My Life in Reverse Read Free Page B

hard to call him on it—even when I find an empty heroin bag or needle—because he gets so mad…so adamant that it’s not his.
    We have a baby on the way.
    A whole new life of responsibility.
    There’s no time to shoot dope! There’s no fucking money for it, either.
    He goes to work—sporadically—but all his money is long gone before I see any of it.
    I don’t know what to do…I don’t even know if there’s anything to do…
    Other than hope for the best…and prepare for the worst.

    11 years ago…
    “Who’s shit is this?” I ask him. I just found a ring and earrings in the back seat of the SUV. I’d say ‘our’ SUV, but that would imply that I get to drive it.
    I don’t.
    Even though I’m the one with the license, car insurance, and the titleholder…
    “I don’t know.” He blows off my question. “Probably one of my friend’s girl’s shit.”
    Never mind the fact that I struggle to feed us while he can drive friends around. “Hmm.” I say and slip the jewelry into my pocket. It’s silver (and I kind of like the ring.) Maybe I’ll just wear it until someone claims it.
    I tell the nagging voice in my head to shut up. It tells me not to be stupid—that you don’t find jewelry in the back seat for nothing.
    Unfortunately, I don’t have time to overthink anything.
    I have a kid to care for.

    10 years ago…
    “We have no fucking food!” The words come out full of exasperation. I’d even gone and applied for food stamps, but they haven’t kicked in yet. “He’s been eating ramen noodles for a week straight and we can’t even afford anything for us!”
    He hasn’t given me any money for rent or bills. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Much less for food. Fuck, I’ve been hand-washing laundry in the bathtub, because we can’t even afford the laundromat.
    “They’re going to want the rent soon, too!” I add.
    The anger in him grows. His pupils are small as fuck. Apparently he can’t pay rent or buy food—but he can still buy heroin and shoot it up. Awesome.
    I don’t know if it’s because he’s high, mad, or both. He slams the door on his way out.
    I look for something to feed my kid.

    8 years ago
    “You got what?” I ask, incredously.
    “I got arrested.” He says. “It’s not a big deal.”
    “Arrested for what?”
    “Drugs—but don’t freak out. Brian asked me to get him some blow, but I got nabbed. They’re not going to prosecute as long as I help them.”
    “Help them how?” I can’t wrap my head around what he’s telling me.
    “Give them the bigger fish to fry.” He explains.
    Oh. My head begins to shake slowly. I have a really bad feeling about this.

    7½ years ago…
    I pull out three empty dope bags and two needles. I’m not even snooping, just doing laundry. We moved back in with my mom for six months, staying in the room in the garage. All of us. Even the kid and dog.
    I’m pregnant again—kind of far along, now. Still, I work over forty hours a week at a restaurant, waitressing and bartending.
    I come to the realization that I can’t live like this anymore. He denies his drug use left and right, but I find shit everywhere that disproves his claims.
    Now I do begin to search. I tear through everything. I find more and more paraphernalia. I’m livid. Words can’t express the anger that courses through me. Even six months pregnant, I call one of his dealers. I threaten to kill her if she sells to him again. I tear into her viciously...and then I have an epiphany.
    I realize that it’s not her fault.
    I hit the end call button with a trembling finger and take a good look around me. This insane woman isn’t me. This isn’t worth it. He isn’t worth it. Not all this.
    It doesn’t stop me from crying while I pack his shit.

    2 days later…
    Two days. That’s how long I last. That’s how long I remain strong. He swears he’ll quit using. He swears he’ll start working more. He swears all the same swears that he always swears.
    Maybe it’s the hormones