Thanatophobia (Manthony)

Chapter 12

     Mitchel

     Staying sober was not an easy task. 

The urge to want to take drugs was the worst, with minor inconveniences, or I was lonely, or bored.  

When I first went to therapy and attended NA (narcotics anonymous) meetings, I had trouble acknowledging that I had a problem. 

 I had only shown up to my first NA meeting because of Clinton. 

     "You need to get in the car. We have ten minutes to get there, Mitchel." My brother says through my closed bedroom door. 

I roll my eyes and continue scrolling through Instagram, occasionally switching to Twitter to interact with fans. 

"I told you I'm not going," I state.

"You promised you would go." I sigh, putting my phone down next to me. He wasn't going to give up easily. 

I stare at the door. I didn't want to face Clinton. There wasn't a problem to fix.

     Thankfully, I haven't relapsed. Although, the urge to hit up my ex-dealer when Christian and I broke up was the only thing I could think about. I would lie on my bed and stare at my phone for what felt like hours.

"It's just one call," I'd whisper to myself. If I didn't make it seem like a big deal, then maybe everyone else wouldn't think it was, either.

One line of coke. One needle in the arm. One pill. 

It didn't matter what the drug was. If a certain amount sounded like it was enough to give me the high that I was searching for, it would be fine. No one would know.  

Every night, for a month, I contemplated if I should make the call or not. 

I never did. 

     I was high right now, but Clinton couldn't know that. All I had to do was convince him that I was fine. 

"Come on, Mitchel." Clinton pleads. I walk straight into the wall, hitting my toe on the baseboard. "Fuck" I mouth as I scrunch my face in pain. I shake the pain off and place my hand on the doorknob.

 Laying down, I didn't feel high, but the second I moved, it all came rushing back. 

I slowly open the door. "I don't need to go anywhere," I say. Clinton looks at me, studying my face and my mannerisms. "I'm fine." I hold onto the doorknob and the door frame to not fall.

 "I don't care. You promised you'd go." I scoff. 

"Promises mean nothing," I say. "Ask Christian. He'd know." 

     I was young when I first tried drugs. Just like every stupid teenager, I wanted to fit in. 

 For a while, I was only smoking weed.  But, as time passed, I wanted something different. Something better. Something stronger.

My off-and-on relationship with Christian added to my issues. I never wanted to blame him for my addiction, and maybe I never should have, but eventually, people started to blame him, and so I did too.

 I guess blaming something, or someone is better than blaming yourself. 

     Unfortunately, I think a lot of my staying sober has to do with Christian. At the same time, I think the opposite is true. 

A knock on the door of the studio is heard. I glance over, wondering wonder who would be bothering me. "Come in?" I question more than state. I wanted to be alone.