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Just To Hear Her Voice
Here's my first Criminal Minds fic!
summary: In the aftermath of Emily's death, Spencer starts calling and texting her number to cope as his life spirals down around him. He has no idea that halfway across the world, Emily is listening.
content: drug addiction, grief/mourning, angst, hurt/comfort, near relapse, angst with a happy ending
word count: 3.2k
Spencer calls Emily for the first time a week after her death. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest on the floor of his apartment, pressed between a chair and the wall, rocking forward and backward. He holds the phone to his ear and sobs when he hears Emily’s voice.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
The dial tone sounds. Spencer chokes on a sob and hangs up. He redials the number.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
He hangs up before the tone and calls again.
He only speaks on the sixth call.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
The dial tone sounds and Spencer takes a deep, shaky breath. “H-hi, Emily. I, um, I don’t know why I’m calling you. It’s– it’s not like you’re going to answer. You’re dead. I helped carry your coffin. It—” A sob pushes up his throat and cuts him off. “It was so heavy,” he whispers.
He bows his head and presses his knees against his face, he can feel the tears seeping through the fabric of his slacks. “I just– I really miss you. It doesn’t feel real, none of this feels real. I’m sorry. I—” Spencer cuts himself off with a wet chuckle. “I should go eat something.”
Spencer pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. He doesn’t push himself off the floor for another three hours and when he does he goes straight to his room.
He calls her again three days later just to hear her voice. He doesn’t speak.
Spencer lays on the floor of a Nashville hotel room four weeks and six days after Emily’s death and dials her number.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
He waits for the tone.
“I saw someone that looks like you today,” he says weakly. He breathes deeply and stares at the ceiling, tracing the perimeter of the room with his eyes. “It was uncanny. I, um, I really thought she was you. I was with Rossi, heading back to the Nashville police station, we’re on our first case since—” he pauses unable to finish the sentence. “It was good he was there. I might have called your name if he wasn’t. It feels wrong without you here.” Unable to think of anything else to say, Spencer hangs up.
He doesn’t know that halfway across the world his voicemails are transferred from one phone to another and Emily Prentiss, newly arrived in Paris, listens to them and cries.
After the case in Nashville, calling Emily becomes a part of Spencer’s routine. Most of the time he doesn’t talk, unable to force himself to speak, and just listens to her voice. On those days he goes over to JJ’s house once he hangs up and cries in her arms.
Emily receives records of those calls too, the times and dates are sent to her new phone and she stares at them when they arrive, hoping that she’s not the only person Spencer is talking to.
After three months he shifts from leaving messages to texting because it’s easier than talking. He still calls to listen to her voice but always hangs up before the tone. He texts her about his day, about the cases they’re working on without giving away any details, about how much he misses her. He still goes to JJ’s house at least once a week, he feels safer there on bad days.
Five months and thirteen days after her death, Spencer calls Emily’s number and yells.
“You should have told us! We could have helped you! We’re family, Emily! It’s our job to take care of each other.” Spencer's voice cracks and he lets out a screaming sob as he grabs a plate from the sink and throws it to the floor. “And now you’re dead! You’re dead and there’s nothing we can do about it! You’re so fucking stupid, Emily! We– we could have helped you! I hate you! I hate you! Why’d you have to leave?” He falls to the floor and trails off into uncontrollable sobs, not caring that the ceramic shards dig into his knees and the palm of his hand. He leans against the cabinets next to him and sobs, painfully and violently. He knows he’s being loud, loud enough that his neighbors can probably hear him but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he feels like he’s dying. He slams his head against the cabinet and the pain of it combined with the pain of the ceramic stuck in his skin helps ground him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice wet with tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I’m so sorry. I could never hate you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats those two words until his phone dies in his hand eleven minutes later.
Halfway across the world, Emily Prentiss sits in her Paris apartment, listens to the voicemail, and cries.
Spencer doesn’t call or text for twenty-four days after that. He knows she’s dead. He knows she can’t hear or see what he says to her, but he feels painfully guilty for his last voicemail. The kind of guilt that burrows into his chest and stays there, squeezing tight around his heart and lungs whenever he thinks about it.
He lays awake in a hotel bed in Sedona, Arizona staring at the ceiling. With a sigh, he rolls onto his side, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and opens his text conversation with Emily.
“I don’t know why I’m still doing this,” he types. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I know you’re not going to see this, but I want to say I’m sorry again for when I last called. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I was just angry and sad and didn’t know what to do. I don’t know why I still feel so stuck. Obviously, everyone else is still sad but they seem to be moving on while I’m still here.” He sends the message and pauses for a moment. “I’ve been craving again, ever since you died. It’s getting worse the longer it’s been. I don’t know why. I thought it would get easier but it’s just getting harder. I’m scared, Emily.” His finger hovers over the send button before he changes his mind and deletes the message. He’s not going to tell anyone that, not even someone dead. Emily doesn’t deserve that. “I miss you,” he writes. He hits send and puts his phone back on the nightstand, curling into a ball with the comforter pulled up to his chin.
He squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around his chest, trying not to scratch at the crook of his arm and trying not to think about getting high.
The next two weeks pass in a haze and Spencer can feel himself getting worse. He calls and texts Emily’s number more frequently and visits JJ’s house nearly every other day. Being around Henry is the only thing keeping him from contacting his old dealer. He would never bring that shit into their home, he would never even think of being high around his godson.
Spencer sits curled in on himself between a chair and the wall of his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
The tone sounds. “I miss you, Emily,” he says, his voice weak around the lump in his throat. “It’s not getting easier, but I’m alright.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t know why he’s lying. Emily’s dead. She’s not going to hear it anyway. But he just can’t bring himself to say it. He hangs up.
Three days later, Spencer calls JJ to ask if he can come over. She apologizes and tells him that Henry has the flu and passed it on to Will. He tells her it’s okay and hangs up.
Forty-five hours later he calls a number he deleted from his contacts years ago.
Sixteen hours later Spencer is curled up on his couch, staring at the unopened vial of Dilaudid sitting on his coffee table next to a packaged needle.
He knows he shouldn’t do this. He doesn’t want to. But he needs it.
He feels frozen, his whole body is shaking. He rubs his eyes hard and continues to stare at the vial. He knows he should call someone but he’s scared and ashamed. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.
His hand shakes violently as he reaches for his phone and selects Emily’s contact. She’s dead. He can call her. She won’t know and maybe calling will give him the courage to dump it down the drain.
The first ring startles him and he waits silently, tears streaming down his cheeks as the phone continues to ring.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
The tone sounds and Spencer speaks.
______
Emily's phone pings as a new voicemail is transferred to her phone. She looks at her phone with surprise. It’s eight am in Paris and two am in DC. It’s much later than Spencer usually calls.
She turns her volume on and selects the voice message.
The first thing she hears is a shaky sob she’s become painfully familiar with.
“Hi, Emily. I don’t know why I’m calling,” Spencer mutters. His voice sounds completely broken and almost dead. “Actually, that’s– that’s not true. I know why I’m calling.” There’s a pause and all she can hear is the shaky sound of Spencer breathing and crying softly. “I can’t call anyone else.” He sighs. “I’m, um, I’m sitting in my living room in– in front of a needle and a vial of Dilaudid.” Emily’s stomach drops and she shoots to her feet. A broken sob plays from her phone. Panic builds rapidly in her chest and she hopes, prays, that Spencer hasn’t taken any yet. She’s pulled from her thoughts when he starts to speak again. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I promise I don’t want to. It’s just too much, I—” his voice breaks “I need it, Em.” Emily raises her hand to cover her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks. This is her fault. This is all her fault. She should’ve told everyone.
“I’m so sorry, Em. I just– I really miss you. I-I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
The playback ends and Emily immediately rushes to the toilet to vomit because that sounded horrifyingly like a suicide note. She coughs violently and spits into the toilet. She doesn’t even take the time to flush it before she clicks on Spencer’s number and her phone is ringing.
Halfway across the world, Spencer sobs as rolls up his sleeve and wraps his belt around his upper arm. The sterile plastic crinkles as he removes the needle. He holds it and wishes he wasn’t like this. Wishes he was a better, stronger person. He reaches to grab the vial but as the tips of his fingers touch the cool class his phone rings.
He startles, almost dropping the needle. Too large a part of him is glad he didn’t drop it because that means it’s still clean and he can still use it. He slips the needle back into the plastic packaging and sets it back down on the coffee table but he doesn’t undo the belt around his arm. His hand shakes violently as he picks up his phone.
He stares at the screen for a moment, it’s a number he doesn’t recognize with a Paris area code. He doesn’t know why but he answers it.
“Spencer!” Emily’s voice gasps through his phone.
Spencer stares wide-eyed at the phone without responding. This isn’t happening, this isn’t real. She’s dead. He must be having a schizophrenic break, he’s the right age for it and he’s hearing the voice of his dead friend.
“Spencer!” the voice says again. He refuses to think of it as Emily’s voice. It’s not her voice, it can’t be because if it is that means she’s alive. That means that she and Hotch and who knows how many other members of his team have been lying to him for months. That means she heard and read all his messages. That means she heard him say that he bought Dilaudid and is about to shoot up. “Please, Spencer! Please answer me. Oh, God.”
“E-Emily?” he asks, his voice breaking. He hates that part of him believes it might actually be her.
“Yes, fuck. Yes, it’s me, Spencer, please tell me you’re okay,” she gasps. Spencer can hear her crying.
“Is–is this real? I’m not having a schizophrenic break?”
“No, I mean yes, I mean this is real!” Emily stutters. “I’m real. I’m alive. I’m so so sorry. But please, Spencer, tell me you haven’t done anything.”
Spencer doesn’t respond, just staring in disbelief at his phone. A moment later his phone beeps and a button appears at the bottom of the screen. Without thinking he presses it and immediately Emily’s face fills his screen. Her face is pale and her hair is all over the place and she looks terrified. She stares at him with wide eyes. In the bottom right corner is himself, and for the first time in sixty-one hours and twenty-three minutes, Spencer looks at himself. His face is red and blotchy and the bags under his eyes look like bruises. His hair is greasy and knotted. His shirt is buttoned incorrectly, his right sleeve is rolled up, and he can see the belt cinched around his arm.
“Spencer?” Emily asks, and her lips move on his phone as she speaks. “Did you—”
He cuts her off with a shake of the head and with a shaking hand, undoes the belt around his arm and lets it fall to the floor. “I was— I was about to,” he admits, his voice weak and wet. “I took out the needle. You called right— right as I grabbed the bottle.”
Spencer can see the panic fade from Emily’s face. “Okay, okay,” she says, her voice breathy with relief. “Thank God. Okay. Spencer, I need you to listen to me, okay?”
He nods and says nothing.
“I need you to pick up the bottle and dump it.”
Spencer immediately bursts into tears. “I-I can’t, Em. I can’t!” he cries. “I want to but I can’t. You were dead. I helped carry your coffin! I can’t! It was so bad. I need it! I need to not feel!” He knows he’s not making any sense but by the look of her face, he can tell Emily understands.
“I know,” she says softly. “I know. But I need you to do this for me. Please, Spencer.”
He bows his head and sobs ugly and violent sobs.
“You’re going to be okay, Spencer. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”
“But you weren’t!” he screams, the anger in his chest finally boiling over. “You weren’t here! You left! You lied! You let us believe you were dead! You let us mourn you! I hate you, Emily! I fucking hate you!”
Spencer looks up at the phone when Emily doesn’t respond and freezes when he sees the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I–I’m sorry,” he says, panicked. “I don’t know why I said that. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you! Please, Emily, please. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I— fuck!” Spencer drops his phone on the couch and pushes himself to his feet, grabbing the needle and vial of Dilaudid as he stands.
“Spencer? Spencer!” Emily cries frantically through his phone. He doesn’t respond and practically sprints into his kitchen. Quickly, before he can regret it, he breaks off the tip of the needle and stabs it into a banana to make it safe and throws it and the rest of the needle in the trash. He unscrews the cap of the vial and dumps it down the kitchen sink. He sobs as he watches the liquid flow down the drain. The vial slips from his fingertips and he sinks to the floor. He says there until he’s sure all of the drug is gone before shakily pushing himself up, rinsing out the vial with water, and throwing it in the trash with the broken needle.
He stumbles back into the living room and picks up his phone to see Emily panicking. She opens her mouth to speak but Spencer interrupts her. “I dumped it,” he says weakly.
“Oh thank, God,” Emily sighs with relief. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Spencer.”
“Who knew?” he demands.
“What?”
“Who knew you were alive?”
“Just– just Hotch and JJ. But don’t be mad at them, please. I had no choice. Hotch knows because he’s Unit Chief and JJ only knows because she was assigned to making me disappear. It was too much of a risk to tell anyone else.”
Spencer scoffs. “What? You didn’t trust us? You don’t think we can keep a secret as important as this?”
A pained look crosses Emily’s face. “No,” she insists. “No that’s not it at all. I know all of you would have kept this a secret. I trust all of you with my life. But I couldn’t risk you knowing because it would put you in danger. Doyle will do anything to get to me. I wish even JJ and Hotch didn’t know, but I didn’t get a say in that. But I did get one in protecting you. You don’t– you don’t have to forgive me, or– or even be okay with it, but please—” a small sob cuts her off. “Please, I just need you to understand.”
Spencer stares at her for a while before slowly nodding. “I understand,” he whispers. “I hate it and I’m mad and I don’t forgive you yet but I understand.”
“Thank you,” Emily sighs weakly. “That’s all I ask. I just want you to be safe, that’s why I called, even though I have been ordered not to contact any of you. I couldn’t– I couldn’t let you relapse.”
Spencer nods weakly.
“I just need you to be okay,” she sobs softly.
“I’m not okay,” he admits, another sob forces its way up his throat. “I need help, Em. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m going to call JJ, okay? And she’s going to come pick you up. I'm so proud of you.”
Spencer nods. “I love you, Emily.”
“I love you too, Spence. I’ll stay on the line until she gets here. I’m not leaving you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If anyone wants to be tagged in future fics, just let me know! Also if you have something you'd like me to write, my requests are always open!
reblogging this bc im proud of it
Just To Hear Her Voice
Here's my first Criminal Minds fic!
summary: In the aftermath of Emily's death, Spencer starts calling and texting her number to cope as his life spirals down around him. He has no idea that halfway across the world, Emily is listening.
content: drug addiction, grief/mourning, angst, hurt/comfort, near relapse, angst with a happy ending
word count: 3.2k
Spencer calls Emily for the first time a week after her death. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest on the floor of his apartment, pressed between a chair and the wall, rocking forward and backward. He holds the phone to his ear and sobs when he hears Emily’s voice.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
The dial tone sounds. Spencer chokes on a sob and hangs up. He redials the number.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
He hangs up before the tone and calls again.
He only speaks on the sixth call.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
The dial tone sounds and Spencer takes a deep, shaky breath. “H-hi, Emily. I, um, I don’t know why I’m calling you. It’s– it’s not like you’re going to answer. You’re dead. I helped carry your coffin. It—” A sob pushes up his throat and cuts him off. “It was so heavy,” he whispers.
He bows his head and presses his knees against his face, he can feel the tears seeping through the fabric of his slacks. “I just– I really miss you. It doesn’t feel real, none of this feels real. I’m sorry. I—” Spencer cuts himself off with a wet chuckle. “I should go eat something.”
Spencer pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. He doesn’t push himself off the floor for another three hours and when he does he goes straight to his room.
He calls her again three days later just to hear her voice. He doesn’t speak.
Spencer lays on the floor of a Nashville hotel room four weeks and six days after Emily’s death and dials her number.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
He waits for the tone.
“I saw someone that looks like you today,” he says weakly. He breathes deeply and stares at the ceiling, tracing the perimeter of the room with his eyes. “It was uncanny. I, um, I really thought she was you. I was with Rossi, heading back to the Nashville police station, we’re on our first case since—” he pauses unable to finish the sentence. “It was good he was there. I might have called your name if he wasn’t. It feels wrong without you here.” Unable to think of anything else to say, Spencer hangs up.
He doesn’t know that halfway across the world his voicemails are transferred from one phone to another and Emily Prentiss, newly arrived in Paris, listens to them and cries.
After the case in Nashville, calling Emily becomes a part of Spencer’s routine. Most of the time he doesn’t talk, unable to force himself to speak, and just listens to her voice. On those days he goes over to JJ’s house once he hangs up and cries in her arms.
Emily receives records of those calls too, the times and dates are sent to her new phone and she stares at them when they arrive, hoping that she’s not the only person Spencer is talking to.
After three months he shifts from leaving messages to texting because it’s easier than talking. He still calls to listen to her voice but always hangs up before the tone. He texts her about his day, about the cases they’re working on without giving away any details, about how much he misses her. He still goes to JJ’s house at least once a week, he feels safer there on bad days.
Five months and thirteen days after her death, Spencer calls Emily’s number and yells.
“You should have told us! We could have helped you! We’re family, Emily! It’s our job to take care of each other.” Spencer's voice cracks and he lets out a screaming sob as he grabs a plate from the sink and throws it to the floor. “And now you’re dead! You’re dead and there’s nothing we can do about it! You’re so fucking stupid, Emily! We– we could have helped you! I hate you! I hate you! Why’d you have to leave?” He falls to the floor and trails off into uncontrollable sobs, not caring that the ceramic shards dig into his knees and the palm of his hand. He leans against the cabinets next to him and sobs, painfully and violently. He knows he’s being loud, loud enough that his neighbors can probably hear him but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he feels like he’s dying. He slams his head against the cabinet and the pain of it combined with the pain of the ceramic stuck in his skin helps ground him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice wet with tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I’m so sorry. I could never hate you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats those two words until his phone dies in his hand eleven minutes later.
Halfway across the world, Emily Prentiss sits in her Paris apartment, listens to the voicemail, and cries.
Spencer doesn’t call or text for twenty-four days after that. He knows she’s dead. He knows she can’t hear or see what he says to her, but he feels painfully guilty for his last voicemail. The kind of guilt that burrows into his chest and stays there, squeezing tight around his heart and lungs whenever he thinks about it.
He lays awake in a hotel bed in Sedona, Arizona staring at the ceiling. With a sigh, he rolls onto his side, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and opens his text conversation with Emily.
“I don’t know why I’m still doing this,” he types. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I know you’re not going to see this, but I want to say I’m sorry again for when I last called. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I was just angry and sad and didn’t know what to do. I don’t know why I still feel so stuck. Obviously, everyone else is still sad but they seem to be moving on while I’m still here.” He sends the message and pauses for a moment. “I’ve been craving again, ever since you died. It’s getting worse the longer it’s been. I don’t know why. I thought it would get easier but it’s just getting harder. I’m scared, Emily.” His finger hovers over the send button before he changes his mind and deletes the message. He’s not going to tell anyone that, not even someone dead. Emily doesn’t deserve that. “I miss you,” he writes. He hits send and puts his phone back on the nightstand, curling into a ball with the comforter pulled up to his chin.
He squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around his chest, trying not to scratch at the crook of his arm and trying not to think about getting high.
The next two weeks pass in a haze and Spencer can feel himself getting worse. He calls and texts Emily’s number more frequently and visits JJ’s house nearly every other day. Being around Henry is the only thing keeping him from contacting his old dealer. He would never bring that shit into their home, he would never even think of being high around his godson.
Spencer sits curled in on himself between a chair and the wall of his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
The tone sounds. “I miss you, Emily,” he says, his voice weak around the lump in his throat. “It’s not getting easier, but I’m alright.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t know why he’s lying. Emily’s dead. She’s not going to hear it anyway. But he just can’t bring himself to say it. He hangs up.
Three days later, Spencer calls JJ to ask if he can come over. She apologizes and tells him that Henry has the flu and passed it on to Will. He tells her it’s okay and hangs up.
Forty-five hours later he calls a number he deleted from his contacts years ago.
Sixteen hours later Spencer is curled up on his couch, staring at the unopened vial of Dilaudid sitting on his coffee table next to a packaged needle.
He knows he shouldn’t do this. He doesn’t want to. But he needs it.
He feels frozen, his whole body is shaking. He rubs his eyes hard and continues to stare at the vial. He knows he should call someone but he’s scared and ashamed. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.
His hand shakes violently as he reaches for his phone and selects Emily’s contact. She’s dead. He can call her. She won’t know and maybe calling will give him the courage to dump it down the drain.
The first ring startles him and he waits silently, tears streaming down his cheeks as the phone continues to ring.
“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”
The tone sounds and Spencer speaks.
______
Emily's phone pings as a new voicemail is transferred to her phone. She looks at her phone with surprise. It’s eight am in Paris and two am in DC. It’s much later than Spencer usually calls.
She turns her volume on and selects the voice message.
The first thing she hears is a shaky sob she’s become painfully familiar with.
“Hi, Emily. I don’t know why I’m calling,” Spencer mutters. His voice sounds completely broken and almost dead. “Actually, that’s– that’s not true. I know why I’m calling.” There’s a pause and all she can hear is the shaky sound of Spencer breathing and crying softly. “I can’t call anyone else.” He sighs. “I’m, um, I’m sitting in my living room in– in front of a needle and a vial of Dilaudid.” Emily’s stomach drops and she shoots to her feet. A broken sob plays from her phone. Panic builds rapidly in her chest and she hopes, prays, that Spencer hasn’t taken any yet. She’s pulled from her thoughts when he starts to speak again. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I promise I don’t want to. It’s just too much, I—” his voice breaks “I need it, Em.” Emily raises her hand to cover her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks. This is her fault. This is all her fault. She should’ve told everyone.
“I’m so sorry, Em. I just– I really miss you. I-I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
The playback ends and Emily immediately rushes to the toilet to vomit because that sounded horrifyingly like a suicide note. She coughs violently and spits into the toilet. She doesn’t even take the time to flush it before she clicks on Spencer’s number and her phone is ringing.
Halfway across the world, Spencer sobs as rolls up his sleeve and wraps his belt around his upper arm. The sterile plastic crinkles as he removes the needle. He holds it and wishes he wasn’t like this. Wishes he was a better, stronger person. He reaches to grab the vial but as the tips of his fingers touch the cool class his phone rings.
He startles, almost dropping the needle. Too large a part of him is glad he didn’t drop it because that means it’s still clean and he can still use it. He slips the needle back into the plastic packaging and sets it back down on the coffee table but he doesn’t undo the belt around his arm. His hand shakes violently as he picks up his phone.
He stares at the screen for the moment, it’s a number he doesn’t recognize with a Paris area code. He doesn’t know why but he answers it.
“Spencer!” Emily’s voice gasps through his phone.
Spencer stares wide-eyed at the phone without responding. This isn’t happening, this isn’t real. She’s dead. He must be having a schizophrenic break, he’s the right age for it and he’s hearing the voice of his dead friend.
“Spencer!” the voice says again. He refuses to think of it as Emily’s voice. It’s not her voice, it can’t be because if it is that means she’s alive. That means that she and Hotch and who knows how many other members of his team have been lying to him for months. That means she heard and read all his messages. That means she heard him say that he bought Dilaudid and is about to shoot up. “Please, Spencer! Please answer me. Oh, God.”
“E-Emily?” he asks, his voice breaking. He hates that part of him believes it might actually be her.
“Yes, fuck. Yes, it’s me, Spencer, please tell me you’re okay,” she gasps. Spencer can hear her crying.
“Is–is this real? I’m not having a schizophrenic break?”
“No, I mean yes, I mean this is real!” Emily stutters. “I’m real. I’m alive. I’m so so sorry. But please Spencer, tell me you haven’t done anything.”
Spencer doesn’t respond, just staring in disbelief at his phone. A moment later his phone beeps and a button appears at the bottom of the screen. Without thinking he presses it and immediately Emily’s face fills his screen. Her face is pale and her hair is all over the place and she looks terrified. She stares at him with wide eyes. In the bottom right corner is himself, and for the first time in sixty-one hours and twenty-three minutes, Spencer looks at himself. His face is red and blotchy and the bags under his eyes look like bruises. His hair is greasy and knotted. His shirt is buttoned incorrectly, his right sleeve is rolled up, and he can see the belt cinched around his arm.
“Spencer?” Emily asks, and her lips move on his phone as she speaks. “Did you—”
He cuts her off with a shake of the head and with a shaking hand, undoes the belt around his arm and lets it fall to the floor. “I was— I was about to,” he admits, his voice weak and wet. “I took out the needle. You called right— right as I grabbed the bottle.”
Spencer can see the panic fade from Emily’s face. “Okay, okay,” she says, her voice breathy with relief. “Thank God. Okay. Spencer, I need you to listen to me, okay?”
He nods and says nothing.
“I need you to pick up the bottle and dump it.”
Spencer immediately bursts into tears. “I-I can’t, Em. I can’t!” he cries. “I want to but I can’t. You were dead. I helped carry your coffin! I can’t! It was so bad. I need it! I need to not feel!” He knows he’s not making any sense but by the look of her face, he can tell Emily understands.
“I know,” she says softly. “I know. But I need you to do this for me. Please, Spencer.”
He bows his head and sobs ugly and violent sobs.
“You’re going to be okay, Spencer. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”
“But you weren’t!” he screams, the anger in his chest finally boiling over. “You weren’t here! You left! You lied! You let us believe you were dead! You let us mourn you! I hate you, Emily! I fucking hate you!”
Spencer looks up at the phone when Emily doesn’t respond and freezes when he sees the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I–I’m sorry,” he says, panicked. “I don’t know why I said that. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you! Please, Emily, please. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I— fuck!” Spencer drops his phone on the couch and pushes himself to his feet, grabbing the needle and vial of Dilaudid as he stands.
“Spencer? Spencer!” Emily cries frantically through his phone. He doesn’t respond and practically sprints into his kitchen. Quickly, before he can regret it, he breaks off the tip of the needle and stabs it into a banana to make it safe and throws it and the rest of the needle in the trash. He unscrews the cap of the vial and dumps it down the kitchen sink. He sobs as he watches the liquid flow down the drain. The vial slips from his fingertips and he sinks to the floor. He says there until he’s sure all of the drug is gone before shakily pushing himself up, rinsing out the vial with water, and throwing it in the trash with the broken needle.
He stumbles back into the living room and picks up his phone to see Emily panicking. She opens her mouth to speak Spencer interrupts her. “I dumped it,” he says weakly.
“Oh thank, God,” Emily sighs with relief. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Spencer.”
“Who knew?” he demands.
“What?”
“Who knew you were alive?”
“Just– just Hotch and JJ. But don’t be mad at them, please. I had no choice. Hotch knows because he’s Unit Chief and JJ only knows because she was assigned to making me disappear. It was too much of a risk to tell anyone else.”
Spencer scoffs. “What? You didn’t trust us? You don’t think we can keep a secret as important as this?”
A pained look crosses Emily’s face. “No,” she insists. “No that’s not it at all. I know all of you would have kept this a secret. I trust all of you with my life. But I couldn’t risk you knowing because it would put you in danger. Doyle will do anything to get to me. I wish even JJ and Hotch didn’t know, but I didn’t get a say in that. But I did get one in protecting you. You don’t– you don’t have to forgive me, or– or even be okay with it, but please—” a small sob cuts her off. “Please, I just need you to understand.”
Spencer stares at her for a while before slowly nodding. “I understand,” he whispers. “I hate it and I’m mad and I don’t forgive you yet but I understand.”
“Thank you,” Emily sighs weakly. “That’s all I ask. I just want you to be safe, that’s why I called, even though I have been ordered not to contact any of you. I couldn’t– I couldn’t let you relapse.”
Spencer nods weakly.
“I just need you to be okay,” she sobs softly.
“I’m not okay,” he admits, another sob forces its way up his throat. “I need help, Em. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m going to call JJ, okay? And she’s going to come pick you up. I'm so proud of you.”
Spencer nods. “I love you, Emily.”
“I love you too, Spence. I’ll stay on the line until she gets here. I’m not leaving you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If anyone wants to be tagged in future fics, just let me know! Also if you have something you'd like me to write, my requests are always open!
David Bowie: Kid Sister
Imagine living with your older brother, David Bowie, but running away when he chooses drugs over you:
Being David Bowie's younger sister is hard enough, but having to watch him destroy his life is near impossible.
He and I have quite the age difference, he's currently 27, whilst I am only 15, but he has taken on the role of both father and big brother. When he first took me in I was 11 and he was only 23, he had wanted to stop by and surprise us with a visit after being so busy with his latest album.
It's a long story how he ended up my legal guardian, but let's just say he walked in on our mother berating me, and witnessed her slapping me across the cheek. Needless to say, he was not pleased in the slightest and demanded a reason be given as to why I was slapped. Our mother gave no answer, instead only glaring at me with an even darker hatred than before.
She took a step towards me and I don't know what came over me, but I sprinted around her and into David, crying my eyes out as I hid behind him. I remember my small hands grasping the material of his sleeves, just wanting some feeling of love and acceptance. He seemed stunned, taking a few seconds to react to this; leaning down, he handed me his keys, telling me in a soft voice to go wait in his car. I nodded and went to open the front door when our mother decided to intervene.
"Not another step young lady." I froze in place, this was the harsh tone she used when I knew I was going to be punished and tormented for the rest of the week. Usually she doesn't do more than slap me, but with tone she doesn't hesitate to bring out the belt. I was so close to the door, but the fear that burned in my chest made me want to throw up. I wanted to get away, but what would happen to me if I took another step?
No one made any move, but I knew that this might be my only chance. Taking another step I hesitantly looked over my shoulder towards my mother. She was furious, I could almost say for certain that there was a red gleam in her eyes. She starts walking towards me, but before she can reach me, David moves between us.
"Get out of the way, David." Her tone is sharp, I'm surprised when David makes no movement in response, simply settling a glare upon her.
"She's coming with me and that is final." His sentence is almost growled out, and I can tell mother is just as taken aback as I am, stepping back slightly as her facial expression morphs into one of shock. Not another word is spoken as David turns, grabbing my shoulder as he walks us out of the front door and to his car.
The ride is a blur, I can't find myself focusing on anything other than the bleary stereo and the gray skies. I only come back to reality when he pulls up in-front of a fancy hotel, handing his keys to the valet before helping me out of the car. I glanced around in surprise, he's taken us to the nice side of town, everyone is wearing their nice clothes that I would usually only wear on Sunday for church. David releases a quiet giggle at seeing my look of awe, patting my shoulder as he leads me into the hotel.
I stay silent through the process, making sure to stay directly on David's side as he gets the room key and walks us into the elevator. David leans back against the wall and watches the numbers, but I take this time to observe him; after all, I haven't seen him in quite a while. He's grown his hair out a bit, longer than the last time I saw him, and his face looked almost angry even though it was neutral. Walking to our room he sits me down on the bed, sitting himself next to me with his hands folded in his lap; he seems hesitant, but I know why.
"Just ask me already." My voice is quiet, I cast my gaze downwards as I hear David swallow heavily.
"How long has she been treating you like that?" His question is spoken carefully, almost as though worried that I might break if he didn't pick every word precisely. I feel a small smile trying to form, it's odd, having someone be so gentle with me, especially after the years I've spent with my mother.
"... Ever since dad died." I didn't want to tell him why, mainly because our father's death hurt him a lot as well, but he was already out of the house when that happened; not having to deal with our mother during the aftermath. I don't blame him, in fact, I never wanted him to know, I hate being such a burden.
"Well, no one will ever hurt you again. I promise." His tone is a stark contrast to earlier, being stern and certain; not harsh, but strong and confident. I look to the side, meeting his gaze before pushing forward and hugging him tightly. His body goes rigid, clearly being surprised, but slowly steadying as he envelopes my weak form with his arms.
_______
Ever since that day, I lived with my brother, traveled with him, helped him with his music, etc. We shared a life in a way, but he always made sure that my education came first, hiring me private tutors everywhere we went. I had so much fun, being raised by him was much different than being raised by our mother. David was kind and gentle, only really getting stern when I blatantly went against our agreed upon rules; such as that one time I snuck out of our hotel and went backstage to one of his concerts.
Oh, he was pissed, we got into a bit of a row before stomping off in opposite directions. We avoided each other for the rest of the night and the following day, only talking during a midnight snack run-in. I apologized, I knew it was dangerous to sneak out to a concert where I might be recognized and swarmed by fans. I also told him my reasoning, having not seen him for more than a couple of minutes over the last few months due to the concerts and rehearsals, exclaiming that I just wanted to see him.
David also apologized for yelling at me, he hates yelling and felt really bad, to which I made sure he knew it was alright. He promised to try and spend more time with me, taking time out of the next day for us to go get lunch and ice cream.
We had a lot of fun, but we ended the night running away from a crowd of fans. One of them had managed to grab his sleeves, resulting in him losing his coat. I laughed at first until we finally got away. I observed his hunched over body as we heaved for breath, he was much skinnier than I thought. I hadn't really been paying attention, but I can tell when someone is underweight, and he kind of reminded me of a skeleton.
That was when I started to pay more attention to him, noticing how he'd been more withdrawn recently, spending most of his time reading or in his room. I noticed that he often sniffled, I thought he had a cold, but something about it struck me as odd. I continued watching over him for the next year or so, noticing that he never lost the sniffles for long, they would usually return after a prolonged trip to the bathroom. He also stopped eating a lot, he used to love my occasional cooking and our random jaunts to restaurants, but that all suddenly stopped.
I finally said 'fuck his privacy', searching through his bags after he'd gone to sleep. I found a bag full of white powder, and I'm no idiot, this isn't fucking flour, it's cocaine. All the signs I've noticed now make sense, but that really does fuck all for me. What can I do now? I can't tell him I know, cause then he'll ask how I know. I just need to make sure he doesn't kill himself by accident.
_______
I softly knocked on David's door. He has an interview soon, yet he hasn't left his room all day. I'm really worried about him.
"What do you want!" His voice is rough and sharp, I jump slightly. He's recently taken to shouting at me whenever I do anything, and it scares the living daylights out of me; I know I shouldn't be scared of him, but it reminds me of mom. Anytime she yelled, I knew the day had gone from bad to worse.
"David... You have an interview soon, your people said it was in 15 minutes and that you should be heading out soon." My voice is higher in pitch, that only happens when I'm dreadfully aware of my surroundings. The places we stay in are nice still, but that homey vibe that used to accompany David has long gone.
The door creaks open, the room is dark, like the curtains have been pulled and all the lights smothered. His face is pale, sickly shining in the sterile lighting of the hall. The most haunting look is his eyes, they are so empty, he just stares at me with this dull look as though not even seeing me. David has been like this for a few weeks now, gradually refusing to acknowledge my presence to the point of convincing me I might not actually exist.
It hurts a lot, knowing the person you love and look up to sees you as nothing, but I still push forward.
He pushes the door open wider and walks past me, already dressed up in his suit and dragging along a cane.
"David... David!" He walked into the living room before turning to me, his eyes seemingly set ablaze.
"What." His tone is sharp with agitation, the short response making me feel uncomfortable.
"I... I was wondering...if-" My hesitant words get cut off as David glares at me.
"Hurry up and say it already!" He raises his voice, I can tell he's holding back from shouting at me.
"I just... David, I know." I don't know how else to word it, I just know that I need to confront him on his drug abuse.
"You know? Know what?" He actually seems generally confused, oh how his senses have been dulled.
"I know... I know about the drugs." The last half of my sentence is whispered, but his immediate rigidity alerts me that he heard me loud and clear. I finally look up to his face, and somehow he's become even paler; so gaunt I fear he may faint.
"H-How do you know about that?" For the first time in a while he sounds vulnerable, maybe even a little scared. There's no going back now, I have to tell him the truth and hope he sees reason.
"I looked through your bag a while ago and found it, please don't be mad!" There was a lilt in my voice, but it wasn't pleasant to hear, it more emphasized my worry at how this situation could unfold, and the next movements would only solidify that worry.
"How dare you." It had been silent for about a minute, so his stern toned sentence caught me slightly off guard.
"What?"
"Don't bring up matters that are none of your business!" Talking to him is like riding a roller coaster, one second he responds calmly, the next he's shouting your ear off. I actually stumble backwards, somewhat in shock due to the pure aggression and loathing he conveyed through his tone. The shout resonated in my head for a few moments before I forced myself to talk, my courage beginning to run thin.
"But David! Surely you can see that you're addicted-" My voice is soaked with concern, I love him so much, and this self-destructive behavior of his is hurting me as well. I'm about to continue but he steps forward and roughly shoves me back against the hotel wall.
"I'm not addicted! It is just a hobby!" The unbridled rage flows through his eyes, I see him raising his hand, but the rest is unknown because I shut my eyes tightly and turned away. I held my breath for a few seconds, awaiting the onslaught of abuse, but after being met with none I decided to maybe open my eyes.
The view I'm met with is pitiful almost, David is simply staring at me in shock, my arms still up to block any hits. I begin to breathe again, slowly lowering my arms as I watch his eyes well with tears.
"Y/.. Y/N, why did you do that?" I stare at him wearily, I thought he was going to hit me, I don't trust him anymore.
"You know why." I state solemnly, my voice but a whisper in the quiet hall.
"I would never!" He shouts back defensively, causing me to flinch away again.
He backs up frantically, he's about to say something before someone starts slamming on the door, hurriedly stating a message.
"Mr. Jones, your interview is in 5 minutes! We need to leave sir!" David stills for a moment before turning away. He straightens his suit and smooths his hair before grabbing his cane and walking to the door. As he's reaching for the handle he turns back to me, that same empty look having embodied him again.
"We'll talk about this when I get back." He's so cold, that's the coldest he's ever spoken to me, and I don't think I can take it anymore. Nodding my head, David leaves without another glance, a heavy feeling settling in my chest as I can feel the tears streaming down my face. I wipe them away quickly, the torn sleeve of my shirt dragging across my skin.
I can't stay here anymore, the way he spoke, what he did, how he left... He's chosen, and he didn't pick me. I should leave now, while he's gone. I stumble to my room, my legs apparently being a little wobbly after that interaction.
I pull out my backpack, shoving in clothes as well as my pen and notebook, packing my tooth brush/paste, combs, and moisturizer. I have to pack light, if the crew sees me heading out with a suitcase they will surely stop me from leaving, and I don't need David knowing that I was trying to run away... I worry to think what he would do to me.
I tear off my shirt and jeans and shove on a clean pair, wrapping my large jacket around my shivering frame, slipping on some insulated sweatpants as well. What can I say, it's December in New York City, I'm going to be cold as it is, no need to be freezing. I let my hair down to block my face, shoving on my boots before taking one last glance around.
Taking in my surroundings, I close my eyes and say a silent goodbye to David before grabbing my belongings and leaving.
Well radio personality Rush Lumpbuns is gone and dead. He brainwashed my grandmother for decades. Good riddance I say. Here's him high on Oxycontin. 🤯
spencer knows.
7x5 from childhood's hour // 2x16 fear and loathing // 2x17 distress // 2x19 jones // 3x16 elephant's memory
it's 2nd day of coming off the codeine, I took 7 pills so as not to feel so much withdrawal effects, I also took a zomirene pill, which has benzodiazepines in it, to also fell the withdrawal effects a bit, but it's very hard, everything hurts, I don't know what to with myself, horrible, really sucks, i already miss the feeling and "happiness" that codeine pills gave me
idk why but in hard times tumblr helps me get through this a little bit better
i took acodin pills and i love it
I shouldn’t have kissed you because now the only thing I can think about is how your hands felt on my skin and the words you said that broke my heart.. 😭
Poem 2- Nicotine Demon
˜”*°•.˜”*°• C₁₀H₁₄N₂
That's the formula of death
The nicotine demon
A capitalistic bullet aimed at your lungs
You inject the poison in your mouth
And feed the system built to destroy youth and minorities
Cancer has a price tag and you're buying it
What're you doing? Put it down!
Don't live in the city of fog, where the breaths you take for granted become exotic fantasies
This addiction isn't your friend
It won't save you from momentary problems
It'll lead you to a lifetime of dying every single day
Don't light it up. The fuse of your lifeline is too short to waste. •°*”˜.•°*”˜
TW//addiction
I am recovering from my pill addiction, instead of scouring the house for some, I went to my dad and sister. They gave me hugs and said I'm doing great, and said I should do some self-care. So I'm taking a little nap, then I will get up and get some food, clean or homework. It feels nice to be honest and not get rebuked.
U think ur fucking addicted ? To what? Marijuana? And u still live with ur parents? 😭 Never compare we all have our own truth and life and struggle but never ever say u have it so bad when u have a bed to sleep every night and u are only depending on weed as your crutch. It's so insensitive and stupid to think that ur shits already fucked up. You have a choice to make when you are offered hard drugs and you know the right choice is. Always say NO.
If you can understand what I am saying about homelessness and drug addiction, then you'll know what I mean when I tell people that weed isn't the worst thing of things you could be addicted to. Id rather have someone smoke weed then idk fentanyl??? Watch how you're walking. Things can change quickly. Be grateful if you're sleeping in a warm place tonight and the next night and the next. Many people do not know where they are gonna sleep tonight and sometimes even if they're gonna make it to the morning.
28 -
Well, I feel like shit. Or rather, I feel really apathetic and hopeless and frustrated.
My close friend (my maid of honor) told me she doesn’t want to be part of the wedding or attend it. She’s ghosted me since the “ rock bottom weekend that I can’t talk about”. I’ve tried to open up the door for conversation so she can share with me how she felt and she can be heard, but she hasn’t let it budge an inch. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised - not everyone is entitled to forgive. People can say “that’s your shit, I see it & am proud of you for owning it but I want no part”. I have to respect others where they are at.
I guess I hate that she feels badly (or whatever she feels because truly she hasn’t told me) and that I had a hand in it. Frustrated that I can’t fix it. Guilt that she doesn’t feel comfortable enough in our relationship to have a conversation about it. Hurt that she doesn’t think having a conversation is worth it. I hate that she cared about me - that she put time, effort, and money into planning a weekend for me - and me/the situation made her regret it.
And also I feel irritated and angry that she doesn’t want to talk to me. I like to think I’m a pretty understanding person. What the fuck? Why are people so quick to write someone off and not even let them know the why.
Sounding like a true woe-is-me addict here when I say that but hey, this is my safe space for honesty.
So trying to process that. While still trying to remember to eat, drink water, sleep, not isolate. The LAST fucking thing I want to do right now is go to a meeting. But I’m going and I told a few people so they’d hold my ass accountable.
I’m struggling to remember the basics lately and it’s making me feel pessimistic.
Also, I fell asleep on my arm in a weird position and now it hurts.
I feel tempted to erase any record of me and just start over. But then I feel a sense of “but what if it turns out that no one actually cares?”.
Everyone is about as wrapped up in their head as I am. No one does care. It’s a good thing actually, takes away the spotlight effect. But it’s a bad thing, because it feels like I don’t matter. And if I don’t matter, then what’s the fucking point?
Some positivity in an effort to convince the rude voice in my head that the world isn’t ending, people don’t always leave, I’m a good person even if I don’t get it right every time, that there is a greater point and purpose to it all, that I will find self-assurance and happiness:
Still sober! Day 64.
I did opposite action today from DBT. Instead of isolating and avoiding, I shared my feelings. Now I’m going to this meeting I don’t want to go to.
I checked in with my body: took a shower, drank some water, ate some food (read: NOT candy lol)
My mom said she sees me as my own person now and respects that I make my own choices. That she’s proud of me.
Even though I have one friend who isn’t a fan of me, I have at least 5 other ones who are rooting for me.
My dog loves me and still follows me around even though I got really mad at her and made her feel bad.
I have a roof over my head and food in the fridge. I have enough clothes that I can choose my outfit for the day. I have socks.
Ok so vanity - my acne is pretty much gone & my skin looks great!! The pigmentation is fading.
I’m employable.
We got a beautiful apartment with floor to ceiling windows. I’m moving to a city I have always dreamed of moving to.
I get the opportunity to start over.
I’ve gained some weight and my body isn’t a skeleton any more. I don’t get vertigo every time I stand up.
I can talk myself through a craving until it passes.
I am self-aware. I am kind. I am trying to be a better person every single day. It could be worse right?
Well. That’s where I’m at. Hopefully it gets better.
Each day a little better and brighter except I really don’t feel that shit today and I’m just saying it because I have some hope it’ll work.
29 -
Update: went to the meeting and I feel a little more positive. A little more at ease. My greater She is carrying me through and I am so grateful, because sometimes I can’t do it myself.
Each day a little better and brighter - this time I mean it :)
32 -
I did something. I don’t want to admit it but I need to get this off my chest. I promised to always be honest here, if nowhere else. I got ahold of some pain pills. And now I feel anxious and guilty. I mean duh? What else did I expect?
But at the same time, I have a secret. It feels good in the way that knowing something that only you know feels good - knowledge is a private power. I feel sneaky and a little clever. There’s a rush to doing something and knowing you likely won’t get caught.
I’m so committed to my recovery. To actually sit with the hard stuff, not just numb it out. To living with integrity. To pursuing my dreams.
Or so I thought. Getting ahold of them was instinctual. I didn’t really think twice about it. Okay…not true, I debated on it for a while. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t convince myself not to. It was so easy. There was no way I could be found out. And I’d have a good time for a few hours.
Or rather, I didn’t want to think twice. I wanted them, plain and simple. I wanted to have them because I knew I could.
If I were to take them - I don’t have any intention of getting more. I wouldn’t even know where to go or who to ask. I just wanted them for a fun little afternoon. Nothing more. I’m not trying to escape my feelings or using them as a crutch. I have the capacity and tools these days to work through my problems, sober. They just feel good.
I guess I could describe it similar to non-alcoholics who want to enjoy a glass of wine while they have a quiet night in.
But I feel guilty because it’s not for the right reasons - who uses pain pills to have a “fun little afternoon”? (10 points if you guessed - an addict). And I didn’t get ahold of them in a trustworthy way. If I take them, does it count as a relapse? I don’t want to start over. If I take them, am I unwittingly taking a step down that path again? Can I really say it’s not a choice when here I am, self aware, and still making the choice anyway. They say you will always be in recovery, you can’t cure addiction.
But no one knows, except me.
It’s a decision based upon deceit and selfish intentions. Can I live with that?
I was thinking about them before I went on this trip. I knew they’d be around. If I really was committed to my recovery, then I would have taken precautions, not made plans. Right?
My recovery is still my recovery. I struggle with the idea that abstinence of all for the rest of my life, is the only option (except it is definitely for alcohol). For me - if I can understand the root of why I used to begin with, then I can identify when those feelings come up and sit with them instead of escaping. People use the high to fill a void in something. If I have a foundation of healthy coping mechanisms for negative feelings, then who’s to say I can’t have a fun little afternoon and that’s all it will be?
Or I’m just full of shit and I sound like every other addict out there trying to justify and rationalize why this will be okay. It’s a compulsion of the mind. The fact that I’m even analyzing this….I really don’t know.
33 -
I don’t regret it. I took them and I did have a fun little buzzy afternoon. I took them because I had to make a decision otherwise it would have weighed heavily on my mind. But I knew that this was how it was going to play out, even before getting them. Like I said, I made plans instead of taking precautions.
I’m so indecisive because I think very deeply about outcomes, that often I make a big decision impulsively and just live with the consequences. In a way, I’m afraid to commit.
The difference from the past, is that I was aware and consciously made this choice.
To be honest - I wanted more in the moment. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to go higher, summit the peak. To dance on the line between life and not life. The exhilaration of standing at the precipice. But that’s the thing right? It’s never enough. It will never be enough.
I woke up the next morning & had no desire to do that again.
I’m still sober from alcohol and other drugs. I don’t count it as a relapse. Some might say otherwise, but this is MY recovery. Real, raw and authentic. No hiding here. I own my decision. I am still committed to the bigger picture.
I’m not sure it was worth it. I guess I knew deep down it wouldn’t be, but I still had to do it to prove it. I couldn’t let it go (it would be a waste!). Unfortunately, I am the learn-by-experience type. And sometimes, a few experiences before it really sinks in (lol).
And so we continue on, same as before.
I have more to live for these days. I enjoy my life and I feel excited at what’s to come. I love the people I have, fiercely and selflessly. I have faith in something greater than me. Most importantly, I have faith in myself. I know I have changed. I know I will continue to change. I have humility and an open mind. Those parts of me that were a collection of tiny fragments…well, they aren’t so broken anymore.
Drugs and alcohol will not bring me the validation I seek. They will not give me purpose or increase my value. I know that. I am not that version of myself any longer.
Each day, a little better and brighter.