Page 31 of Truck Up

“You can’t do this. As I’ve said several times in the past, I understand your point. But I’ve got other clients. I can’t let them walk in whenever they’re having issues. Please tell me you understand that.”

I shrug. That makes sense too, but I don’t want to give into her logic any more than she wants to give into mine.

“I’m dying here. I need to talknow, not in a week. Besides, I checked with your receptionist first to make sure you were free. At least give me that.”

She lets out a deep sigh. I’ve been seeing her for several years now, so her irritation with me doesn’t bother me one bit. She knows I can handle it. “Yes, but this is my lunch break. I have a session in …” she checks the time on her computer, “forty minutes. When am I supposed to eat?”

“Don’t let me stop you. Eat.” I wave my hand at the sandwich sitting on her desk. “I don’t care if you multitask. But I need advice now. It can’t wait.”

“Are you taking your medication?” she asks.

“Yes. Every day.” I’ve been on depression medication for about a year. It’s helped a lot but doesn’t stop me from having episodes.

She stares at me. Maybe it’s more of a glare. It’s one of those looks a mother gives their child when they’re in trouble. At least I think that’s the look. I’ve seen Grams give it to us on more than one occasion, but I can’t be sure. It’s not like my mom ever disciplined us.

Maybe that’s why I like Dr. Johnson so much. She’s a good mother figure and a great therapist. She tells me like it is and doesn’t sugarcoat anything.

But she does it with the same care and affection I’d expect a good mother to do with their child. That’s what I need.

Dr. Johnson’s probably around the same age as my mother. She could be a little older. It’s hard to say. She’s not haggard and too thin from years of substance abuse like my mom. But I like to think she’s around the same age, regardless. It allows me to think of my sessions as conversations with a loving parent, not a clinical therapist.

Healthy? Probably not. But it works for me.

She adjusts her glasses on her nose and tucks her long, dark hair behind her ear. She’s getting grayer around her temples, leaving silver streaks down the sides. It looks sophisticated and classy on her.

“You know I want the best for you, Christian, but this can’t keep happening. I cannot accommodate you like this every time you have a breakdown.”

I raise my hands in surrender. “I understand, and I’ll try to do better. But this really is an emergency.”

She checks the time again and sighs. The frown on her face tells me she’s not happy about this, but she’s giving into me anyway. “Okay, you’ve got fifteen minutes. Tell me what happened.”

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, clenching my fingers together. “I think my mom is reaching her end. I’ve never seen her look so bad and she’s using needles. She never uses needles. It hit me hard.”

I pause and wait for her to respond. She watches me carefully before she speaks. “I bet it did. It’s never easy to watch our loved ones degrade from drug abuse. How did that make you feel about your own struggles with addiction?”

I drop my head and close my eyes. I hate this truth about myself, and I wish I could bury it and forget it’s a possibility. But I can’t. That won’t lead to healing.

“That could have been me. It still could. The cravings don’t go away. My body still wants the high. Desperately. I could turn out just like her.”

“That’s true. It could happen. If you lose sight of the man you want to be. Is that the man you want to be? A drug addict that doesn’t care if he lives or dies?”

“No!” I snap my head up, surprised by her question. She’s never asked me that before. It’s blunt and almost emotionless, like she’s trying to provoke a reaction.

“Exactly. You want to be better. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you work so hard to fight against the cravings. You are not your mother, Christian. Don’t forget that.”

“How do you know? I share her DNA. I’m an addict too. I could—”

“Recoveringaddict. There’s a difference. Do not lose sight of all your hard work. You may share DNA with her, but you are not the same.”

“But—”

“No buts.” She pushes her sandwich to the side and leans forward on her desk. “Remember what we talked about? Don’t undermine your self-worth with but statements.”

“It’s so hard though.”

“I know. Working on ourselves is never easy.”

Silence falls over us as she waits for me to respond. She does that often as a way to try to get me to talk more. Sometimes it works, but today I don’t want to talk. I just want her to tell me how to make it all better.