Hell Of Her Hopes

Before you ask, yes that is smoke you smell. Yes, I'm going to change my top. Yes, I know that it can kill me. But that's my problem.

Don't judge me. Don't judge the person I have become. You wouldn't be able to handle half of the things that I've dealt with. So, yes there is a reason I do the things that I do. There's a reason I am the person I am.

So before I carry on, I know I'm going to die. But the tar that currently builds in my lungs is getting me there quicker. After everything that has happened, it's not quick enough.

"Hi my name is Sam, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi my name is Andrew and I'm a smoker."

"Hi I'm Jill, and I'm a drug addict."

So on and so forth. To be completely honest, by the time it got to Jill, I almost fell asleep. Then the woman beside me nudged me. It was almost a signal to say, "hey you, it's your turn." I turned to look at her, arms folded and with a nod of acknowledgement, "Hi I'm Lila, I'm new," she perked up. It only took one disapproving look for her to realise that little Lila was meant to tell the whole group not me and honestly I probably wasn't the only person in the whole group who couldn't give two sh*ts. A small snigger was all it took to trigger little Lila's face of realisation. But after that, it took a lot of self-containment to stop myself from bursting into an oblivion.

"Oh, my bad, my name is Lila. I'm new. Wait, sorry... I'm an alcoholic." The tone of excitement came pouring from her mouth and maybe if she started to dress up as a daisy, she could be Fifi the flower tot's sister. Yet it still wouldn't have changed my whole opinion on group therapy.