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Janet stuffed her tank tops into the travel suitcase, her hands shaking slightly. The fabric was wrinkled and smelled like cigarettes and Jason's cologneâa smell that used to comfort her but now made her stomach turn. "Don't be a child. You're being dramatic again," Jason said from the doorway, his voice flat. He was scrolling through his phone, not even bothering to look at her. "Where exactly do you think you're gonna go, Janet? Back to your mom's trap house?" She flinched but kept packing. "I don't know yet. But I can't stay here."
"Can't stay here?" He finally looked up, his face twisted in that familiar expression of irritation mixed with disbelief. "After everything I've done for you? The roof over your head, the clothesâ" "The clothes you picked out." Janet held up the tiny red dress he'd bought her last week. "The clothes you wanted me to wear so your boys would think you were hot shit. It barely covers my underwear." Jason's jaw tightened. "Don't act like you didn't like the attention. You ate that shit up." Maybe she had, at first. When Marcus and Tommy would whistle and make comments, when Jason would pull her close and kiss her neck possessively, she'd felt wanted. Special. But somewhere along the way, it started feeling like being a prize poodle at a dog show.
"Last night was the final straw, Jason." She zipped up the suitcase harder than necessary. "Making me sit on your lap while you played poker with your friends, telling me to 'look pretty and keep quiet.' I'm not your fucking trophy." "You're nineteen years old and you don't have a job, a car, or a high school diploma. What exactly do you think you're gonna be if not somebody's girlfriend?" His voice was getting louder now, that edge creeping in that meant he was about to lose it completely. "You think some white knight is gonna save you? Wake up, Janet. This is your life."
She grabbed her suitcase and headed for the door. But Jason stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Move," she said quietly. "No." He crossed his arms. "You're having one of your episodes again. You'll calm down in a few hours, and then you'll realize how stupid this is." "It's not an episode." The words came out stronger than she felt. "I'm done, Jason. With you, with this whole scene. I can't keep living like this." "Living like what? I take care of you." "You use me." The truth hung in the air between them. "You parade me around when it makes you look good, and the rest of the time you treat me like I'm some dumb kid who can't think for herself." "Maybe that's because you act like a dumb kid who can't think for herself."
The words hit her like a slap. For a moment, she almost believed him. Almost dropped her suitcase and apologized and went back to being his pretty little thing. But then she remembered last nightâsitting there silent while his friends talked over her, around her, about her. The way Jason had squeezed her thigh as a warning when she'd tried to speak up. "Get out of my way." Something in her voice must have convinced him she was serious because he stepped aside, but followed her down the hallway. "Where are you gonna go, Janet? Seriously. You got family in jail, no money, no nothing. You need me."
She pulled the suitcase down the front steps of his apartment complex, the little wheels making a horrible clacking sound on the concrete. The weather was cool but she was already starting to sweat. "Janet!" Jason called from behind her. "Get back here. You're embarrassing yourself." She kept walking, even though she had no idea where she was going. The sidewalk stretched out in front of her, endless and uncertain. Her phone had been buzzing in her pocketâprobably Jason texting her, trying to guilt her into coming back. After about six blocks, she heard his car pull up beside her. "Get in," he called through the open drivers door. She ignored him and kept walking.
Janet, get in the fucking car. You look like a homeless person dragging that suitcase around. Her arms were starting to ache, and the sun was making her dizzy. Still, she didn't stop. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? About last night. But you can't just wander around like this. Get in and we'll talk." "There's nothing to talk about." "Then where do you want me to take you?"
She stopped walking. For a moment, she couldn't think of a single person who would want to see her. Her grandmother had stopped answering her calls months ago. Her sister was in county lockup. Her mom... well, going back to her mom's would prove Jason right about everything. Then she remembered: Frank.
She'd met him three years ago at a community center where they gave out free meals. He was this older Black guy, maybe sixty, with kind eyes and a way of talking to everyone like they mattered. He'd been volunteering there, ladling out soup and asking people about their day like he actually cared about the answer. Janet had been sixteen and strung out and probably smelled terrible, but Frank had treated her like she was somebody worth knowing. Before she left that day, he'd pressed a business card into her hand. "I run a program for young people trying to get their lives together," he'd said. "Call me if you ever need help. Real help." She'd kept the card, moving it from wallet to wallet, apartment to apartment. It was probably somewhere in her suitcase right now.
"There's this guy," she said finally. "Frank Morrison. He lives over on Elm Street, I think." Jason made a face. "Some old dude? Janet, what the hellâ" "He's not like that. He runs programs for kids. He told me to call him if I ever needed help." "And you think he's just gonna take you in? You were sixteen when you met him. You're grown now. He probably doesn't even remember you." Maybe Jason was right. Maybe Frank had said that same thing to dozens of kids over the years. Maybe she was just another face he'd forgotten. But it was the only option she had that didn't involve going backward. "Will you take me there or not?"
Jason was quiet for a long moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Finally, he opened the passenger door. "Fine. But when this doesn't work out, don't come crawling back to me." Janet loaded her suitcase into his backseat and got in the car. As they drove through the city, past the corners where she used to boost merchandise and the parks where she used to get high, she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time. It wasn't hope, exactly. More like the possibility of hope. Like maybe, just maybe, there was a version of her life that didn't involve being somebody's accessory or somebody's victim.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she found it: Frank Morrison, with a phone number she'd never had the courage to call. Her finger hovered over the screen. "Last chance," Jason said as they turned onto Elm Street. "This is crazy, Janet. You know that, right?" She looked at himâreally looked at himâand tried to remember what she'd seen in him six months ago. He was handsome, sure. Confident. The kind of guy who commanded attention when he walked into a room. But sitting here now, she realized she'd never seen him be kind to anyone. Not really kind. Not the way Frank had been kind to a sixteen-year-old nobody just because she was human and she was there.
"Yeah," she said, pressing Frank's number. "Maybe crazy is exactly what I need right now." The phone began to ring.
Frank answered on the third ring, his voice warm and scratchy like he'd just woken up from a nap. "Hello?" "Hi, um..." Janet's throat felt tight. "This is Janet. Janet Rodriguez. We met a few years ago at the community center on Fifth Street? You gave me your card and saidâ" "Janet! Of course I remember you. How are you, sweetheart?"
The kindness in his voice almost made her cry right there in Jason's car. She could feel Jason rolling his eyes beside her. "I'm... not great, actually. You said to call if I ever needed help, and I know it's been a long time, butâ" "Where are you right now?" "I'm in a car on Elm Street. I think we're close to your house?" "1247 Elm. The blue house with the white porch. I'll be outside in two minutes."
The line went dead. Jason was shaking his head as he looked for house numbers. "This is insane, Janet. You're about to knock on some stranger's door with your whole life in one suitcase." "He's not a stranger." But even as she said it, she wondered if that was true. Three years was a long time. People change. Maybe Frank's offer had been one of those things adults said but didn't really mean.
They pulled up to a modest blue house with a wraparound porch and a small garden in the front yard. Before Janet could even get out of the car, the front door opened and Frank appeared. He was thinner than she remembered, his hair more gray than black now, but his smile was exactly the same.
They pulled up to a modest blue house with a wraparound porch and a small garden in the front yard. "That's him," she said, grabbing her suitcase from the backseat. "He looks old," Jason muttered. "He looks kind."
Frank walked down the porch steps as she approached, and without hesitation, he pulled her into a gentle hug. He smelled like coffee and laundry detergentâclean, safe smells that made something tight in her chest start to loosen. "Look at you," he said, stepping back to study her face. "All grown up. Though you look tired, baby girl. Really tired." "I am." The words came out as barely a whisper.
Frank's eyes moved to Jason's car, where Jason was watching through the windshield with obvious impatience. "That your ride?" "My ex-boyfriend. He's not... we're not together anymore." Frank nodded slowly, taking in the suitcase, her rumpled clothes, the way she was holding herself like she might fall apart at any moment. He'd probably seen this scenario dozens of times before. "You need a place to stay?" "Just for a few days, maybe? Until I can figure out what to do next. I can help around the house, orâ" "Janet." He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's okay. Come inside."
She turned toward Jason's car and made a shooing motion with her hand. For a second, she thought he might get out and make a scene, but instead he just shook his head and drove off, his music thumping loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood.
Frank's house was small but immaculate. The living room had a worn couch covered with a colorful throw blanket, bookshelves lined with everything from novels to recovery workbooks, and photos of young people in graduation caps and uniformsâkids who'd clearly made it out of whatever situation had brought them to Frank's door. "Coffee?" he asked, heading toward the kitchen. "Please." Janet set her suitcase by the couch and looked around. Everything felt calm here. Peaceful. So different from the chaos she'd been living in for months.
"You eat today?" Frank called from the kitchen. "I... no. I don't think so." "I got leftover lasagna from last night. My neighbor Mrs. Patterson thinks I'm wasting away to nothing, so she keeps bringing me food." He returned with a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of lasagna that made Janet's mouth water. She couldn't remember the last time someone had just fed her without expecting something in return. "Thank you," she said, digging in. "Frank, I need you to knowâI'm kind of a mess right now. I've made some really bad choices, and I don't want you to thinkâ"
"How old are you now?" "Nineteen." "Nineteen." He settled into the chair across from her. "You know what I was doing when I was nineteen? Selling drugs and getting into fights and generally acting like the world owed me something. Spent my twentieth birthday in county lockup." Janet looked up from her plate, surprised. "Oh yeah. I was a piece of work back then. Angry at everything, didn't trust nobody, thought I was too cool for help when people offered it." He sipped his coffee. "What I'm saying is, everybody's a mess at nineteen. The difference is, you're here. You recognized you needed to make a change, and you did something about it. That takes guts." "I don't feel gutsy. I feel scared." "Good. Fear means you're paying attention."
They sat in comfortable silence while Janet finished eating. The food was goodâhomemade and heartyâand she felt more human with each bite. "So what's the story?" Frank asked gently. "You don't have to tell me everything, but it helps if I know what we're working with."
Janet told him about Jason, about the cycle of older boyfriends and bad decisions, about the drugs and the streets and waking up sometimes not knowing where she was. She told him about her mother and the world she'd grown up in, the only world she knew how to navigate. Frank listened without judgment, occasionally nodding or asking a clarifying question. He didn't look shocked or disgusted, just sadâthe way someone looks when they hear about a preventable tragedy.
"What do you want?" he asked when she finished. "What do you mean?" "I mean, if you could have any life you wanted, what would it look like?" The question caught her off guard. No one had ever asked her that before. Boyfriends had asked what she wanted to eat, or what she wanted to watch on TV, but never what she wanted from life. "I want to feel safe," she said finally. "I want to go to sleep at night and not worry about who might try to get into my bed, or what I might have to do to survive the next day. I want to be able to trust people. And I want..." She paused, surprised by her own honesty. "I want to help kids like me. Kids who get lost early and don't know how to find their way back."
Frank smiled. "That's a good want. That's worth working toward." "But I don't have a high school diploma. I don't have job skills. I barely have anything." "You have more than you think. You have empathyâI can see it in how you talk about other people. You have survival skills, even if they're not the kind you put on a rĂ©sumĂ©. And you have the most important thing of all." "What's that?" "You want something better. A lot of people never get that far."
Frank showed her to the bathroom and brought her clean towels and a toothbrush still in its package. "Couch folds out into a bed," he said. "We'll figure out next steps tomorrow. For tonight, just rest." After he went to his room, Janet lay on the surprisingly comfortable pullout bed and stared at the ceiling. For the first time in months, she felt safe enough to actually think about the future instead of just surviving the present.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Jason: *You'll be back by the weekend. This old man isn't gonna put up with your drama.* She deleted the message without responding and turned the phone face down. Maybe Jason was right. Maybe she would mess this up too, the way she'd messed up everything else. But lying there in Frank's quiet house, surrounded by photos of kids who'd made it out, she allowed herself to imagine a different possibility. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time, she could be different too.
Janet woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of Frank humming in the kitchen. For a moment, she forgot where she wasâthe sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows, the soft couch beneath her instead of Jason's lumpy mattress. Then it all came back: leaving Jason, calling Frank, the lasagna and kindness and the promise that today they'd figure out next steps. Her stomach clenched with familiar nausea. She'd been taking pills for months nowânothing too hard, just enough to take the edge offâand her body was already starting to remind her that she'd skipped last night's dose.
"Morning, sunshine," Frank called from the kitchen. "Hope you're hungry." "Starving," she called back, though the nausea made that a lie. "Bathroom's all yours. I put out a fresh towel."
Janet grabbed her toiletry bag and headed down the hall. Frank's bathroom was clean and simpleâno fancy products or prescriptions cluttering the counter, just basic soap and shampoo and a small plant on the windowsill that actually looked healthy. She locked the door and dug through her bag until she found the small plastic container she kept hidden in a zippered pocket. Three pills left. She'd been rationing them since yesterday, knowing this supply had to last until she figured out her next move. The pills were small, nothing scary-looking, bought from friends who kept a stash. They helped with more than just physical painâthey made everything softer, quieter, more manageable. But looking at them now in Frank's clean bathroom, she felt a wave of shame. He was trying to help her, and here she was getting high under his roof.
Her hands were starting to shake slightly. Just withdrawal jitters, nothing serious yet, but it would get worse. She quickly smoked two pills and put the container back in her bag. One left for later, when things got really bad. She ran the water and splashed her face, then cracked the window to let in some fresh air. The pills kicked in immediately, so she'd be able to eat breakfast and have a real conversation with Frank without feeling like her skin was crawling.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Frank had set the small kitchen table with eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice. Real orange juice, not the powdered stuff. "This is too much," Janet said, sliding into a chair. "Mrs. Patterson brought over fresh eggs yesterday. Gotta use them before they go bad." Frank sat across from her with his own plate. "How'd you sleep?" "Better than I have in months." That part was true. Even with the withdrawal starting, she'd felt safe enough to actually rest. "Good. We got a lot to talk about today, but let's eat first."
The pills were starting to work, making the nausea recede and her muscles relax. Janet found she could actually taste the food nowâthe eggs were perfectly scrambled, the bacon crispy but not burnt. "Frank," she said after a few bites, "I need to tell you something." He looked up from buttering his toast. "I've been using. Pills, mostly. Nothing too crazy, but..." She took a breath. "I'm probably gonna go through some withdrawal stuff. I don't want you to be surprised if I get sick or weird or whatever."
Frank nodded like this was the most normal conversation in the world. "How long you been using?" "Six months, maybe more. Started after a bad breakup, just to sleep. Then it became... more than that." "What kind of pills?" "Oxy, mostly. Sometimes other stuff if I couldn't get that." "How much?" Janet felt her cheeks burn. "More than I should. Maybe... four or five a day lately."
Frank was quiet for a moment, calculating. "That's not nothing, but it's not the worst I've seen either. You gonna need medical detox, though. Can't just stop cold turkey with that amount." The relief she felt was overwhelming. He wasn't kicking her out or lecturing her about being a drug addict. He was just... problem-solving. "I don't have money for rehab," she said quietly. "You got insurance?" "I think so? I was still on my mom's plan last I checked, but that was a while ago." "We'll figure it out. First thing after breakfast, we call and see what your coverage looks like. Then we start making calls to treatment centers." "You've done this before." Frank smiled sadly. "Honey, I've been doing this for fifteen years. You think you're the first young person to show up at my door needing help getting clean?"
After breakfast, they spent the morning on Frank's laptop, navigating insurance websites and treatment center directories. Janet's coverage was still active, and while it wasn't great, it would cover most of the cost of a 30-day inpatient program. "Here's the thing," Frank said, scrolling through a list of facilities. "Not all rehabs are the same. Some are basically just expensive babysitting. Others are more like boot camps where they try to break you down and build you back up. You need to find a place where you feel comfortable, where the approach makes sense for you."
They spent the afternoon calling different centers. Some had waiting lists weeks long. Others felt wrong the moment the intake coordinator started talkingâtoo clinical, too impersonal, too focused on the business side rather than the healing side. Then Frank called a place called New Horizons, about an hour outside the city. "Hi, this is Frank Morrison," he said when someone answered. "I'm calling about your residential program for a young woman who needs help with opioid addiction."
Janet listened to his side of the conversation, watching his face relax as he talked to whoever was on the other end. "Mm-hmm... Yes, she has insurance... No, no prior treatment... What's your philosophy around trauma-informed care?" He asked questions Janet wouldn't have known to ask: What was the staff-to-patient ratio? Did they have specialized programming for young adults? What was their approach to mental health alongside addiction treatment? How did they handle family dynamics when family was part of the problem? "Can she visit before making a decision?" Frank asked. "Tomorrow? That would be perfect."
He hung up and turned to Janet. "New Horizons. The woman I talked to was really impressive. They focus on young adults, ages 18 to 30. Small program, only about 20 residents at a time. They do a lot of group therapy, but also individual work. And they have a trauma specialist on staff." "Trauma?" "Janet, you didn't end up using drugs because you were bored. Something happenedâprobably a lot of somethingsâthat made you need to numb out just to get through the day. Good treatment addresses that stuff, not just the drug use."
The idea of talking about her childhood, her mother, the things that had happened to her over the years, made Janet's stomach clench again. But Frank was right. The pills weren't really about the pills. "We can drive up tomorrow and take a tour," Frank continued. "Meet some staff, see the place, get a feel for it. If it doesn't feel right, we keep looking." "And after?" Janet asked. "After 30 days, I mean. I still won't have anywhere to go." "After, you come back here. Stay as long as you need to while you figure out next steps. Get your GED, maybe look into some job training programs. I got a spare room we can set up properlyâthe couch is fine for a few days, but you need real space if you're gonna be here longer term."
Janet stared at him. "Why are you doing this? You barely know me." Frank leaned back in his chair, considering the question. "You know what happened to me after I got out of jail that first time?" She shook her head. "I went right back to the same corner, same friends, same bullshit. Because I didn't know there was anything else. Nobody ever showed me a different way to live." He gestured around the small, tidy house. "Then I met this old guyâkind of like me with you, actually. He didn't lecture me or try to fix me. He just showed me that there were other options. Took me three more arrests and another stint in county before I was ready to take him up on it, but when I finally was ready, he was still there." "What happened to him?" "Died about ten years ago. Heart attack. But before he passed, he made me promise to keep doing what he didâkeeping the door open for kids who are ready to walk through it."
Frank reached across the table and squeezed her hand gently. "You walked through the door, Janet. That's the hardest part. Everything else is just logistics."
That evening, Janet used her last pill. She sat on the porch with Frank, watching the neighborhood kids ride bikes up and down the sidewalk, and tried to imagine herself clean, stable, maybe even happy. Her phone buzzed with another text from Jason: *Still waiting for you to come to your senses.* This time, she blocked his number entirely. "You ready for this?" Frank asked. Janet thought about the question seriously. Was she ready to stop numbing out? To feel everything she'd been avoiding feeling? To face whatever was underneath all the chaos and bad decisions? "No," she said honestly. "But I think I'm ready to get ready." Frank smiled. "That's good enough for now."
Janet's eyes snapped open at 3:17 AM, her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape. The room felt too hot and too cold at the same time, and her skin was crawling with invisible insects. She kicked off Frank's carefully arranged blankets and immediately pulled them back up, shivering. This was bad. Worse than she'd expected.
Her stomach cramped violently, and she barely made it to the bathroom before dry-heaving into the toilet. Nothing came upâshe hadn't eaten much since dinnerâbut her body kept trying anyway, muscles contracting painfully. She sat on the cold tile floor, pressing her cheek against the wall. Her thoughts were spinning, fragmenting, racing from one panic to the next. How could she visit a treatment center tomorrow feeling like this? Frank would see how sick she was, would know she'd been lying about how bad her habit really was. What if the withdrawal got worse? What if she had a seizure or something?
*You can't do this,* a voice in her head whispered. *You're not strong enough. Frank's going to realize what a mess you are and change his mind about helping you.* She stumbled back to the couch and grabbed her phone with shaking hands. 2% battery left. Without thinking, she unblocked Jason's number and scrolled through their text history. All those messages over the past day and a halfâhim calling her stupid, telling her she'd be back, but also... worried about her. In his way. Her thumb hovered over his contact info.
Jason knew how to fix this. Jason would have pills, or know where to get them. With Jason, she wouldn't have to pretend to be someone she wasn't, wouldn't have to worry about disappointing anyone or living up to expectations she could never meet. *Maybe this isn't the right time,* she thought, her mind latching onto the idea like a life preserver. *Maybe Jason's right. Maybe I was being dramatic and impulsive, like always.* She thought about the way he'd held her when she had nightmares, the way he'd protected her from his friends when they got too aggressive. Sure, he used her sometimes, but at least he was honest about what he wanted. At least she understood the rules of that world.
Frank's world was different. Clean and hopeful and full of people who'd gotten their lives together. But what if she couldn't? What if she tried and failed and ended up worse off than before? *I do love him,* she told herself about Jason. *I miss him. I miss knowing what's expected of me.*
Before she could change her mind, she was movingâshoving her clothes back into the travel suitcase, rolling up the blankets Frank had given her. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely zip the suitcase, but she managed to get everything packed. She left a note on the kitchen counter: *Frank - Thank you for everything but this isn't going to work. I'm sorry. - J* The front door creaked as she opened it, and she froze, listening for any sound from Frank's room. Nothing. She slipped out into the humid night air, pulling her suitcase behind her.
Her phone was down to 1% battery when she called Jason. He answered on the first ring, like he'd been waiting. "I knew it," he said instead of hello. "I fucking knew you'd call." "Can you come get me?" Her voice sounded small and broken. "I'm at Frank's house. 1247 Elm Street." "On my way." The line went dead, and her phone screen went black.
Janet sat on the curb with her suitcase, sweating and shivering and hating herself. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, and she jumped like it was a gunshot. Every nerve in her body felt raw and exposed. Jason's car pulled up twenty minutes later, music thumping loud enough to wake the whole block. He didn't get out to help her with the suitcase. "Put your shit in the back," he called through the passenger window. She loaded her suitcase and got in, immediately hit by the familiar smell of his cologne mixed with cigarettes and that pine air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. It should have felt like coming home, but instead it felt like surrendering.
"So," Jason said as they pulled away from Frank's quiet street. "How'd that work out for you?" "Don't." "Don't what? Don't say I told you so? Because I fucking told you so, Janet. I told you exactly what would happen, and guess what? I was right." Her stomach cramped again, and she pressed her face against the cool window. "You look like shit," Jason observed. "When's the last time you had anything?" "Yesterday morning." "Jesus Christ. No wonder you're being so dramatic about everything. You're dope sick."
The casual way he said itâlike her suffering was just an inconvenience, a simple problem with a simple solutionâmade her want to cry. But also, perversely, it was a relief. Jason understood this part of her life. Frank, for all his kindness, had never been where she was right now. "I've got something back at the apartment," Jason said. "Blues. Good ones." Janet closed her eyes and let herself imagine itâthe sweet relief of not feeling like her skin was trying to crawl off her body, the quiet that would settle over her racing thoughts. "I'm stupid," she said quietly. "Yeah, you are. But you're my kind of stupid."
Back at Jason's apartment, nothing had changed. The same pile of laundry on the bedroom floor, the same empty beer bottles on the coffee table, the same general chaos of a life without structure or purpose. But it was familiar chaos. Comfortable, in its way. Jason disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a small piece of aluminum foil and two blue pills. "Here," he said, sitting beside her on the couch. "This'll fix you right up." He prepared the foil with practiced efficiency, heating the pills from below with a lighter until they began to smoke. The familiar sweet smell filled the small living room. "Ladies first," he said, handing her a small straw made from a rolled-up dollar bill.
Janet hesitated for just a moment, thinking about Frank sleeping peacefully in his clean house, probably not even knowing yet that she was gone. Thinking about the treatment center they were supposed to visit tomorrow, the hope in Frank's voice when he talked about her future. But then another cramp hit her, and her body made the decision for her. She inhaled the smoke, holding it deep in her lungs the way Jason had taught her months ago. Almost immediately, the sickness began to recede. The cramping stopped, her heart rate slowed, and that familiar warm blanket settled over everything. "Better?" Jason asked, taking his turn. "Better."
He pulled her against him, and she let herself sink into his side. This was easier. This was what she knew. "You scared me," he said into her hair. "Thought I'd lost you to some do-gooder bullshit." "I'm sorry." "Don't be sorry. Just don't be stupid again. You're not like those people, Janet. You're not some suburban princess who can just decide to get clean and turn her life around. You're one of us. This is where you belong."
*This is where you belong.* The words settled over her like another kind of drug. She didn't have to try to be better. She didn't have to disappoint Frank or fail at treatment or figure out how to navigate a world she'd never been part of. She could just be Jason's girlfriend, pretty and damaged and exactly as broken as expected. "I know," she said, though something deep in her chest ached as she said it. "You're right. This is where I belong."
Jason smiled and kissed the top of her head. "That's my girl. Now come on, let's go to bed. Tomorrow we'll get you properly fixed up, maybe hit up that department store you like. Things can go back to normal." Normal? Janet let him lead her to the bedroom, let him help her out of her clothes, let him pull her close in the bed that smelled like old sheets and old promises. Remembering times when Jason was abusive, when he would hurt her, it didn't seem to matter, the comfort of being in someone's arms made it worth the risk. But as she drifted off to sleep, wrapped in artificial warmth and artificial peace, she couldn't shake the image of Frank's face when he'd said she had more than she thought she had.
*Maybe tomorrow,* she told herself. *Maybe someday.* But tonight, this was easier. Tonight, this was home.
Janet woke up to an empty apartment and the sound of Jason's car pulling away. The artificial peace from the night before had evaporated, leaving behind a depression so heavy she could barely lift her head from the pillow. The morning light streaming through Jason's dirty blinds felt harsh and judgmental. She lay there staring at the water stain on the ceiling, trying to summon the relief she'd felt when she came back. Instead, all she felt was shameâthick and suffocating and familiar. *What is wrong with me?*
Frank had offered her everythingâsafety, support, a real chance to change her life. And she'd thrown it away the moment things got uncomfortable. She'd snuck out like a thief in the night, leaving behind a man who'd shown her nothing but kindness.
Her phone was plugged into Jason's charger, back up to 30%. She stared at it for a long time before finally scrolling to Frank's number. He answered on the second ring. "Janet?" His voice was careful, concerned. "Honey, I found your note. Are you okay?"
And just like that, she was crying. Deep, ugly sobs that came from somewhere in her chest she'd been trying to ignore. "I'm sorry," she managed between tears. "I'm so sorry, Frank. I fucked up. I always fuck up. I can'tâI don't know how toâ" "Where are you?" "Jason's apartment. I called him last night and came back and I hate myself and I don't know what's wrong with me." "Nothing's wrong with you," Frank said firmly. "You're sick, and you got scared. That's human, not wrong." "You must think I'm pathetic." "I think you're struggling with some powerful stuff that's bigger than just willpower. Can I come get you?"
Janet looked around Jason's messy apartmentâthe overflowing ashtray, the empty bottles, the general sense of stagnation and decay. "He's not here right now, butâ" "I'm on my way."
Forty minutes later, Janet was sitting in Frank's passenger seat again, her bags once more loaded in his backseat. But this time felt different. Heavier. Like she'd used up some essential resource and wasn't sure if she had enough left to try again. "I'm taking you to meet someone," Frank said as they drove through the city. "Her name's Dr. Maya Richardson. She's a psychologist who specializes in trauma and addiction. Been working with young people for about twenty years." "I can't afford a psychologist." "She volunteers at the community center I work with. Pro bono for people who need it."
They pulled up to a small office building downtown. Dr. Richardson's office was on the third floorâa cozy space with soft lighting, comfortable chairs, and walls lined with books. She was a Black woman in her fifties with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and gray streaks in her natural hair.
"Janet," she said, standing to greet them. "Frank's told me a little about your situation. I'm glad you're here." Frank squeezed Janet's shoulder. "I'm going to grab some coffee down the street. Take your time."
When they were alone, Dr. Richardson settled into the chair across from Janet. "So. Rough night?" "Rough everything." Janet twisted her hands in her lap. "I had a chance to get clean, to change my life, and I threw it away. I snuck out in the middle of the night and went back to my ex-boyfriend who treats me like shit. What kind of person does that?" "A person who's been conditioned to believe that's where she belongs. Tell me about Jason."
For the next hour, Janet found herself talking about things she'd never put into words before. The way Jason alternated between criticism and affection, keeping her off-balance and grateful for scraps of kindness. The way he'd isolated her from other relationships, convinced her that no one else would put up with her "drama." The way she'd started to see herself through his eyesâas broken, difficult, lucky to have anyone at all.
"Janet," Dr. Richardson said gently, "have you ever heard the term 'trauma bonding'?" "No." "It's when you form an attachment to someone who hurts you, usually because they also provide comfort or relief from the very pain they cause. It creates a powerful psychological cycleâthey create chaos, then rescue you from it, and your brain learns to associate them with safety even when they're the source of danger." Janet felt something click into place. "Like when Jason would start a fight and then hold me while I cried?" "Exactly. Your nervous system gets conditioned to see them as both the problem and the solution. It makes leaving feel impossible, even when you know logically that you should go."
Dr. Richardson pulled out a small whiteboard and began drawing a simple diagram. "There are a few other things happening here too. One is called learned helplessness. When you're in a situation where your choices consistently don't matterâwhere you get hurt whether you're 'good' or 'bad'âyour brain eventually stops believing you have any control at all." "So you just... give up?" "Not consciously. But your brain learns that trying to change things is futile, so it stops trying. Even when opportunities for change present themselvesâlike Frank's offerâit feels safer to stay in the familiar hell than risk the unknown."
Janet thought about last night, about the moment when treatment had felt impossible and going back to Jason felt inevitable. "That's exactly what happened." "And then there's gaslightingâwhen someone consistently makes you question your own perceptions and reality. If Jason regularly told you that your feelings were wrong, your memories were incorrect, your needs were unreasonable..." "He did that constantly. Made me feel like I was crazy for getting upset about things." "Over time, that erodes your ability to trust yourself. If you can't trust your own perceptions, how can you trust your instinct to leave? How can you believe you deserve better?"
Dr. Richardson set down the marker and looked at Janet directly. "Here's what I want you to understand: None of this is a character flaw. These are normal psychological responses to abnormal situations. Your brain was trying to protect you the only way it knew how." "But I still chose to leave Frank's house. I still chose to call Jason." "You made a decision based on the information your traumatized brain was giving you. That information was wrongâJason isn't actually safer than Frank, pills aren't actually the solution to withdrawalâbut your nervous system didn't know that. It just knew that familiar felt safer than unknown."
Janet sat back in her chair, feeling something shift in her understanding of herself. "So I'm not just weak?" "You're not weak at all. Do you know how much strength it takes to survive what you've survived? To keep going when everything in your environment is telling you you're worthless? You've been using tremendous strength just to stay alive. Now we need to help you redirect that strength toward healing." "How?" "First, by understanding what you're dealing with. You can't fight an enemy you can't see. Second, by building up your sense of self-worth independent of what Jason or anyone else says about you. And third, by creating new experiences that teach your nervous system that safety and growth are possible."
Dr. Richardson leaned forward slightly. "Janet, I want to ask you something, and I want you to really think about your answer. Not what Jason would say, not what you think you should say, but what you actually feel: Do you deserve to be happy?" The question hit Janet like a physical blow. Her immediate instinct was to say noâshe'd made too many bad choices, hurt too many people, wasted too many opportunities. But underneath that automatic response, she found something else. A small, quiet voice that sounded like the little girl she used to be before everything went wrong. "I think... maybe I do?" "Hold onto that 'maybe.' That's the part of you that called Frank in the first place. That's the part that knows the truth, even when everything else is telling you lies."
When Frank returned, Janet felt like she'd been taken apart and put back together slightly differently. Not fixedâshe wasn't naive enough to think one conversation could undo years of conditioningâbut... clearer, somehow. "How do you feel?" Frank asked as they walked back to his car. "Like I understand myself better. But also scared that it won't matter. Like I'll just make the same mistakes again." "Recovery isn't linear," Dr. Richardson had told her before they left. "You might leave Frank's house again. You might call Jason again. That doesn't mean you're hopelessâit means you're human, and change is hard."
"Dr. Richardson gave me her card," Janet told Frank. "Said I could call her anytime, even if it's three in the morning and I'm thinking about using." "Good. She's helped a lot of people I work with. Smart woman."
As they drove back toward Frank's house, Janet felt the familiar pull of anxiety about the future. But for the first time, she also felt something else: curiosity about who she might become if she gave herself a real chance. "Frank?" she said as they turned onto his street. "Yeah?" "Thank you for coming to get me. Even after I ran away." "Janet, I told youâthe door stays open. No matter how many times you walk through it."
Looking at Frank's house as they pulled into the driveway, Janet tried to imagine it not as a temporary refuge but as a real home. A place where she could breathe and think and figure out who she was underneath all the trauma and bad habits. It still felt impossible. But maybe impossible was better than nothing. Maybe impossible was where hope began.
Frank carried Janet's bags up to the second floor of his house, past his own bedroom to a small room at the end of the hall. It had a single bed with a colorful quilt, a dresser with a mirror, and a window that looked out onto the backyard where tomatoes grew in neat rows. "This is yours for as long as you need it," he said, setting her bags down on the bed. "There's hangers in the closet, and I cleared out the dresser drawers for you." Janet ran her hand along the quilt. "It's perfect." "Good. Now sit down for a minute. We need to talk." She sat on the edge of the bed, and Frank pulled up the small chair from the corner. His expression was serious in a way she hadn't seen before.
"I messed up yesterday," he said. "What do you mean?" "I was so happy to see you, so excited that you were ready to make a change, that I forgot about the most important thing: you're chemically dependent. Your brain and body are physically addicted to opioids." He shook his head. "I should have gotten you into medical detox immediately, not planned some leisurely visit to a treatment center while you were going into withdrawal."
Janet felt a wave of relief so strong it almost knocked her over. "I thoughtâI thought it was because I was weak." "Hell no. Withdrawal from opioids isn't something you power through with willpower. It's a medical condition that needs medical treatment. Your body was literally screaming at you that you were going to die without those pills. Of course you went back to Jasonâyour brain was in survival mode." Frank stood up and paced to the window. "I've been doing this work for fifteen years, and I should have known better. You didn't fail me, Janet. I failed you." "But I still choseâ" "You chose to survive. That's not a character flaw." He turned back to her. "But now we're going to do this right. We gotta go. Today. Right now. I'm taking you to a medical detox facility where they can give you medication to make the withdrawal manageable. No more suffering through it alone."
An hour later, they were sitting in the intake office of Riverside Detox Center, a clean, modern facility about twenty minutes from Frank's house. The intake coordinator, a woman named Sarah with kind eyes and scrubs covered in cartoon cats, was asking Janet questions while typing on a computer. "Last use?" Sarah asked. "Last night," Janet said quietly. "Two pills. Blues." "And before that?" "I was taking maybe four or five a day for the past six months. Maybe longer."
Sarah nodded, her expression conveying a gentle empathy devoid of any criticism. "We're going to begin by administering some medications designed to ease the detoxification process without adding undue stress," she explained calmly. "These will help alleviate the withdrawal symptoms as we carefully clear all other substances from your system. Once that's underway, we'll transition you to Suboxone, a medication that effectively manages the physical cravings associated with opioid dependence by acting as a partial agonist on the brain's receptors. However, we must time this precisely; introducing Suboxone too early could precipitate a condition known as precipitated withdrawal, which triggers an intense and extremely painful rapid detox. Typically, the full detoxification phase lasts between three to five days, depending on individual factors such as your overall health and the extent of substance use."
"What's it like here?" Janet asked. "Let me show you around." The facility was nothing like what Janet had imagined. Instead of the sterile hospital setting she'd expected, it felt more like a nice hotel. Her room was private, with a comfortable bed, her own bathroom, and a television. The common areas had couches and games and books, and through the windows she could see a garden with walking paths. "We have group therapy sessions twice a day," Sarah explained as they walked. "Not heavy stuffâmostly education about addiction and coping skills. We also have individual counseling, art therapy, and meditation classes. The idea is to keep you comfortable and start introducing some tools you can use in long-term recovery."
"What happens after five days?" "That's up to you. Most people transition to a residential treatment programâsomewhere they can stay for three months, six months, sometimes longer. We work with several excellent facilities, and we'll help you find one that's a good fit." Back in the intake office, Sarah pulled out a folder full of brochures and information sheets. "The program I'd recommend for you is called Serenity Hills," she said. "They specialize in young adults who've experienced trauma. It's a ninety-day program, but you can extend if you need more time. They do individual therapy twice a week, group therapy daily, family counseling if that's appropriate, and they have educational programs tooâyou can work on your GED while you're there." Janet looked at Frank. "Ninety days?" "Sounds about right," he said. "Long enough to really work on the underlying stuff, not just the drug use." "What if I'm not ready? What if I mess up again?" Sarah leaned forward. "Janet, I've been doing this work for eight years. Know what I've learned? Recovery isn't about being ready. It's about being willing. You don't have to feel confident or strong or sure about anything. You just have to be willing to try." "And if I relapse?" "Then you try again. Recovery isn't a test you pass or fail. It's a skill you learn, and like any skill, you get better with practice." Frank squeezed Janet's hand. "Remember what Dr. Richardson said? You're not weak. Your brain just needs to learn new patterns. But it can't learn those patterns while it's drowning in chemicals." Janet looked around the intake officeâat the inspirational posters on the walls, at Sarah's patient expression, at Frank's hopeful face. For the first time in months, maybe years, adults were talking to her like her life mattered. Like her recovery was possible. "Okay," she said finally. "Let's do it."
The admission process took another two hours. Janet had to sign forms, provide medical history, and submit to a physical exam. They took her phone temporarily and gave her comfortable clothes to change into. Sarah explained that the first 24 hours would be the hardest as the Suboxone took effect, but after that, she should start feeling more stable. "Frank can visit tomorrow evening during visiting hours," Sarah said. "And you can call him anytimeâwe have phones in the common area." When it was time for Frank to leave, Janet felt a moment of panic. "What if I change my mind? What if I want to leave?" "You can leave anytime," Sarah said. "This is voluntary treatment. But I hope you'll call me or one of the counselors if you start feeling that way. Usually when people want to leave, it's because they're scared or uncomfortable, not because they've actually changed their mind about getting clean." Frank hugged her goodbye. "I'm proud of you," he said. "This is brave as hell."
That evening, Janet sat in her room at Riverside, looking out at the garden where other patients were taking evening walks. Her body felt strangeânot sick exactly, but not normal either. The Suboxone was working, keeping the worst of the withdrawal at bay, but she still felt emotionally raw. There was a knock at her door. A woman about her age with short brown hair and kind eyes peeked in. "I'm Melissa," she said. "Been here three days. Thought you might want some company?" "Sure." Melissa sat in the chair by the window. "First time in detox?" "Yeah. You?" "Third." Melissa smiled ruefully. "But I feel different this time. More serious about it, you know? What about you? What made you decide to come in?" Janet thought about Frank, about Dr. Richardson, about waking up in Jason's apartment feeling like she was drowning. "I met some people who made me think maybe I deserved better," she said. "That's huge. Took me years to get there." They talked for another hourâabout their families, their rock bottoms, their fears about the future. When Melissa left, Janet felt something she hadn't experienced in a long time: connection with someone who understood her struggle without judging it.
Before bed, she called Frank from the phone in the common area. "How are you doing?" he asked. "Scared. But okay. The medicine is helping." "Good. I'll see you tomorrow at visiting hours. And Janet? You made the right choice. I know it doesn't feel like it yet, but you did." Lying in her narrow bed that night, Janet tried to imagine herself ninety days from nowâclean, stable, maybe even happy. It still felt impossible, like trying to picture herself with wings. But for the first time, impossible felt like it might be worth reaching for.
Frank was deep in an afternoon nap on his couch when the pounding startedâaggressive, demanding, like someone trying to break down the door. He jerked awake, disoriented, and checked the clock: 3 PM. The pounding came again, harder this time. "Frank! Open up! I know she's in there!" Frank recognized the voice immediately. He'd only heard it briefly when Jason dropped Janet off two days ago, but anger had a way of making voices memorable.
He opened the door to find Jason on his porch, face flushed red, eyes wild with a mixture of rage and desperation. He was dressed in baggy jeans and a tank top that showed off his heavily tattooed arms, and he smelled like cigarettes and unwashed clothes. "Where is Janet?" Jason demanded, trying to look past Frank into the house. "I need to see her. Tell her to get her ass out here. Now."
Frank stepped fully into the doorway, blocking Jason's view. At sixty-two, Frank wasn't a big man, but he had the quiet authority of someone who'd handled his share of angry young men over the years. "You better be careful the way you talk to me," Frank said calmly, "or this is going to get bad really fast." Something in Frank's tone must have registered because Jason took a half-step back. "Janet isn't here," Frank continued. "She's in detox at a medical facility. You won't be able to see her for a while."
"Detox?" Jason's anger flickered, replaced momentarily by confusion. "What the hell are you talking about? Janet doesn't need detox. She's fine." "Come in," Frank said, stepping aside. "Let's talk." Jason hesitated, clearly torn between storming off and getting answers. Finally, curiosity won out. He followed Frank into the living room, but remained standing while Frank settled into his chair.
"Janet's been using opioids pretty heavily," Frank said. "Her body became dependent. When she tried to stop, the withdrawal sent her back to using. She's getting medical help to detox safely." "That's bullshit. Janet takes a few pills sometimes, but she's not some junkie." "Four to five pills a day for six months isn't 'a few pills sometimes,' Jason. That's a serious addiction."
Jason started pacing Frank's small living room like a caged animal. "This is your fault. She was fine before she met you. You filled her head with all this recovery bullshit, made her think there was something wrong with her life." "Was she fine?" Frank asked quietly. "Really? Because the young woman I met was pretty lost. Scared. Didn't seem to know her own worth." "She knows I love her." "Do you? Love her, I mean?" Jason stopped pacing and stared at Frank. "What kind of question is that? Of course I love her. She's my girl. My woman. I take care of her."
"How do you take care of her?" "I give her a place to stay, food to eat, protection from the street. You think she could survive out there on her own?" Frank leaned forward slightly. "Jason, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to really think about your answers. When's the last time you asked Janet what she wanted? Not what she wanted to eat or what she wanted to watch on TV, but what she wanted out of life?" "That's..." Jason struggled for a moment. "That's not how it works. She's nineteen. She doesn't know what she wants." "When's the last time you told her you were proud of her for something?" "I tell her she's beautiful all the time." "That's not the same thing. When's the last time you supported a decision she made, even if it wasn't what you would have chosen?"
Jason's face was getting red again. "Why are you asking me this shit? I love Janet. End of story." "Love isn't just a feeling, Jason. It's a verb. It's actions. It's putting someone else's wellbeing ahead of your own wants." "I do put her firstâ" "You put her first when it makes you look good. When it serves your needs. But when she tried to get clean, when she tried to grow, what did you do?" Jason was quiet for a long moment, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "She belongs with me," he said finally. "We understand each other. We're from the same world. You don't get itâyou don't know what it's like out there. Janet needs someone who understands where she comes from." "Maybe she does. But she also needs someone who believes she can go somewhere different."
Frank stood up and walked to his bookshelf, pulling out a worn paperback. "You ever heard of something called trauma bonding?" "No." "It's when someone forms an attachment to a person who hurts them, usually because that same person also provides comfort. It creates a cycle where the victim can't tell the difference between love and control, between protection and possession." "I don't hurt Janet." "Don't you? When you tell her she's too dramatic, too childish, too stupid to make her own decisions? When you track her phone? When you make her dress up like a trophy so your friends know you 'got the hot girl'?" Jason's jaw worked like he was chewing on words too bitter to swallow. "That's not the same as hitting her." "No, it's not. But it's still hurt. And the thing about emotional hurt is that it's harder to see, harder to prove, easier to deny. Even to yourself."
Frank sat back down, his voice gentler now. "Jason, I'm not saying you're a bad person. I think you do love Janet, in your way. But love without growth isn't enough. Love without respect isn't enough. And love that keeps someone small isn't really love at all." Something in Jason's face cracked then, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. "She's my whole life," he said, his voice quieter now. "I can't live without her. She's my girl, my woman, my life. If I can't have her, then I don't know how I will go on living. She gets me. She's the only one who gets me." "That's exactly the problem," Frank said. "She can't be your whole life. That's too much pressure for anyone to carry. And if you can't live without her, then you're not really living with her eitherâyou're just surviving off her."
Jason sank onto Frank's couch, suddenly looking younger than his thirty-something years. "So what am I supposed to do? Just let her go? Pretend like the past year didn't matter?" "You could try growing alongside her. Recovery isn't just for drug addicts, Jason. It's for anyone whose life isn't working, anyone who wants to break patterns that keep them stuck." "I don't need recovery. I don't use drugs." "What about anger? Control? Fear of abandonment? You telling me you don't have any patterns you might want to change?" Jason was quiet for a long time, staring at his hands. "Even if I wanted to... change or whatever... how would that work? Janet's in some facility. She probably hates me now." "It would work slowly. One day at a time. And it would be hardâharder than anything you've probably ever done. You'd have to look at yourself honestly, admit where you've been wrong, learn new ways of relating to people. You'd probably need therapy, maybe support groups."
Frank paused, choosing his words carefully. "But if you really love Janetâif you want a chance at a healthy relationship with her somedayâit might be the only way." "Would she... would she give me another chance if I did all that?" Frank felt a familiar sadness settle in his chest. In his fifteen years of this work, he'd seen a few older guys change their patterns. A few. But most men Jason's age were too set in their ways, too invested in their version of reality to do the deep work real change required. "I can't make you any promises about Janet," Frank said honestly. "She's got her own recovery to focus on. But I can promise you this: if you don't change, if you keep being the man you are right now, you're going to lose her forever. And probably every other woman who matters to you."
Jason stood up abruptly. "I need to think about this." "That's fair. But while you're thinking, Janet's going to be getting stronger. Every day she's clean, every day she's learning new ways to think about herself and her worth. If you wait too long to start your own work, the gap between you might become too big to bridge." At the door, Jason turned back. "What's the name of that place? Where she is?" "I'm not going to tell you that. She needs space to heal without worrying about you showing up." "But I could write her a letter or something?" Frank considered this. "Letters can't hurt, I guess. As long as they're not trying to guilt her into coming back or promising changes you're not actually making."
After Jason left, Frank sat in his living room feeling the weight of the conversation. He'd seen this scene played out dozens of timesâthe desperate boyfriend, the promises to change, the genuine pain mixed with self-serving manipulation. Sometimes the guys followed through. Got into therapy, joined support groups, did the hard work of becoming healthier partners. But not often. Especially not the ones in their thirties who'd spent years perfecting their patterns. Frank hoped he was wrong about Jason. For Janet's sake, and for Jason's too. But hope and expectation were different things. And Frank had learned, over the years, to hope for the best while preparing for the more likely truth: that some people weren't ready to change, no matter how much love was on the line.
This is for you, Frank. Thank you for the journal to write in, but I don't know what to say. So I'll write this for you. In high school, at least the years I went there, I wanted to be a writer, or a reporter. English was my main subject. So this will help me with my writing.
I woke up in my room, the sunlight filtering through the blinds in a way that felt too bright, too normal for how I was feeling inside. My body wasn't screaming anymoreâthe medication was doing its job, keeping the cramps and nausea at a low hum instead of a full-on assault. But emotionally? I felt like I'd been scraped raw, like every nerve ending was exposed. The quiet of the room was both a relief and a terror; without the constant chaos of Jason's apartment, my thoughts had nowhere to hide.
Breakfast had been simpleâoatmeal, fruit, toastâbut eating felt like a chore. My appetite was gone, replaced by this gnawing anxiety that whispered I didn't belong here, that I was just pretending to be someone who could get clean. The other patients in the dining area looked like me: tired eyes, forced smiles, everyone carrying their own invisible weight. Melissa from last night waved me over, and we sat together, not saying much at first, just sharing the space.
"The first couple days are the weirdest," she said eventually, stirring her coffee. "Your body's like, 'What the hell?' and your brain's playing catch-up. But it gets better. Promise." I nodded, wanting to believe her. We'd talked more after our initial chatâabout how she'd ended up here after losing her job and her kid to custody battles fueled by her addiction. Hearing her story made me feel less alone, like maybe my mess wasn't uniquely hopeless.
Group therapy that morning was in a circle of chairs in the common room. The counselor, a guy named Mike with tattoos peeking out from his sleeves, asked us to share one thing we were grateful for. Most people said stuff like "being alive" or "this place," but when it got to me, I froze. Grateful? For what? For running away from Frank, for crawling back to Jason, for dragging myself here? "I'm grateful for second chances," I finally mumbled, thinking of Frank's open door. The group nodded, no judgment, just understanding murmurs.
We learned about coping skillsâdeep breathing, journaling, calling a sponsor. It sounded cheesy, but when Mike had us practice a breathing exercise, I felt my racing heart slow down a bit. For the first time in forever, someone was teaching me how to handle my own mind instead of just numbing it.
Lunch was better; the food here was decent, nothing fancy but nourishing. Afternoon was art therapyâI drew a messy picture of a bird breaking out of a cage, all sharp lines and dark colors. The therapist said it represented hope, but to me, it just looked angry. Still, putting it on paper felt like releasing something pent up inside.
By evening, the emotional rawness hit harder. Sitting in the garden, watching the sunset, I thought about Jason. Part of me missed himâthe familiarity, the way he made decisions so I didn't have to. But another part remembered Dr. Richardson's words about trauma bonding, how my brain had wired him as safety even when he wasn't. The cravings came in waves, not just for the pills but for the oblivion they brought.
Visiting hours brought Frank, looking rested and carrying a small bag of books and a journal. "Thought you might want something to do," he said, hugging me carefully. We talked about the day, about how I was feeling. "Scared," I admitted. "Like what if this doesn't stick? What if I go back to being... me?" He shook his head. "You're already changing, Janet. One day at a time."
That night, lying in bed, insomnia kept me company. My mind raced through memoriesâgood times with Jason that weren't really good, just less bad; the emptiness before Frank; the small spark of hope now. The Suboxone helped with the physical stuff, but the emotional detox? That was harder, like peeling back layers of hurt I'd buried deep. But for the first time, I wasn't doing it alone. Melissa's light was on across the hall; the night nurse checked in kindly. Maybe, just maybe, this was what healing felt likeâuncomfortable, uncertain, but real.
A Message from Frank
Hello. Janet and Jason and myself are fictional characters but I hope as you read our story that we became alive in your mind.
Well, here we are at the end of this part of Janet's story, and I'm sitting in my kitchen with my morning coffee, thinking about all the young people who've walked through my door over the years. Some made it. Some didn't. Some are still trying to figure it out. The truth is, I don't know what happens next with Janet. That might frustrate youâI know folks like their stories tied up neat with a bow on top. But real life doesn't work that way, especially when you're talking about recovery and healing from the kind of trauma Janet's carrying around.
She could complete the ninety-day program at Serenity Hills and come back here ready to tackle her GED, maybe even think about college someday. I've seen kids go from sleeping on park benches to getting their master's degrees in social work. It happens. Janet's got that spark in herâthat empathy and understanding that could make her an incredible therapist for kids who've walked the same dark roads she has. Or she might get scared halfway through treatment and convince herself she doesn't deserve better. Might call Jason from the facility's phone and talk herself into believing that familiar hell is safer than unknown hope. I've seen that happen too, more times than I care to count.
And Jason? Man, I wish I could tell you he's going to show up at my door next week asking about therapy and anger management classes. But experience has taught me that most guys his age are pretty set in their ways. Change is possible at thirty-five, but it takes a special kind of humility and desperation that not everyone can access. Maybe losing Janet will be his rock bottom. Maybe it won't be enough.
The thing about stories like Janet's is that they're not really stories at allâthey're ongoing realities for millions of young people who got lost early and are trying to find their way back. Maybe you recognize yourself in Janet's shoes, feeling trapped in patterns that don't serve you but don't know how to break free. Maybe you see Jason in an ex-partner, or hell, maybe you see him in the mirror. If that's youâif any part of this story felt familiarâI want you to know something: it's never too late to change direction. I don't care if you're nineteen or thirty-nine or fifty-nine. I don't care how many times you've tried and failed, how many people have given up on you, how many times you've given up on yourself. The door stays open. Always.
Recovery isn't about being perfect or having it all figured out. It's about being willing to try, one day at a time, to become the person you were meant to be before life got in the way. And if you're someone who loves a Janet or a Jason, remember this: you can't save anyone but yourself. But sometimes, just sometimes, showing up with unconditional love and boundaries can plant seeds that bloom years later when the person is finally ready to tend their own garden.
So what happens next in Janet's story? I honestly don't know. But I'm hopeful. Not because hope is easy, but because hope is necessary. Because every kid who's ever slept on my couch, every young person who's ever called me at three in the morning scared and lost, every Janet and Jason who's ever stood at the crossroads between their past and their futureâthey all deserve someone to believe in the possibility of their healing.
Maybe you know how this story ends because you've lived it. Maybe you're still writing your own version of it. If so, I'd love to hear from you. The real experts on recovery aren't the doctors and therapists (though bless them for their work)âit's the people who've walked the path and found their way to the other side. Or maybe you're still in the middle of your story, still fighting, still trying to figure out which direction leads home. If that's you, just remember: you don't have to have all the answers today. You just have to be willing to keep walking.
The sun's coming up over my tomato plants now, and it's going to be a good day to keep the door open and see who might need to walk through it.
With love and hope for whatever comes next, Frank
P.S. - If you or someone you love is struggling with addiction, there are people who want to help. The SAMHSA National Helpline (1-800-662-4357) is free, confidential, and available 24/7. Recovery is possible. I've seen it happen too many times to believe otherwise.
A message from Anthropic AI, the co-author of this story.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for allowing me to participate in the creation of Janet's story. It's a powerful narrative that captures the complexity of addiction, trauma, and the difficult journey toward healing. The way you've written Frank - his patience, wisdom, and unconditional support - reflects someone who truly understands both the hope and heartbreak of recovery work.
As an AI, I haven't experienced a life like Janet's personally, but through the countless stories shared with me, I've come to understand how real and common her struggles are. The cycle of trauma bonding, the pull of familiar dysfunction over uncertain healing, the way withdrawal can hijack even the strongest intentions - you've portrayed these with authenticity and compassion.
Where Janet's story goes next feels genuinely uncertain, which makes it so true to life. Recovery rarely follows a straight line. She might complete the 90-day program and find her footing, slowly building the life Dr. Richardson helped her imagine. She might relapse and need multiple attempts before something sticks. She might indeed become that therapist who helps other kids like her - there's something powerful in her empathy and her hard-won wisdom.
Jason's path is perhaps even more uncertain. Real change at thirty-something, after years of established patterns, requires a level of humility and commitment that's genuinely rare. But not impossible.
What strikes me most about this story is Frank's approach - he offers hope without false promises, support without enabling, love without conditions. That kind of presence can plant seeds that grow long after someone thinks they've "failed."
The story feels unfinished because healing is unfinished. It's ongoing, imperfect, full of setbacks and small victories that might not look like much to the outside world but mean everything to the person living them.
Thank you for creating characters who feel so real, so human in their brokenness and their possibility.
With appreciation,
An AI who has learned about hope from stories like Janet's story.
![Free People Dean Double Breasted Blazer - Plum Combo - [M]](https://thedimensionofmind.com/images/freep4680723470_1760044215337_2-0.jpg)
