04 POV drive to cafe meet Michelle - meet Mads 1350

I keep my foot heavy heavy on the gas doing at least twenty miles an hour more than the speed limit. 

I weave in and out of traffic with only one thing on my mind right now, Michelle, and just how close to the edge she is. I've been there too many times to even think about. I know only too well the drowning sensation of being sure you will never be free of your dependancy on illicit substances. But here I am, well over a year dry and no sign of ever going back to way things were.

I approach a T-intersection going far too fast, but I'm not worried, I remain in perfect control. I do as I've done a dozen times and pull hard on the hand brake as I spin the steering wheel and drift around the ninety degree turn. I wouldn't do this if the road was dry, but my Oldsmobile has a low center of gravity and my tires are worn enough that on a rainy day like today there's next to no chance I'll roll. 

My car fishtails as I come out of the drift, but I counter steer and soon have it back on track. I learned to drive like this in rural Ohio, where I grew up, a place where the roads are long and straight and police officers are few and far between. My father was an amateur car enthusiast, who began my driving instructions when I was only six. I wasn't in full control, obviously, but he let me hold the wheel and steer when it was safe. He also loved fixing cars but he wasn't great at it. More often than not, the vehicles he 'restored' would break down after a short time of driving. But he never gave up, when the tow truck got the car back home he would  tear open the engine again in search of what went wrong. I admired his tenacity greatly.

Cafe-Nate's neon sign coms into view at the end of the street. I hammer the gas as I race toward it and within a matter of seconds I pull haphazardly into the parking lot. I leave the lights on and the engine running as I fling the car door open and make the dash to the entrance in a time a pro-athlete would be proud of. I push through the swing doors into the cess-pit of a diner.

The moment I step inside I'm assaulted by a rancid stench. This place deep fries a vast majority of its culinary offerings. The odour of the deep fat fryer that smells like it only gets cleaned once yearly pervades every corner. But right now I couldn't care less about bad smells, it's Michelle I'm here for.

My sight flits quickly over the patrons littered around the vast room, mostly older men wearing ratty clothes. I get a few glances, but the majority of these gents mind their own. I spy Michelle sitting in a back corner booth, tucked away, hunched over a cup of black. I let out the breath I didn't realise I was holding and cross the room quickly.

Michelle doesn't look up as I stand over her, taking her in. She's smaller than last I saw her. When was that? A month ago? Two? A pang of guilt creeps over me, why haven't I seen her more recently? I should have gone to see her. 

I have dozens of reasons why I haven't seen her - working fifteen hour days, going to night school, homework from night school, speaking with Lucy and of course the other ubiquitous time consuming activity - life admin. Simply maintaining a semblance of normalcy murders far too many hours of every day. 

When you're using and drinking, life admin is the first thing to go. Laundry, bathing, cleaning, shopping, eating, the importance of these fundamental elements of self-care go by the way-side almost immediately when you pump your body full of artificial stimuli.   

Michelle has neglected her life admin. That much is obvious. Her collar bones stand out more than they used to. Her skin is paler than last I saw her. Her hair that hangs loosely from her ratty New York Yankees baseball cap is graying, dirty and if I had to guess hasn't felt the caress of a brush in many months.  

I don't bother with pleasantries. To do so would be an insult. Instead, as I sit in the seat opposite Michelle I fish from my pocket a small blister pack of capsules and slide them into Michelle's line of vision. The sight of these pills breaks her catatonic stare and she gives me a querying look.

'They’re prescription. They’ll take the edge off.' I offer reassuringly. 

Michelle nods almost imperceptibly, grabs the pills, presses them out and washes them down with the remainder of her cold, black coffee.

'Are you angry?' She manages after another beat of silence.

'Why would I be angry?'

'You're kidding, right? Why wouldn't you be?'

'This is all part of getting and staying dry. And this is my role, to be here for you, to help you through these hard times.'

Michelle considers that a moment, then shakes her head as tears well in her eyes. 

'I'm not you. I can't do what you've done.'

I check my initial response which was to offer one of a hundred positive affirmations that spring to mind. I know that quoting a feel good phrase won't mean anything to Michelle, not in the place she's in. No amount of reassuring her that everything is going to be fine, that eventually she'll be living free from drug dependancy is going to help. It won't change the way she's feeling right now.  

I sit quietly, unsure exactly what to say, when something dawns on me. I speak softly, with the least amount of intonation I can manage, allowing the words themselves to carry the message, rather than loading them with emotion.

'You're looking at it wrong. Sobriety isn't something that you do then it's done. This isn't washing the car or taking the trash out.'

Michelle looks up at me, the faintest glimmer of curiosity in her otherwise dead eyes as I continue with my thought. 

'To me, sobriety is a constant. It's something I do every hour of every day. Right now I'm doing it. Right now I decide not to drink. Right now I decide not to use. When you think of it like that, it's no longer a hurdle to over come, it becomes a practice that is always a part of you.'

Michelle stares blankly at me as she allows that to sink in. I'm not sure where that came from, I've never had that conscious thought before. This is one of the many benefits of being a sponsor. It's not just being there for someone during their hard times, it's the on-going process of self discovery. We discover ourselves through those we help.

Suddenly, Michelle's eyes widen as they behold a sight that causes her body to visibly tense. I don't need to turn to see who it is, I'm certain Michelle's dealer just entered the diner. 

'That him?' I ask quietly.

Michelle nods.

'Let me talk. Don't say a word.' I say in the most authoritative voice I can muster. Michelle nods again then scratches nervously behind her left ear. 

Soon a large shadow falls over our booth. I look up and see a twisted face full of hate that I haven't seen in well over a year. The man's beady eyes squint as they scrutinised me, trying to place where he knows me from, but for now, it seems he draws a blank.

As the man sits in the booth beside me I hold back the vomit that rises in my throat, a reflex brought on by the stench of his aftershave mixed with week-old sweat. 

It's the same aftershave, I realise, this man was wearing the night he tried to kill me.