Paradise by anonymous

“Leah! Get Up! Come on you’re going to be late!” my mother yells as she stomps across my room. I hear her curse under her breath something about almost tripping over clothes I left on the floor. She turns off the alarm that has been going off for ten minutes now. “Let’s go!” Her voice rings in my ear.

I slowly open my eyes wishing the empty bottle beside me had poisoned my bloodstream and shut down my organs before my alarm had the chance to wake me, so my mother’s words wouldn’t make my head pound and I wouldn’t read November 29th on my phone. It wouldn’t be time to wake up and get a “fresh start”, it would be the end. The pain, the suffering would be over. The alcohol would have sent me to sleep on an endless dream. Maybe I would be in a paradise with my love. My love who had sent himself already off to an endless dream.

I find myself wondering if we would be in the same paradise. Would it make a difference if my dream were caused by a poison and not a rope? Would it even be a paradise? Or would it be a punishment, considering our less than sanctimonious lifestyle. Or maybe there would be absolutely nothing at all.

These questions have became a part of my daily wake-up routine. Ever since I got that call I wish I had never answered. The call that sent me into my daily quest of destroying my liver.

I force myself to roll out of bed knowing if I didn’t my mother would continue to contribute to my headache. Outside the window I see the neighborhood still looks sad, the trees bare and colourless without their leaves. The winter has taken its time to arrive this year. The gloominess of the fall seems to fit the mood he left behind. I look to the sky and wonder if there is snow in his paradise. I think of our last winter together and how excited we had gotten as the first snowfall hit his windshield as we drove to his mother’s house for dinner. I cringe and push away the memory.

I walk to my washroom and see someone in the mirror I never seem to recognize. My eyes that would tear from laughter during late night talks in his car now seem so empty. The eyes that once were bright and full of life, now seem dull and frighten me if I hold my own gaze for too long. I notice the bags underneath them seem to grow each morning.

I reach for my toothbrush that still sits beside his and begin preparing myself for the day ahead. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. I hear my mother hurrying around the house gathering last minute things I might need for the next three months. I shower slowly, appreciating the heat against my skin and my last few minutes of solitude.

My mother believes getting me clean will be the solution. That without the alcohol interfering I will be able to “come to terms” with my loss and find “true happiness”. I wish I could believe drowning my sorrows was my problem. My problem, however, is that my soul grows colder and colder everyday; and only the liquor lets me feel warmth again. I wonder if he knows now the mistake he’s made. Wonder if maybe he sees me shiver even when the water burns my skin red. Maybe he feels regret when I scream into the universe begging him for an answer as to why he left. Maybe he feels sorrow for his mother who looks even less recognizable than I do. Maybe he even cried as he watched her cut the rope off his neck.

I am snapped out of my thoughts by a knocking on the door. “Almost ready?” my mother says with excitement. “Yeah” I open the door and see her smiling in front of me. “Oh honey, you look lovely.” I know she’s full of shit but I appreciate her intentions. “I’ve got all your bags ready by the door, help me take them to the car?”  

We trudge through the snow together to load the car with my belongings. We climb in the car and as I sit down I take a deep breath.

“You know how proud I am of you, right?” My mother says with care after she starts the engine.

“I know, Mom.” I do my best to give her the most genuine smile I can force. My poor mother, she really does care. The hope in her eyes breaks my heart, if only she were right that all the broken pieces inside of me could be glued back together.

I guess some part of me thinks this is the right decision. I know I can’t go on this way. It is getting exhausting waking up only to try to get myself back to sleep. I wish my drinking only affected me, but I see the worry in my mother’s eyes. I know she lies awake at night worrying that one day she might be the one having to stand at the front of a church trying to hold herself together for long enough to deliver her speech about the life of her dead child.

A favourite line my mother and therapist like to use on me is “He would want you to get better.” But how am I supposed to care about what he wants, when he’s not here to tell me so? I know they are right, but sometimes my grief turns to anger, and I want him to feel guilt for leaving me here alone. Maybe some part of me believes if he sees me doing bad enough he’ll come back and save me.

As I stare out the window in silence I watch the suburban neighborhood streets turn into long roads with only trees and farm houses. What have I gotten myself into? I guess their logic is if they put these kinds of places far enough away from civilization, the addicts will have no choice but to stay. I consider jumping out of the car before we get too far. I could still make it to the nearest bus station within half an hour. But where would I go? The feeling sinks in that there is nowhere in this world I want to be.

My mother tries to make small talk as I watch tree after tree fade behind us. The closer we get the more fear takes over. I feel like a child and I wish he could hold me. If he were here he would kiss my forehead before we got out of the car and tell me I could do this. He would open my car door and squeeze my hand as we walked to the building. Instead, as we pull up, I must be the one to open my own door and tell myself I can do it. I don’t know if I can.

I’ve been trying to keep it all together for my mother’s sake, and for the most part I have been successful at pretending I’m okay. As she turns the key and the engine stops I suddenly feel everything at once; the pain, the guilt, the sadness, the anger, the loneliness, the hopelessness. Tears stream down my cheeks. “I can’t do this” I cry as I put my face in my hands.

“Honey, you can! I know you can. You’re such a strong girl!” She tries to hug me but I pull away and jump out of the car. I start hyperventilating and I feel as though the cold air is suffocating me. My mother follows me out of the car “It’s going to be okay, Leah, I promise. You can do this. Please, I know you can.” Her pleading makes it worse and I can’t stop crying. “Please.” She repeats. “You have to.” I look into her eyes and feel shame. I don’t want to disappoint her. I try to catch my breath and I tell her I just need a second. She agrees to give me a minute and steps back in the car.

“Why aren’t you here? Why are you making me do this without you?” I whisper to the sky. I turn my head down to the ground and try to deepen my breath. I have never felt so alone. Thoughts race and I think of the day we met. The day I told him I loved him. Our first kiss. When he met my mother and shook my father’s hand. The time he showed me his sketchbook and his favorite poem. The drives we’d take and the stories he told me about his past. The day we laid in bed the whole day listening to our favourite albums and talked about our future. The days I spent without him and the day I wish I could have saved him.

Suddenly I see a white flake appear on my coat. I raise my head and I see at last, winter has begun. I look around me as the delicate flakes fall all around me. I think about how maybe the coldness has come for a reason. That even though the season had stolen the warmth of the sun on my skin, with the fresh cool air comes the hope of a new beginning. The snow starts to cover the ground, restoring the beauty from the dullness the fall had cast on the earth. I feel him with me.

The sense of realization hits me that as the seasons must change to move forward, so must I. “I love you.” I say to him and take a deep breath. This isn’t going to be easy.

I wipe my tears and turn back to the car. I open the door and return my mother’s hopeful smile, “I’m ready.”