I’m sitting in group therapy. Which one is it? Dual Diagnosis? Is that the one?
Anyways, I’m sitting there and the swelling becomes apparent. A sorrow is gaining mass in my chest. It’s bulging. I can’t conceal it any longer.
My nose begins to drip and the social worker asks if I have a cold. I chuckle and say yes. I rise from my chair. I say excuse me. (Must be polite). Then I’m out the door. I text a friend who is seated in regular group therapy. The group that doesn’t have abuse problems. The luckier group.
I tell her to meet me outside.
And it’s cold outside. It’s overcast. It’s drizzling. But I don’t care. I sit on the curb and I let it rain down on me. I let the tears come and the heavy sobs and sniffles and snot and gasps for air. I let it happen.
My friend comes out and crouches in front of me. She asks what’s wrong and I ask for a cigarette. I ask for so many cigarettes. She gives me one and as I smoke it she retrieves green tea and a bundle of tissues for me. I take a few sips of the tea and continue using my sleeve as a rag.
She puts her hand on my shoulder. She’s consoling. She’s nice. She’s such a good friend.
But I just sob and stare at the pavement.
She suggests we go inside, there are too many people out here. Other smokers. Employees. Visitors.
I shake my head. I say I don’t care.
She says it’s cold. She says I’m freezing and that I should go inside with her, but I just ask for a few more minutes. A few more minutes outside.
She complies and I smoke more and more cigarettes. I fill my lungs. I purposefully fill my lungs with smoke. With a haze of grey.
And now I’m home. My throat is sore and my head aches and my eyes are irritated.
My body is demolished from crying for hours.
And I couldn’t tell you why.
I couldn’t tell you a damn thing.
What a silly Monday.