everything? Didn't she understand the cost?

What I understand now that I didn't then: we weren't opposites. We were two versions of the same survival. I masked. She exploded. I found ways around the rules. She bulldozed straight through them. We were both responding to the same environment, the same grief, the same absence, the same household that was trying to hold itself together with the wrong tools. We just responded differently, and for years we held that against each other instead of recognizing it as the mirror it was.

Neither of our strategies actually worked. Mine just looked better from the outside, which meant I got more credit and she got more blame, and that imbalance did its own damage to both of us over time.

There was one fight between us where everything broke open.

I don't remember what started it. I only remember the heat. The way my vision narrowed. The way my voice got louder and sharper and unfamiliar, like something I'd borrowed from someone else without knowing. I hurt her. We left scars on each other, the kind that don't show but don't leave either.

It was the first time I'd felt completely out of control with my own rage. Like the mask slipped and something feral stepped forward that I didn't recognize and couldn't pull back. I wasn't the quiet one in that moment. I wasn't the peacemaker or the good girl or the one who found workarounds. I was fury, and for once I didn't care how it looked or what it cost.

Afterward, things never fully reset.

We still had flashes of sisterhood. Moments that reminded me of who we used to be, that made the distance feel temporary, like maybe we were just in a rough patch and the original version of us was still in there somewhere, waiting. But those moments got further apart, and the resets got less complete, and eventually we stopped expecting to get all the way back to where we'd started.

The night she called me, I knew something was wrong before she said it.

Her voice was thin. Small. Afraid in a way she rarely let herself sound. She kept saying my name like it was a rope she was holding.

Please. Please come.

I could hear him in the background. Then a scuffle. Then her screaming.

My body moved before my brain caught up, which is the only way I know how to describe it. I wasn't making a decision. I was already in the car.

When I pulled up, she was red-faced, scraped up, hysterical. One shoe missing. He'd thrown them. My hands were shaking as I opened the car door.

I wasn't brave.

I was pissed.

When he called her a bitch, something primal took over. I told her to get in my car. Then I stepped forward and said things I had no doubt I would follow through on. I don't remember the exact words, only that they were loud and ugly and completely meant. He backed away. He believed me. Smart of him.

That night I was the sister I used to be. The one who tasted the mud pies first. The one who went before fear had time to speak. The one who would rather take the damage herself than watch it land on someone she loved.

But love doesn't always win. Sometimes the damage takes root regardless. And the girl I picked up off that curb was already carrying more than one night's worth.

There were two rehab experiences in Baton Rouge. They are not the same story.

The first came after David had given up on me, which belongs elsewhere in this book. I went to a treatment center about an hour outside the city, a converted vacation resort with a big lake in the middle and cabins scattered across the grounds. Women on one side. Men on the other. As rehabs go, it was nice. I stayed the full twenty-eight days. I graduated. I got something real out of it.

Afterwards, I moved into sober living and started IOP. Intensive outpatient therapy. For three months, I was doing something that looked and felt like thriving. I had a routine. A community. Friends who knew my story and didn't flinch from it. The IOP building was across the street, the walk took maybe a minute. I went to meetings. I shared. I listened.

I hadn't relapsed. Not technically. But I bent the rules when it suited me. Stayed out past curfew. Missed a mandatory meeting here and there. I told myself it didn't matter because everything else was holding, because I hadn't used, because I was still showing up in all the ways that counted. I was wrong about that, but I didn't know it yet.

They trusted me enough to promote me to house mom. That mattered more than I let on at the time. Being trusted again, being seen as someone capable of being responsible for others, felt like proof that the person I was trying to become was actually taking shape.

And then, in less than a week, it was gone.

One of my roommates didn't come home one night, slept at her boyfriend's place instead. The next morning, she panicked and asked me to cover for her. I said yes without thinking. Loyalty has always come easier to me than foresight, which is either a character strength or a flaw depending on the situation, and in this one it was clearly the latter.

When I was called into the director's office, I knew I was in trouble. I didn't think I'd be expelled.

I was. I was blindsided.

I lost my bed. I was removed from IOP. I lost the friends, the routine, the community, all of it at once, in a single conversation. I walked out of that office with nothing I'd walked in with.

I was furious. Untethered. Humiliated in the specific way that happens when you've been genuinely trying and it still blows up in your face. The kind of humiliation that has a particular edge to it, the edge of someone who almost believed they were getting somewhere.

My coping skills weren't solid yet. They were fragile, still forming. So, my nervous system did what it had always done when everything fell apart at once.

It said, Fuck it.

That's when I asked Colleen if I could stay with her.

She was sober then. Living in Baton Rouge. Clean for a while. I told her it would be temporary. I told myself the same thing. Early on, it almost worked.

We sat on her bed talking about nothing. Went grocery shopping. Laughed at stupid things. It wasn't easy, but it leaned more sweet than sour. A sisterly truce, fragile but real. I think she wanted to believe it would hold. I wanted to believe it too. There were moments that felt like the backyard, like the potions, like the part of us that knew how to be together without everything being weighted.

But I was angry underneath all of it. Bitter about getting kicked out. About the roommate who'd put me in that position. About the way things had gone sideways right when I thought I was getting somewhere. At some point I let go of the reins. I stopped fighting the pull and started letting it carry me.

Colleen was forced to watch me spiral while staying clean herself. Most people in recovery will tell you it's one of the hardest positions to be in, especially early on. I don't blame her for struggling. I don't judge her for falling. But I hated being the reason. That's the part I've never been able to fully set down, not that she relapsed, but that I was the match to set her sobriety to blaze.

Eventually we were both using. Still lying to each other. Still pretending things weren't as bad as they were. We were a grenade with the pin already loose, and it was only a matter of time before it went off.

And then, it did. Spectacularly.

I was working, but not enough to cover the habit and the rent and the utilities and the food. Something had to give, and it was the things with a consequence attached. We were evicted.

We had no choice but to go back to my mom's. And going there meant rehab. We both knew it. As we waited for beds in separate facilities, Colleen was called first. I stayed behind, to wait for my spot to open.

Nearly a month later, I was still waiting, but she came out.

She was sober. Awake. Different in the way people get when something has shifted inside them, when they've done real work and come back changed. I could see it in how she held herself, something straighter and more deliberate than before.

But she was cold.

She barely looked at me. Didn't speak unless she had to. Walked past me in our mother's house like I was furniture. Like I was a stranger who happened to be occupying the same space.

I wanted to ask her what happened. I wanted an explanation, not even an apology, just an explanation. Some version of why she'd come back from a place designed to process hard things and chosen silence as her first act on the other side of it.

I never got one.

I've thought about that silence a lot over the years. I've turned it over and tried to understand it from her side, the difficulty of coming back to someone still in the thick of it, the self-preservation of not engaging, the way early sobriety sometimes requires a kind of ruthlessness that can look like cruelty from the outside. I can understand the logic of it. That doesn't mean it didn't leave a mark.

I've since come to understand, that when people fall, it's easier to assign blame than to sit with how fragile you both were. I think some of that blame landed on me, and some of it probably should have. What I didn't expect was for the accounting to happen in silence, without a conversation, without me even getting to be in the room for it.

I still haven't gotten that conversation.

My second rehab came after all of that. I didn't finish it.

During detox, my prescriptions were withheld while they verified them. Days passed. My body revolted. I went from using and mentally functional, or functional enough, to detoxing without the medications that had been keeping me stable. My mind collapsed in a way that felt complete, like the floor had gone out.

I wanted to die. I said it out loud. And when I said it, they sent me to the psych hospital.

The required 72 hours was a kick in the ass, but after they put me back on my medications, I felt better, not great, but I felt ok. I was alive, and at the time, that was good enough.

The experience traumatized me. It also motivated me, which is a combination I've learned not to question.

I worked. I saved. I moved into my own apartment. Independence didn't fix everything. But it kept me moving forward when the alternative was staying still and sinking.

Today, Colleen and I live in the in-between.

We talk. But not the way we used to. Our conversations are functional mostly, surface level, usually about my mom, about logistics, about the family things that don't require you to be too vulnerable with each other. We've found a register that works and we stay in it.

We never found our way back to the ease of our childhood, or even to how it was in her apartment in those first weeks, when things were complicated but still soft around the edges. We didn't choose estrangement exactly. We chose not to fight anymore. We chose to let things be what they are without demanding they become something else.

Sometimes that looks like peace. Sometimes it looks like two people who decided the cost of honesty was too high and agreed, without saying so, to pay a different kind of price instead.

But things are shifting. Slowly, in ways neither of us has formally acknowledged. She stopped by recently, unexpectedly, just to visit. Not because something was wrong. Not because there was a crisis to manage or a mom-situation to navigate. Just to sit down together and talk. Her energy felt different, more open, less defended, closer to how it used to be between us before everything got so layered.

We talked for a while. About real things. About our childhood. About our dad. About the things we each remembered and the things we each had wrong. There's something specific that happens when you sit across from the only other person who was in the same rooms as you for the first years of your life, the only one who carries the same foundational material. You can't have that conversation with anyone else. Nobody else was there. Nobody else has the original footage.

I don't know what we're building, exactly. I'm not sure she does either. But something is different than it was, and I've learned not to push things that are moving in the right direction. You let them move. You show up when they need you to. You try not to need the destination before you've finished the road.

We're still sisters. That part is permanent, the way certain things are permanent regardless of whether they're warm. We just aren't each other's safe place right now, and I think we both know it, and neither of us has pushed the other to pretend otherwise.

I still think about the girl who made potions with me in the backyard. The one who trusted me enough to let me go first. The one who laughed when I came back up grimacing. The one who was just there, fully there, before either of us understood that you could lose a person without them dying, without anyone choosing to leave, but through the slow accumulation of damage and distance and time.

I don't know if we'll find our way back to anything close to that.

But something is moving. And after everything, that's not nothing.

Some days it's enough.

Some days it might even be the beginning of something

Chapter 6 The Girl Who Burned Too Bright

Before addiction has a name, it has a pattern. Before substances, there are substitutes. People. Rooms. Brightness you stand beside so you don’t have to feel your own shadow so sharply.

There’s a holy moment in girlhood when innocence starts to crack. When you can still feel the child you were clinging to one side of the doorway, while the woman you’ll become waits on the other, impatient, already forming beneath the skin.

For me, that doorway opened the year I met Teresa.

Standing next to her, I felt the contrast so sharply it hummed under my skin. Her brightness didn’t dim me. It sharpened me. Like standing next to a flame long enough to see where I was still unlit.

For a girl like me, quiet, anxious, always bracing for exposure, her choosing me felt like stepping into sunlight after years of shade. She made me believe I could be more than who I was. Or maybe more than who I’d been told I was allowed to be. Teresa awakened something in me I didn’t know was sleeping.

Not jealousy exactly. Not desire, not yet. It was hunger. The kind that tightens your chest when someone else is being chosen. The kind that quiets when you’re standing close enough to borrow their shine. I wasn’t jealous of the boys she had. I was jealous of how she felt when she was wanted. There’s a difference.

Being with Teresa made everything feel shared. The risk. The thrill. The shame. I felt braver next to her, but also less like my own person. Less responsible. Less visible in a way that felt like relief. That relief is important.

I wasn’t chasing boys. I wasn’t chasing rebellion. I was chasing the hush that came from not being alone inside my own head.

The hush that arrived when someone else’s gravity pulled the attention away from me. When she laughed, people leaned in. When she walked into a room, it shifted. And if I stood close enough, I shifted too.

I didn’t have to carry the full weight of being seen. I could split it.

Later, substances would offer that same quiet. That same narrowing of focus. That same temporary suspension of self-consciousness.

But Teresa was the first place I felt it. The first place I learned that proximity could soften the sharpest edges of myself. The first place I confused belonging with safety.

There’s something intoxicating about being chosen by someone who feels larger than life. It rearranges your internal math. It tells you that maybe you’re not as small as you thought. That maybe you are capable of being wanted. But wanting can be slippery. Because once you feel the quiet that comes from standing next to someone brighter, you start looking for it everywhere.

You start measuring rooms for who can hold your shadow so you don’t have to. You start rehearsing versions of yourself that feel easier to carry. I didn’t know I was building a template. I just knew I didn’t want to go back to the version of myself that felt exposed and unsure and too aware of her own breathing.

Teresa wasn’t the problem. She was the preview.

The first time I realized I could outsource my discomfort to proximity. The first time I felt relief from myself. And relief is persuasive. It doesn’t announce itself as dependency. It arrives dressed as friendship. As loyalty. As closeness. It feels innocent. Until you realize you don’t know how to feel steady without it.

Chapter 7 : Before the Slide

I met David through Abby.

That's the short version. The longer one requires context that doesn't reflect well on any of us, which means it fits perfectly in this chapter.

Abby was one of the girls from the Cheese era. One of the ones I worked with, stayed with, moved through that period alongside. She and David had one of those relationships that was never quite on and never quite off, the kind that kept resetting without fully resolving, where both people were too tangled up in each other to commit and too attached to leave. When he came around to see her, I'd be there too. Sitting in the hotel room. Present but peripheral. A fixture in the background of someone else's situation.

I noticed him the way you notice someone you're not supposed to be noticing. My age, average looking in most ways, but with pretty blue eyes that caught your attention before the rest of him did. We didn't have a thing, not then. He was Abby's, on whatever day he was Abby's, and that was a line I didn't cross.

But I noticed.

Before anything happened with David, Abby took herself out of the picture in a way that made the decision easier than it might have been.

She stole from me. Not a small thing, not something I could rationalize as borrowing or desperation or the particular moral flexibility that comes with addiction, though I understood all of those things from the inside. She took the last of my dope and the money I'd hidden well enough that finding it required looking. Both gone. I found out the way you find out things like that, by reaching for something that should have been there and finding nothing.

The yelling started fast and got loud faster. Then it got physical. The hotel called the police.

My name was the one on the room.

So I was the one who went to jail.

I sat with that for a long time afterward, the specific injustice of being the one who got stolen from and the one who paid for it. By the time I got out, whatever had existed between Abby and me was finished. Not drifted, not cooled, not the kind of falling out that leaves room for later. Finished. The kind of ending that answers its own questions.

So when David kept calling after she was gone, when the calls stopped being about the connect and started being about something else, I didn't spend much time on the ethics of it. The bridge wasn't just burned. It had been taken down deliberately, by her, at my expense.

I noticed him. And eventually, I let myself.

After I got out from under Cheese, after the hotel rooms and the Mardi Gras escape and the slow work of building something that resembled a normal life, the connections from that period didn't all disappear at once. That's not how it works. You leave the situation, but the people remain, loosely, in the orbit of your phone contacts and your mutual acquaintances and the city that's smaller than it seems.

David kept in touch.

At first, it was transactional. I had a connect he needed and that was the official reason for the calls. But calls that start about one thing have a way of becoming about something else when they happen often enough. He'd come over to my apartment, the one I'd worked to get and was fiercely proud of, and somewhere in the rotation of those visits the dynamic shifted. The visits stopped being about the dealer. He stopped being Abby's, or Abby stopped being in the picture, or both things happened at roughly the same time the way they tend to with relationships like that one.

We became a couple. Quickly, the way things happen quickly when you're both using and the edges of everything are already blurred. He moved in. Neither of us planned it with any deliberateness. It just accumulated, one overnight into another, until the distinction between staying over and living there stopped being meaningful.

He wasn't exactly boyfriend material, and I knew it. Wasn't exactly the kind of person you build a stable life with, which was fine because I wasn't exactly building one. We were two people using together and keeping each other company inside that. That has its own version of closeness, even when it's not the kind that holds up to scrutiny.

His family, though. His family was something else.

DD and Pap were David's parents, and from almost the first time I met them, they treated me like I came with the package. Not grudgingly. Not provisionally. Like I was just there, and being there was enough, and no further explanation was required. I didn't know what to do with that at first. I kept waiting for the fine print, the conditions, the moment the welcome revealed its limits.

It never did.

His grandmother was warm in a way that felt almost physical, the kind of person who made a room feel easier just by being in it. His grandfather was quieter but solid, the kind of steady that doesn't announce itself and doesn't need to. Together they had built the kind of family that made space for people without making them feel like charity cases, and somehow, I ended up inside that space without quite understanding how I got there.

I didn't have a big family. I wasn't used to being folded into one. The first few gatherings I attended I held myself a little apart, watching from the edges the way I always watched from edges, waiting to find the catch.

It never came.

I came to love them. That surprised me, how quickly and how fully it happened. There was something about being accepted without having to negotiate for the acceptance that undid something in me I hadn't known was still knotted. They saw everything, eventually, all of what David and I were and weren't, all of what I was struggling with, and they didn't use it to close the door. They just kept it open.

I still go, even now. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Birthday parties where Bubby runs around with cousins and I sit at a table that has held space for me for years, through all the versions of myself I've been since I first showed up uncertain at their door.

They never stopped making space.

I don't take that lightly.

 I found out I was pregnant about a month and a half after Erin died.

I was still living in the apartment I'd holed up in after she was gone. Calling it an apartment feels generous. It was more like a cave I'd crawled into and forgotten how to leave. The lights always dim, curtains pulled against whatever time of day it happened to be outside. The air stale. It smelled like old smoke, old sadness, and whatever takeout containers I hadn't gotten around to throwing away. I had let the apartment become an accurate reflection of my interior life, which was not a good sign about either.

I stood in the bathroom staring at those two pink lines until my eyes burned.

Shit, I said out loud.

Not cried. Not gasped. Not the complicated rush of feelings people describe when they find out they're pregnant. Just that word, landing flat in the dim bathroom, the test in my hand, the full weight of the situation assembling itself in my chest before I had language for any of it.

It wasn't just that I was pregnant. It was that I was pregnant and escorting and still using. All at the same time. All in the same body. All happening simultaneously to the same person who was now also, apparently, growing another person inside her.

I thought about Babygirl. She was already ten years into being my daughter, almost a teenager, already navigating her life with a mother who was not consistently available to her in the ways she deserved. I knew what it cost a child to have a parent fighting something invisible. I had been watching her absorb that cost for years, quietly, the way kids absorb things when they don't have language for what's wrong.

And now there would be two.

I told myself this would be the moment everything snapped into place. The wake-up call. The line in the sand. The thing that finally made me stop, because surely this was the thing, surely nothing could be bigger or more compelling than this.

Addiction doesn't care about surely.

It doesn't care about timing or responsibility or biology. It doesn't care that there's a heartbeat inside you. It doesn't pause for instinct or love or fear or two pink lines on a test. It just gets louder. It metabolizes everything you throw at it, including the things that are supposed to be too important to sacrifice, and it keeps going.

I tried to quit. I want to say that clearly. I tried. I told myself I'd stop, that I'd taper, that I'd figure something out. But detoxing cold turkey is a specific kind of hell, and I didn't have the strength for it. Not then. Not in that apartment. Not with my body already wired for survival and panic and grief, already running on fumes and holding patterns and the particular exhaustion that comes from months of not being okay.

David was still using.

Watching someone get high when you're trying not to feels like being trapped in a room with a glass of water you're not allowed to drink while dying of thirst. He didn't hide it. Didn't soften it. Didn't pretend. Eventually, I gave in.

Again.

The guilt didn't explode the way you'd expect. It hummed. Low and constant, like a frequency I'd adjusted to, background noise I'd learned to function inside. I had been drowning out uncomfortable truths since I was a kid. This was just another one.

 People like to tell a certain story about pregnancy.

That once you know, something shifts. That instinct kicks in and love outruns everything else. That the body's wisdom asserts itself and the rest falls away.

That was not my experience.

Knowing I was pregnant didn't quiet the cravings. It sharpened them. Made them frantic. Because now there was something else inside me responding to every spike and crash, every chemical swing, every hit and every withdrawal. The body I was trying to manage had a passenger now.

The first time I used after I knew, I sat on the edge of my bed with the needle in my hand and my other palm pressed flat against my stomach. Like that gesture could make it safer. Like touch could cancel out chemistry. Like if I kept my hand there and stayed aware, the thing I was doing to my body wasn't also being done to his.

I told myself I'd do less.

I told myself I'd stop tomorrow.

Tomorrow was always forgiving. Always untouched. Always available. I had been living on tomorrows for years and they kept arriving and I kept passing them by, but I kept believing in them anyway because the alternative, accepting that today was all there was and I was still choosing this, was too much to carry.

Sometimes I talked to him without meaning to. Quiet apologies whispered into the dark. I'm sorry. I'm trying. I'm going to figure this out. The words going nowhere, landing on nothing. Other times I pretended he wasn't there at all because pretending was easier than feeling the full weight of what I was doing every single minute of every day.

Addiction teaches you how to split yourself cleanly down the middle. Love on one side. Survival on the other. And you learn how to lock the door between them so you don't have to feel both at once, because feeling both at once is unbearable, because love and destruction living in the same body at the same time is a specific kind of hell that doesn't have a name.

I locked the door.

I kept using.

I hated myself with a consistency and specificity that I hid from everyone, including myself most of the time.

 Detoxing cold turkey felt impossible almost immediately. My body revolted the second I tried. Sweats soaked through my clothes. Cramps twisted my stomach. Panic crawled up my throat. Every nerve felt exposed. Every thought felt dangerous.

So I did what people like me do when we want to believe we're choosing harm reduction instead of harm.

I started going to the methadone clinic.

Every morning I walked in and stood in line. There was a specific kind of quiet inside it. Everyone keeping their eyes on the floor or the wall or the middle distance, nobody making contact that might invite something they didn't have the bandwidth for. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Air that smelled like stale coffee and desperation.

Some days it helped. Most days it didn't. Especially when David was around. He'd pull out his stash and start his routine right in front of me like it was nothing, and I'd sit there with jealousy and guilt twisting together so tight I couldn't tell them apart.

I can't believe he's doing this in front of me.

And then, underneath that, louder than I wanted it to be: I want some too.

Most days it was a constant internal argument. Rationalizing using. Hating myself for wanting it. Losing every single time.

It wasn't long before I was using both heroin and methadone.

There were weeks I couldn't afford the clinic fee. But because I was pregnant, there was a loophole. It was illegal for them to cut me off.

I remember the relief hitting first. I wouldn't get sick. I could use my money for dope. Then came something that still turns my stomach when I think about it. Pride. Pride in gaming the system.

The guilt I carry now is heavy. But the resentment I feel toward that version of myself, toward the weakness, the selfishness, the ease with which I justified everything, cuts deeper.

 I was pregnant and escorting and still using.

Ha. Life has a sense of humor even when you're not in on the joke yet.

Pretty Woman was my favorite movie as a little girl. Think about that for a second. The fantasy I was handed about what a woman in my position could become. A fairy tale that used a woman selling herself as a romantic set piece and dressed it up as a love story. I had internalized that story before I had the language to interrogate it, genuinely believed some version of it was waiting for me on the other side of the life I was living. A man who would show up and choose me and everything would resolve itself into something cinematic and clean.

The fairy tale had a different timeline than I did.

By the time I started regular OB appointments, the lies stopped working. There's no room for denial in lab results. No way to spin numbers on a page. Even with it written there in black and white, I kept using. That's how deep I was.

The due date crept closer. Time doesn't care if you're ready.

 Bubby's birth was a planned C-section.

I was terrified. And numb in a way that felt deeper than anesthesia.

My veins were destroyed from years of use, collapsed, scarred, unreliable in the way that years of damage make a thing unreliable. Placing a simple IV turned into a production. They tilted the bed head-down, hoping gravity would flood my neck veins enough to make them usable. I lay there for thirty minutes while they searched.

When the anesthesiologist finally got the line in, it hurt. It was humiliating. And I decided I deserved every second of it.

He was born small. Perfect. Addicted.

The guilt that hit me wasn't sharp. It was heavy. The kind that sinks into your bones and stays there.

My OB didn't make it easier. We hadn't discussed permanent birth control, not once. So when he asked, mid-C-section, while I was open on the table, my son not yet fully out, organs shifted, arms strapped down, every part of me exposed in every sense of that word, whether I wanted a tubal ligation, it didn't feel like a routine medical question. It felt loaded. Poorly timed. Intimate in the worst way.

There is something specific about being conscious and cut open. You have no defenses. You are rearranged. You are trusting the people in that room with the most fundamental version of yourself. It is not the moment to have someone's opinion of your fitness as a mother inserted into a medical conversation.

Then he moved to deny me post-operative pain medication.

Not because the surgery had been minor. Not because I didn't need it. Because my history was in my chart, and my chart spoke for me in a way I wasn't allowed to contest. Methadone is maintenance. It keeps withdrawal at bay. It does not numb surgical pain. But in that room, what I had been outweighed what I was.

The anesthesiologist intervened.

A stranger. He didn't argue dramatically. He simply stated what was medically obvious: she just had major abdominal surgery. Direct. Quiet. Factual. He made the case based on what had happened to my body rather than on who the chart said I was.

I still feel the heat of that OB's judgment when I think about it. The way stigma moves through medical decisions without announcing itself. The way some people have already decided who you are before you open your mouth, and no amount of present-tense evidence changes the conclusion they've drawn. He looked at my chart and saw a category. One man in that room looked at my body and saw a patient.

That distinction mattered more than it should have had to.

 The NICU nurses treated me like a human being.

A struggling one, yes. But still a mother. Still worthy of kindness.

The NICU was tucked behind locked doors. You had to scrub your hands for two full minutes just to enter, counted, timed, done correctly because the rules mattered here more than feelings did. The smell was antiseptic and institutional and something else underneath, something human and frightened that the antiseptic couldn't quite cover.

Bubby wasn't the sickest baby there. There were others wrapped in more wires, fighting harder battles. But watching him shake through withdrawal tore something open in me that never fully closed.

He stayed for six weeks.

I knew that sound. The specific pitch and rhythm of a body in withdrawal, fighting chemistry it didn't choose. I had made that sound myself. I was the reason he was making it now.

There's one afternoon I still can't shake. Nothing dramatic happened. No alarms. No codes. Just quiet. Ordinary NICU afternoon, the machines doing what they did, the nurses moving in their careful, efficient way.

I scrubbed my hands until the skin burned. Counted because I was told to. Did it right because doing it right was the only thing I could do right in that room and I was desperate for any form of competence.

When I picked him up, his body went rigid. He didn't melt into me. He arched and trembled. Pain with nowhere to go. I rocked him anyway. Kept my arms around him even when he couldn't settle into them.

I'm here, I whispered.

But love didn't stop the shakes. That was what I had to learn in that room. Love is not a medication. Love does not undo chemistry. I loved him completely and it wasn't stopping anything.

When the medication kicked in and he finally slept, relief hit, and I hated myself for feeling it. I stood there afraid to move. Afraid to blink.

I'm so fucking sorry, I whispered.

When they took him back, my arms resisted before my brain caught up.

That's when it hit me. Love wasn't enough. Love had to become action.

 Living at Granny's after the NICU felt like a pause button I didn't trust. Safe, but watched.

CPS opened a file immediately. Drug tests followed. I cheated every single one. Standing in bathroom stalls, praying bottles wouldn't fall, watching temperature strips with concentration I should have been applying to any number of other things.

They never caught me. Not once.

But I want to be clear about what that means, because it would be easy to let it sound like a victory. It wasn't. Every clean test I handed in was borrowed time, not earned time. I wasn't getting away with anything. I was deferring consequences, stretching the interval between the thing and the reckoning, buying weeks with the currency of luck while doing nothing to address the thing itself.

Bubby slept in a bassinet beside our bed. Some nights I watched his chest rise and fall, counting like it might save him.

I hated myself then. I still do, most days.

 The surgeries came after Bubby was born. Ten of them over the years that followed, each one its own event, its own recovery, its own demand on a body that was already being asked to do too many things at once.

His grandparents stepped in during every hospital stretch and every recovery without being asked. Without conditions. Without making me feel judged for needing them to. They just stepped in the way they had always stepped in and made sure he was safe and loved while I was in no position to do any of those things myself.

The surgery that changed the trajectory came when Bubby was two.

By then I was barely holding together. Using, sick, running on habit and the specific stubbornness of someone who has been managing things they can't manage for so long that stopping feels more dangerous than continuing. The surgery was serious enough that recovery would take time I didn't have, in a body that had very little left to give.

And there was rehab on the other side of it.

I had known for a while that rehab was coming, the way you know something you're not quite ready to look at directly. The surgery made it impossible to keep not looking. There was no version of getting through the surgery, recovering, and then getting clean that I could do while also being Bubby's primary caregiver. The math didn't work. The body didn't work.

He needed someone steady. I wasn't that yet.

 We couldn't afford the motel anymore. Even the kind that smells like bleach and old smoke eventually runs out of patience for people who can't pay.

Bubby and I ended up at my mom's house.

David wasn't allowed to stay, and my mom didn't dress that up in diplomatic language. He was using. She knew it, and she knew what happened when she let that energy into a house where someone was trying to get clean. She'd watched me long enough to understand that much. Beyond the using, she didn't trust him, and she didn't pretend otherwise. If I was going to have any chance, she wasn't going to let the person I'd been getting undone with sleep down the hall. Her house, her terms. He went to his mother's.

Neither of us wanted the arrangement. It felt like regression. Like humiliation wearing the clothes of necessity.

But it was that or homelessness. That's where I was starting over from.

Being back in that house didn't feel nostalgic. It felt exposing. Every room held echoes of who I'd been before things went sideways. I kept bumping into former versions of myself in the hallways, the girl who had learned to mask early, the teenager who had confused chaos for belonging, the young woman who had believed she could manage things she couldn't.

I could feel people pulling their expectations back to safer ground. Conversations shortened. Offers of help arrived with conditions attached, when they arrived at all. I couldn't blame them. I'd burned through grace like it was renewable and discovered too late it wasn't.

The guilt kept me isolated. The isolation kept me sick.

And the biggest lie, the one I'd protected more fiercely than any other, was still standing. That I could maintain. That I could keep using and still be present enough, careful enough, functional enough. That the bar for not that bad was somewhere I still cleared.

That lie didn't fade out gradually.

It snapped.

One ordinary day at Walgreens. Nothing cinematic about it. I'd been shoplifting regularly by then, sliding things into my purse with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it enough times to stop feeling the adrenaline spike. That day I got careless. I felt the shift before I saw it. Footsteps syncing up with mine too neatly. The specific prickle at the back of my neck that my nervous system had learned to recognize as someone is watching.

Then her hand found mine.

Small fingers curling into my palm. Tight. Certain.

Mommy? she whispered.

One word.

It cracked something open that hadn't been open in a long time.

She wasn't oblivious. She wasn't protected by her age or my careful management of what she was allowed to see. She was watching. Reading the room the way I'd always read rooms, because she'd learned it from me. She felt my fear before I named it. She reached for my hand because she understood, in her body, that something was wrong.

I made it to the car. Pulled out with my hands shaking on the wheel. She sat in her booster seat and didn't say a word.

But I saw her face.

The confusion. The careful watching. The way her eyes moved over me like she was trying to find something steady to land on and couldn't.

I wasn't just failing. I was teaching her how to be afraid.

 David quit on me around that same time.

Not in a dramatic, door-slamming way. Not with yelling or accusations or some final explosive fight. He quit quietly. With tired eyes. With a voice that sounded practiced, like he'd already said it to himself a hundred times before saying it to me.

He said he was done. With me. With the way I was parenting, with the way I showed up and didn't. With the endless excuses. With the promises that kept recycling themselves without ever turning into proof.

He didn't say it cruelly. He said it tiredly. That almost made it worse. There was no villain I could point to. No raised voice I could meet with one of my own and turn the whole thing into a fight instead of a reckoning. There was only his exhaustion, quiet and final.

And the thing that surprised me most was that I agreed with him.

I was done too.

Done pretending. Done bargaining with myself in the dark. Done chasing a version of me that only existed in theory, in the next clean week, in the promises I made at two in the morning and couldn't locate by morning.

I felt like garbage. I was sad about the relationship ending. But mostly I was tired. Bone tired. The kind of tired that lives behind your eyes and doesn't lift no matter how long you sleep. Ashamed in a way that had stopped being loud and become ambient, background noise I'd forgotten wasn't normal.

But underneath all of that, quiet and fragile and almost unrecognizable, there was something else.

Hope.

Not the speeches kind. Not the version you perform for other people or write on a sticky note and put on your mirror. This was smaller. Less impressive. More dangerous, because it was real.

A flicker. A thought that didn't finish itself out loud but stayed lodged in my chest, stubborn and patient.

If you do this now. Maybe this time it sticks.

 Letting Bubby go to his grandparents wasn't a negotiation. It didn't arrive as a question I weighed from multiple angles. It landed fully formed and immovable, the way real decisions sometimes do when you've finally run out of ways to avoid them.

He had to go.

And I had to let him.

I won't pretend I handled the goodbye with grace. I held him too long. Said I love you more times than he knew what to do with. Pressed my face into his hair and tried to memorize the specific weight and warmth of him, tried to bank it somewhere I could access later when the house went quiet and the quiet became unbearable.

He was patient with me. Even then.

I watched them drive away. Then I went back inside.

The house was the same house it had been ten minutes before. Same furniture. Same light through the same windows. What had changed was the absence of him, his shoes by the door, the ambient noise of his existence running underneath everything like a bass note I hadn't known I was hearing until it stopped.

The quiet was immediate and total and brutal.

I sat in it. I didn't turn on the TV. Didn't call anyone. Didn't reach for anything. I sat in the specific silence of a house from which a child has been removed and let it be exactly as bad as it was, because it deserved to be that bad.

No one judged me harder than I judged myself. Whatever anyone thought of me during those years, it was nothing compared to what I thought. The internal voice was relentless and specific and knew exactly where to land to do the most damage.

 The last lie ran out of oxygen in that quiet.

I didn't have control. I hadn't had it for a long time. And the first step toward getting it back was admitting, fully and without cushioning, that it was gone.

What terrified me most about stopping wasn't sobriety itself. It was everything sobriety would require me to feel.

I'd been numb for so long that feeling had started to seem like a foreign language. All the things I'd been outrunning were still there, waiting with the patience of things that don't have anywhere else to be. The grief. The regret. The shame layered over older shame layered over things I'd never properly processed because processing them would have required stopping, and stopping would have meant feeling them, and feeling them had always seemed like too high a price.

Then came the moment that cut through all of it.

A doctor's appointment. Another conversation about the arm. He looked at me directly and said it plainly.

Ms. Holmes. If you don't stop, you will lose your arm.

No metaphor. No softening. A fact delivered like a fact, by a person who had apparently decided that gentleness had run its course.

Something clicked. Not dramatically. More like a door closing somewhere inside me. The door marked not yet, not now, maybe later.

It closed.

And I decided.

 I left my hometown.

Not because I hated it, though parts had become impossible, every street corner holding a version of me I couldn't outrun. I left because I understood, finally and completely, that I could not get sober in the place where I had learned to be sick.

I checked into rehab about sixty miles from home. Not because someone made me. Not because a court date or an ultimatum had backed me into a corner.

Because I decided. My call. My line in the sand. My first real act of choosing myself in longer than I could accurately remember.

Before I left, I stood in the bathroom mirror. Not to fix my hair or check my makeup. I stood there because I needed a witness and I was the only one available. I looked terrible. Tired in a way that had gotten into my face and settled there. Scared in a way I was done hiding from myself.

I said it out loud.

I'm ready.

Not to anyone but me. Not as a performance. To myself, in the mirror, with all the evidence of what I'd been stacked up behind me and all the uncertainty of what came next still ahead.

I said it and I meant it.

And meaning it was the only thing that had ever been missing before.

Now, every night after teeth are brushed and the house exhales into its evening quiet, Bubby lines up his Mickey Mouses.

Ten of them. Three favorites. He has a system, a specific order, specific positions, a logic I don't fully understand but have learned to respect absolutely. I hug everyone. Kiss everyone. Say goodnight to everyone, because he needs each of them acknowledged before the night can properly begin.

If I miss one, he notices.

Then we play. Ten minutes of tossing them back and forth, catching them and dropping them and laughing when they hit the floor, the specific joy of a kid who is fully in his body, unselfconsciously, without reserving anything.

And sometimes it hits me. We made it. Not loudly. Not as a triumphant announcement. More like a fact that settles. We made it, which was not a guaranteed outcome, which is something I know in a way that most parents don't have to know it.

There was a time counting his breaths was the thing tethering me to the world. The only proof I could reach for that I hadn't destroyed everything. Rise. Fall. Still here.

Now I don't count.

That's the proof. Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind you can hold up and show people. The quiet, daily, unremarkable kind that you know in your body rather than your head, the way you know something has changed not because it no longer exists but because it no longer requires the same vigilance to survive.

I am not healed in the way people mean when they use that word as a destination. I still carry the NICU afternoons and the bassinet nights and the long ugly middle of those years. I still carry what I did to him before he had any say in it. That is not the kind of thing that resolves.

But it changed.

The rebuild didn't start with hope. Mine started with exhaustion. With a specific, complete running-out of the energy required to keep lying to myself. With the moment the lies stopped working not because I had grown too strong for them but because I had become too tired to maintain them.

With choosing, in that exhaustion, not to disappear.

That's where it started. Not with a vision of who I could become or a clear picture of the other side. With not disappearing. With staying in the room one more day. With getting up and doing the small, unglamorous work of being present even when present was the last thing I wanted to be.

Not clean. Not finished. Not standing on the other side of something with the distance to make it make sense.

Right there. In the exhaustion. In the choosing.

In the staying.

Chapter 16 What Survival Looked Like 2012-2016

There are stories I wish I didn’t have to tell.

This is one of them.

Not because I’m ashamed exactly. Shame is something I’ve made uneasy peace with. But because telling this requires stepping back inside a version of myself who moved through the world in a crouch. Always scanning. Always calculating. Always measuring the distance to the nearest exit.

That version of me kept me alive. She also cost me things I’m still inventorying.

Escorting wasn’t something I dreamed about as a little girl. I want to say that plainly, not defensively. I know how these stories get read.

People want a clean narrative. Either it was bold and empowered or purely victimization. The truth refuses both shapes.

It was survival.

The kind that narrows your world until you stop asking whether something is safe and start asking whether it will get you through the night. The kind that doesn’t feel like a single decision but a series of smaller ones, each one reasonable in isolation, until you look up and realize you’re somewhere you never intended to be.

It started after I got kicked out of rehab.

I’ve written about the sneaking out, the overdose, the garbage bags on Christmas Day. What I haven’t written about is the hour after. Standing outside with nowhere to go and a phone in my hand, understanding I had burned through the last of my grace.

My mom told me I couldn’t come home. I understood why. That didn’t make it less devastating. I called my dealer. Not because I wanted to use, though I did. Always. The want was constant. But because he was the only person I could think of who wouldn’t ask too many questions. He told me about a motel. Said there were girls there I could crash with. Something was all I had.

I met Cheese outside that motel room.

Tall. Broad. Eyes that moved constantly, missing nothing. Every alarm bell I had went off when I saw him. I felt it in my stomach. That cellular warning. I paid attention. And then he mentioned money. The alarms quieted. Not disappeared. Quieted. I had nothing. No bed. No plan. No visible options. Desperation doesn’t erase instinct. It teaches you how to override it. So I walked into that room. He pitched it like a business opportunity.

That’s how it starts. Not with force. With a conversation. Photos. Ads. Calls come in. You go. You get paid. Easy money.

What he didn’t say was that his wife answered the phones. That they controlled the logistics. That it was structured in a way that made sure the math always worked in their favor.

He didn’t use the word pimp. I didn’t either. But that’s what he was. The red flags were everywhere. I saw them. I catalogued them carefully. I was not naive. I understood exactly what was happening. I decided the alternative was worse. That distinction matters.

My first client wasn’t cinematic. He was nervous. Sweaty. Over four hundred pounds. Just as uncomfortable as I was, which somehow made it both better and worse. It was quick. What stayed with me wasn’t the sex. It was what happened after.

Cheese explained why he’d be keeping all the money.

For the room. For the drugs. For the ads. For protection. Protection from the very thing he was. I nodded. I had already understood that the fastest way to make something manageable was to stop looking for an exit and start learning the rules. So I learned them.

Control always arrives dressed as something reasonable. A curfew framed as safety. Limits framed as professionalism. Restrictions framed as discretion. Each piece logical on its own. It’s only when you try to move that you feel how tight it’s gotten. He tightened it gradually.

There was the night he made me sleep on the floor. Not the bed. The floor. Because I wasn’t bringing in enough money and he wanted the hierarchy clear. I lay there staring at the ceiling and something in me went quiet. Not broken. Quiet. Sometimes survival requires you to vacate yourself. I was learning to do that efficiently.

There was the night a client complained. Cheese decided he needed to verify the complaint himself. I didn’t fight. I complied.

Even now, my body remembers that with a fidelity my mind would prefer to soften. I still sit facing doors. I still scan exits without thinking.

That’s what trauma does. It gets into the hardware.

I started calling myself a provider. Not escort. Not prostitute. Provider created distance. Professional. Clinical. A way to split the work from the self.

On one side: Whitney. The woman with a family somewhere. A past. A future she was still theoretically working toward.

On the other: Keri. The persona. The one who walked into rooms with borrowed confidence. Who could be whatever was required and leave no trace behind.

I thought the split would protect me. It didn’t. The mask fused. Keri stopped being something I put on. She became something I couldn’t take off.

The drugs made the work bearable. The work funded the drugs. The loop sealed itself.

You can’t stop using when the using is what makes the work survivable. You can’t stop working when it funds the thing your body believes it needs. He understood that better than I did.

There were moments I felt powerful. I won’t pretend otherwise. When the money hit my hand and the noise went quiet for a few minutes. When someone looked at me like I held something they wanted. Power is not always clean. Sometimes it lives in ugly places. But most of the time, underneath that, I felt hollow.

I cried in motel rooms. Quietly. Efficiently. The kind of crying that doesn’t ask for anything because it already knows there’s nothing coming.

That is what survival looked like from the inside.

Chapter 17 Body Under Construction (2017)

My body broke. Then rebuilt. Then broke again.

Not all at once. That’s the version people expect. The dramatic collapse. The single moment where everything gives way and the story finally has its turning point.

What actually happened was quieter. Slower. More humiliating in the specific way that gradual things are humiliating, because you can’t point to the moment you should have stopped. The moment keeps moving. Every time you think you’ve identified it, you find another one behind it.

It started with my arm. The left one, thank God. I still think it that way. As if losing partial use of one limb instead of the other counts as luck.

Addiction recalibrates your definition of lucky until you’re grateful for things that would horrify anyone who hadn’t been where you’d been.

At first it was just sore. Tender. A little red at the site, which I chose not to look at too closely. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it would clear up.

Fine. That was the word I kept reaching for, like a key that didn’t fit but I kept trying anyway. Fine stretches when you need it to. It starts to mean not dead yet, which starts to mean good enough, which starts to mean don’t ask me anything else.

The pain came gradually, the way mold comes. Quiet. Spreading underneath the surface while you pretend not to smell it. The swelling came next. Heat. A tightness that made ignoring it harder but still possible, because I was very good at ignoring things that required me to stop. By the time I stopped pretending it wasn’t serious, the infection had settled into the bone. Deep. Stubborn. Nonnegotiable. Little pieces of bone would flake off when I changed the dressing. The wound smelled wrong. Not sweat. Not blood. Something closer to rot. That smell scared me in a way pain hadn’t. Pain I could override. The smell meant something was dying.

I ended up in the ER. No collapse. No sirens. I walked in annoyed this had become a problem at all. Within hours, I was being prepped for emergency surgery. Eight weeks.

The first hospital stay lasted eight weeks, which is long enough for time to lose its shape. Long enough for your world to shrink down to hallways and IV poles and machines that track whether you’re still viable.

They cut my arm open. Removed tissue. Scraped infection away with the determined thoroughness of people who had seen this before and understood what was at stake even when I didn’t. Nerves damaged beyond repair. There are things your body doesn’t forgive once they’re taken.

When I woke up from that first surgery, my arm didn’t feel like mine. I couldn’t fully extend it. Couldn’t close my hand all the way. Simple movements suddenly required planning. Coordination. Patience I didn’t have. It wasn’t my dominant arm. People said that like it was supposed to help.

Loss doesn’t negotiate based on convenience. What I lost was permanent. And still, I told people I was fine.

There would be eleven more surgeries.

Operating rooms became familiar. Not comforting. Familiar. I knew the rhythms of pre-op. The hum of fluorescent light. The limbo of lying on a gurney waiting to be wheeled in.

By the twelfth surgery, I recognized nurses by name. Mercifully, it was the last. But before that came the PICC line. My veins were destroyed. Years of use had collapsed them, scarred them, turned them into unreliable threads that refused to cooperate. After enough failed IV attempts, someone said the word PICC. Peripherally inserted central catheter. Threaded up toward the heart. Stable. Reliable.

The doctor met my eyes. “If you inject yourself through this port,” he said, “it will go straight to your heart. You could die.” I nodded. Not dramatically. Not emotionally. I understood him perfectly. And I did it anyway. There was no hesitation. No wrestling. No moment of moral drama.

What landed wasn’t fear. What landed was relief. The PICC line solved a problem. Efficient. Clean. Reliable.

That’s addiction. Not shaking hands and dramatic rock-bottoms. Addiction is math that stops including consequences.

The PICC line should have scared me straight. Instead, it confirmed something I wasn’t ready to name. I wasn’t controlling my use. It was controlling me. I got quieter after that. Smaller. The world shrank to a size I could manage.

I wore long sleeves in Louisiana heat. Shrugged off questions. Made it a style choice. I told myself I didn’t care what people thought. I cared deeply.

The lies I kept repeating: I’m okay. It’s not that bad. I don’t need help. They worked right up until they didn’t.

Through all of it, DD stepped in.

Quietly. Without ceremony. She and Pap took care of E while I was in the hospital. And then while I was in rehab. There was no negotiation. No performance of sacrifice. It just happened.

Bubby was fed. Bathed. Loved. Tucked in at night. His life kept moving forward in an orderly way while mine stalled out in hospital rooms and sterile hallways. That should have comforted me more than it did. It sharpened the shame instead.

Being grateful didn’t erase the fact that someone else was doing my job.

The first three surgeries happened during active use. The other nine came after I got sober. The first were damage control. The last were different. The last were repair. And repair requires something damage control doesn’t. It requires you to believe you’re worth repairing. Somewhere between surgery one and surgery twelve, I started to believe that. Not fully. Not cleanly. But enough.

Enough to keep showing up. Enough to let people help me put back together something I had spent years taking apart.

This body, altered, scarred, permanently changed, is still mine.

I reclaimed it one surgery at a time.

And I’m still in it.

Chapter 20 Still Missing Erin

There are things Erin did for me that I didn't understand until she was gone.

She knew how to let the world get loud enough that I could finally tell the truth without feeling exposed. She never rushed me toward answers. Never argued with my fear or tried to talk me out of it. When I admitted I felt fake, like everything I was doing was an act, she didn't reassure me or correct me. She simply reminded me I was still here.

That mattered more than I realized.

After she died, I kept looking for that feeling again. The moment where the noise drowned out my thoughts just enough to let me breathe. I didn't know how to name the difference yet between safety and escape. I only knew I wanted the quiet back, the kind that didn't demand anything from me.

I chased it in substances. In relationships. In places I thought might hold me the way she once had. None of it worked.

Grief has a way of exposing patterns you don't want to see. It forces you to recognize how much of your survival has depended on other people carrying weight you didn't know how to hold yourself. Erin's death didn't just hurt. It revealed how much I'd been leaning on her steadiness to keep myself upright. And when she was gone, I collapsed.

I didn't become reckless overnight. It was slower than that. Quieter. A gradual unraveling disguised as coping. I told myself I was functioning. I was managing. But underneath, I was hollowing out. Numbing where I couldn't process. Distracting where I couldn't sit still. Avoiding the silence because it reminded me too much of what I'd lost.

What I didn't understand then, but do now, is that grief and addiction speak the same language. Both tell you the pain is unbearable. That you need relief immediately, right now, this second, and that later can be dealt with later. Both make isolation feel safer than connection. Both convince you that if you can just get through this moment, everything else can wait.

Erin had been the one person who interrupted that spiral without judgment. Without fear. Without trying to save me. After her, no one knew how.

Missing her hasn't gone away. It probably never will. But I carry her differently now. She's in the way I protect my energy. In the refusal to override my instincts the way I used to. In the understanding that silence can be sacred, but only if it's chosen, not forced.

She taught me how to sit with truth before I knew how to live it.

And even now, years later, I feel her most in the quiet moments, the ones she would've made bearable just by being there.

More to come …