Free The Big Fix by Tracey Helton Mitchell

as I would normally do, I let my emotions flow as I put my head against the tiles, water running down the back of my neck, trying to wash away my regret.
    Getting off drugs was just a small part of staying clean. After the chemicals left my body, I was flooded with a lifetime of memories I had tried to stuff down. Underneath my hard exterior was a person drowning in fear. Thinking about my childhood, I realized I had been hooked all along. I remembered getting my wisdom teeth pulled and the warm fuzzy bubble of the Vicodin I was given. I had vowed not to become an alcoholic like my father, but this seemed okay because a doctor had prescribed it. The Vicodin relieved me of the burden of my thoughts. Everything I needed was in one place. I did not need food, I did not need to worry, and I did not need anything but the feeling of the drug. I felt totally comfortable with the numbness. Life seemed like a breeze while I was on Vicodin. I was so naïve that I truly believed I could control any drug I took, unlike “weak” people. I quickly learned that drugs do not discriminate. They prey on your weakest instincts and insecurities, of which I had plenty.
    Listening to the other people talk during “share” time at the rehab center, I realized much of what people said was lies and half-truths for the benefit of attracting the opposite sex. Being in the program was a lot like being back in high school. People would stand up to “confess” to the things theymissed from their addiction—the apartment, women, money, fame—rather than the reasons they were really here. No one said, “I’m a loser,” “I hate myself,” or any of the things that were really in their heads. I felt as if no one there understood me, as if I was unique among addicts. In reality, I think I was leaving myself room for the chance of relapse by staying isolated. When Mike sent a message through one of the residents to meet him to play video games, I jumped at the chance. I needed a break. While I was in jail, I learned Mike had started using heavily again. But the last time I saw him I was being hauled away by the police. I wanted to reconnect.
    As I walked up the hill to Mike’s apartment, I heard a voice in my mind: No. I felt it as concretely as the hard bed I slept in each night. Was I really going to just sit there while he got high? Maybe I was developing a sense of right and wrong choices, because my inner compass pointed me in a different direction. Or maybe I was just scared. I tucked my tail between my legs and ran back to the center.
    I called Mike that night from the pay phone in the hallway.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I told him.
    He was pissed. “We can’t hang out, Tracey.”
    â€œMaybe I can try to get away next week,” I said half-heartedly.
    â€œNo, you won’t,” he said. “Because I am doing this and you are doing that.”
    He was right. I needed to stay on the sobriety path with no distractions. The question was whether I could stay the course. When I emerged from the program later, I would feel like an alien who had been dropped onto a different planet. Not only did I have no contact with the outside world forthe ninety days of my court-ordered rehab, but I had lost years to my addiction. The world had moved on to email, pagers, and mobile phones while I still carried crumpled phone numbers and dimes for the phone booth.
    I finally got up the nerve to call home after the foolish sex incident. I wanted my mother to believe that everything was going well in treatment. How could I explain that I had fucked up again? She would know something was wrong in my voice. I used the phone right outside the women’s lounge. The receiver was stained with sweat and tears. In general, this phone only seemed to deliver bad advice and bad news from home. I was determined to reach my mother. I had called her from the holding cell the night I was arrested to tell her