Free Diamond Girl by Kathleen Hewtson

time, while working on our progressions to our new 'healthy lifestyles', we will eventually lose the stink weed habit too, maybe replace it with Scientology, or at least pink berry fro yo.  It sounds pretty good in theory but I’ve noticed over time in various rehab facilities, or healing centers - whatever they are called - that most of us keep doing the drugs in between rehab and that no one ever gives up  their cancer sticks.
    When Jeff’s turn to talk came, he told a pretty cool story about blowing up his Principal’s car at the school for emotionally fragile kids in Calabasas where he had been sent after his second go round at Menninger’s. I got a little shiver listening to his bad boy, bad attitude, bad parents stories, and sat up a little straighter in my chair.
    For the first time since hitting that hell hole, I was sorry I had ignored the nurse who had offered to let me shower that morning and I kind of shifted around so that he hopefully wouldn’t notice my insulin pack and ask me what was wrong with me. I toyed with the idea of saying that it was a new kind of time-release heroin thing my family’s company had invented. That is the kind of 'like me, please like me, anybody, somebody' bullshit that I have always suffered from.
    At least that is what one of my therapists told me, so it must be true.
    Back then, I didn’t know I had a people-pleasing neurosis based on 'deep insecurities and rampant self-hatred' which ran at odds with my 'narcissistic personality disorder and fantasy-based thinking'. I just wanted people to talk to me, to not ignore me, which is apparently the same thing.
    On our way out of the group room, Jeff stopped me at the door. “Hey, wait up. Do you need some smokes to tide you over? Commissary isn’t till Tuesday unless your family is visiting tonight and bringing you some.” 
    He waited, and I licked my cracked lips, trying to imagine how Milan would play this. That didn’t work. It was impossible to imagine Milan wearing bright yellow sweats and being in a place like that. It lacked context.
    “Uh yeah, thanks,” I said stupidly.”
    Jeff flicked his long black hair, which I noticed was kind of dirty but looked good on him, out of his eyes and handed me his half-empty pack and a lighter.
    “Sure, here, you can keep the lighter too. I’ve got another one. So no happy families for you tonight, uhm, Carey. Right, your name’s Carey?”
    I nodded, turned bright red and stared at the floor. He smiled, and I saw with shock that he had a dimple too. It seemed kind of mystical.
    “Okay, wow, you’re a quiet girl. That’s a nice change. I’m Jeff. Well you knew that from my whole L.A. Confidential thing, right?”
    Oh God, he was so hot and so funny, and I was so not either of those things, but thought I could at least show him my dimple.
    If he noticed, he was underwhelmed because he asked me, “So what are you in for? You didn’t say anything in group and you don’t look anorexic.”
    I wanted to die. He thought I was fat. All I could do was make a bigger jerk out of myself by starting to cry and running down the hall towards my room, and the worst part was I was wondering if he thought I had a big ass.
    He called out to me but he didn’t follow me and, when I got back into my ten by six cell room, I went straight into the adjoining bathroom and pulled out one of the cigarettes. Smoking was something I knew made people thinner. The cigarette made me sick, and I leaned over the toilet and threw up. If every cigarette did that, then smoking really would make people thin, but unfortunately that is a short term starter’s effect.
    After vomiting, I finally wanted a shower, and I don’t know, maybe it was seeing my little stumpy naked body in the mirror, with a roll of baby fat hanging over my insulin pack, or maybe it was the insulin pack, or probably it was where I was - it doesn’t really matter now, obviously - but whatever made me do it, I don’t think there was some