"Relapse is never an accident. Relapse is a sign that we have a reservation in our program."-Narcotics Anonymous, Basic Text, p. 76
My husband has a big box of reservations that he was storing in our kitchen. It's kind of the strangest thing I've ever seen. It made me embarrassed for him.
I was looking for a tea bag in my kitchen cupboard, and there was a strange box. I pulled it out and opened it. There were about 20 syringes in it, in various stages of disrepair. There were 4 lighters, none of which worked. There were little tiny pieces of wax paper, which I've come to identify as the packets heroin comes in...tons of those. Old paper towels. The plastic that syringes come in. Some fucking spoons.
I go to him with the box. I am rather, strangely, unperturbed. "What is this about?"
"What?" as if he's never seen the box before.
"This box, full of old syringes? Trash? It was in the kitchen?"
He was embarrassed. He said he'd leave. He said he can't get rid of it. He swore it's old. He said he'd take a drug test. He swore by the sex we'd had ("Do you think we'd fuck like that if I was using!?" And it's true, his penis is a veritable barometer to his sobriety.) that it wasn't possible for him to have been using.
We'd had such a good weekend...I don't know how to process all this. I don't know why it's there. I don't know why it's in the fucking KITCHEN CUPBOARD, for the love of god. I don't know what I want.
I was looking for a tea bag in my kitchen cupboard, and there was a strange box. I pulled it out and opened it. There were about 20 syringes in it, in various stages of disrepair. There were 4 lighters, none of which worked. There were little tiny pieces of wax paper, which I've come to identify as the packets heroin comes in...tons of those. Old paper towels. The plastic that syringes come in. Some fucking spoons.
I go to him with the box. I am rather, strangely, unperturbed. "What is this about?"
"What?" as if he's never seen the box before.
"This box, full of old syringes? Trash? It was in the kitchen?"
He was embarrassed. He said he'd leave. He said he can't get rid of it. He swore it's old. He said he'd take a drug test. He swore by the sex we'd had ("Do you think we'd fuck like that if I was using!?" And it's true, his penis is a veritable barometer to his sobriety.) that it wasn't possible for him to have been using.
We'd had such a good weekend...I don't know how to process all this. I don't know why it's there. I don't know why it's in the fucking KITCHEN CUPBOARD, for the love of god. I don't know what I want.
