Confessions #2...

"What did you take?," the doctor asked, sounding bored, not bothering to look up from her computer screen.  I was in her office for the first time, for a check-up following my overdose the week before.

"I snorted 75 milligrams of Oxycontin, and drank three-quarters of a fifth of bourbon."

"Well, why did you do that?," she asked, with a note of condescension in her tone, still not looking up.

That seemed like a pretty stupid question to me.  "Because I'm a drug addict," I replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  That seemed to get her attention; she finally looked up at me.

She stared at me, as if sizing me up.  As if she'd never heard anybody say that before.  I didn't understand what the big deal was.  Of course I was a drug addict.  Why else would I do that?  Why else would I be here?  What was I supposed to do, lie?  Tell her that it was an accident?  "Honestly, Doctor, I have no idea how all those powdered narcotics managed to get up my nose!"

She continued to stare at me for a long moment.  She was looking me straight in the eye.  It was very odd; I couldn't remember anyone ever looking at me in quite that way before.  I imagine she must've been measuring me up, testing me, trying to determine if I was being serious or just fucking with her.  I didn't flinch.  Eventually, she smiled softly.

"Well, how do you feel about that?," she asked.

"I'm not happy about it, if that's what you're asking."

"Do you want to continue to be a drug addict?"

"No, I don't.  I've been an addict for a long time, but this is the first time I nearly died because of it.  That was terrifying.  I don't want to go through anything like this ever again."

"I can help you, if you want."

"Please.  I need to stop."

Over the next few years, she helped me to stop abusing drugs and alcohol, got me to start exercising every day, and taught me how to not only eat healthy, but how to enjoy it, too.  I lost weight, and I felt strong and healthy and happy in a way that I couldn't remember feeling since I was a child.  Every time I'd go into her office for a check-up, she would stare at me in the same intense, probing way for a few moments, sizing me up, and then give me that soft smile.  She was the first doctor I've ever had that seemed to actually care about me, and want me to succeed at being well.

But nothing lasts forever.  After a few years, she left my HMO for private practice, and I was assigned to a new doctor.  Not wanting to start over with someone new, I found "better things" to do with my time than go for my check-ups.

Recently, after 5 years of sobriety, thinking I had everything under control, I relapsed.  Three days later, I was back in that same office, having overdosed again, for the second time in my life.

"What did you take?," the new doctor asked, sounding bored, not bothering to look up from her computer screen.

"About 600 milligrams of Tramadol, a six-pack of beer, and a dozen-or-so tequila shots, over the course of the day."

"Hmm... you should make an appointment with a counselor in Behavioral Health.  Your stats look fine.  I don't think you're in any danger.  Do you need the number for Behavioral Health?"

"Um, no, I have it."

"Ok, I'll see you in six months, then."

As I watched her walk out of the office, I couldn't help but think, She never even asked me why I did it.  I felt as if, were I to die tomorrow, she wouldn't care less.

This time, I thought, I'm on my own.