Neverland

17

My mother painted her face each morning by reaching for her prescribed capsules. Each a stroke of watercolor, deceiving the eye of a smile plastered across her face.

Each dinner, she'd sit and divulge, question my brothers since they were seen as the ones who turned out fine without falter.

She avoided eye contact and it was through her profile, I was able to see dried paint.
Crackling, disoriented, and peeling off her face.

So just as I, she'd excused herself and reapply more makeup.

I figured that just because it was prescription, didn't mean that one could not be addicted.

It took a conversation with Suri for me to realize this.

One night, she had called me in a frantic tone.

She begged me to come over, insisting that she was way too stressed to deal with anything at the moment. So, like the good friend that I was, I happily obliged.

She was sitting on her bed, with a bunch of textbooks and notes sprawled on her bed. Her hair was wild, her eyes bloodshot...

"I think it's time for a break, don't you?" I teased, gathering her papers and assembling them in an orderly fashion on the table.

"The real world doesn't give breaks."
I rolled my eyes at her dramatic reply.

"Yes they do. That's what your break is for when you're working." I pointed out and she just glared at me.

"No, Kris...you don't get it. You out of all people don't! Don't you care about graduating? Don't you want to do more with your life than getting high?"

"What's wrong with getting high if I'm still productive?" I retort back, raising an eyebrow.

She says nothing.

"Addiction and productivity have no correlation. It's not healthy."

"Look, I thought I was here to help you. Not for you to judge my lifestyle." I straightened my back, ready to turn on my heel and out the door without another word.

I don't know why, but that triggers Suri to burst into tears. She shielded her face as the paint began to smudge.

"I can't do this. I can't do this." She sobbed.

I comforted her.

"I work so hard all the time. I eat three meals a day. I work out often. I pray. All of my work is always on time or early..." Her voice trails off.

She finally looked at me; her paint just now on her hands.

Suri's eyes peered into mine, connecting within me ..somewhere I couldn't see or I blocked off.

We were about to relate...but in what way?

"I want to tell you a secret." She whispers slow, standing up slowly and swallowing deep.

"Promise not to tell?" She asks, but I can her the plead in her tone.

"I promise."

I watched Suri as she walked to her bathroom and back again and handed me two familiar looking bottles.

"Doctors diagnosed me with ADHD when I was 10. So it wasn't that difficult to get them." She spoke firmly this time and I could tell this was something she needed to get off her chest.

I looked down at the labels and back at her. The red in her eyes resonated with mine in such a way that is glorified in society.
To bond over brokenness and then sulk in it. What an unhealthy way to live, but it was the only way we knew how. It hurt so good.

"Adderall is one helluva drug." I mumbled, opening the container to see how many remained; only about 10 or 11 did.

"What about the Xanax?" That's what my mom took.

"I swiped from my dad." She admitted.

"Is this the key to your success?" I teased, holding up the Adderall bottle and it caused the corner of her lips to twitch into a smile.

"As if your grades aren't superb as well." Suri pointed out and I shrugged.

"If I could improve to your level, my family dinners would be speechless."

"You give me way too much credit Kristen. But not nearly enough for yourself." She sighed and sat back down on the bed, wiping her eye.

"Are you telling me that you've been using these to help you? Or it just happened?" I asked, setting the bottle aside.

"It just happened. My mom was the one who used to make me take them every morning and as soon as I was out, she'd make sure that she was the first in line at Rite Aid to refill it. So in a way, I blame her."

Did children naturally blame their parents for their addictions or obsessions?

We blame their absence, their presence when they would try to paint on our faces for us each morning.

We blame their addictions. We blame the way they were brought up.

We, children and those with a childlike mindset, naturally blame those who have no control over things.

Because parents are supposed to be protectors, but they could no longer prop our feet up, while they wiped away the blood, applied the medicine and bandaid.

Our wounds were no longer our parents responsibilities.
But there are some wounds we aren't taught to know how to heal or how to take care. So when all else fails? Who's to blame?

"Can I have some of these?" I ask, holding up a bottle and jiggle it. "Rather it be me than you." I add since I noticed a sad look appear across Suri's face.

"If you get hooked. Don't blame me." She was ashamed for allowing me but at the same time- she couldn't really blame me.

"Why would I do that? You didn't raise me this way." I paused and snagged a few pills and placed them in my pocket, then grabbed another to take before I continued.

"Is this why you called me? To tell me you're addicted to your prescription?" I asked and she flinched as I said the word addiction.

It were as if she hadn't admitted it to herself yet.

"It takes one to know one." She replied, clearly avoiding the question.

"It takes what?" I ask, even though deep down I knew. I just wanted her to say.

"See you do it too. You can't even say the word!" She points out and I could see the tears gather in her eyes.

I felt bile build in the back of my throat and I licked my lips. "You plan on getting clean soon?" I ask her.

Suri sighs again and grabs her papers from where I had placed them.

"Ask me again tomorrow."