j.k. armstrong

One day.

One day.

One day.

That’s the farthest I can get in sobriety before I’m standing by my dealer’s door, arguing with myself, spinning in circles.

His place is next to my laundromat. I’m there every week. He wears braces and has bright brown eyes with long, dark lashes. I notice these three features every time I see him, which is often, not only because of the laundromat but because I do this thing where I throw away all my supply and say, “I’m sober now. Now I’m sober. I’m sober starting now.”

I go one day.

Then I’m back, pacing at his door, my hands in fists, knuckles white, like the fight I’m having with myself is about to turn physical.

He always tells me there’s a deal if I buy more– twice as much as usual is five dollars off; three times as much, he’ll throw in some freebies. “I don’t need that much,” I say, every time.

I’m trying to get sober, I never say to anyone. It only sets us all up for disappointment. It’s better to be able to say, “I’m sober,” than, “I’m trying to get sober.”

One day is as far as I get.

I’ve read lots of books and articles on addiction, I did a master’s thesis on addiction. They say to find a different laundromat. They tell me to say, “I don’t do drugs,” instead of, “I can’t do drugs.” There’s lots of those little phrasings, like vocabulary is part of the battle, a weapon you use against your mind.

I go to an Anonymous group and I listen to everyone, their thousand words of jargon, a different language they speak in those rooms. It starts to feel like a cult. I’ve always hated organized religion, the doctrines to memorize, the rituals, the rules, the restrictions. It’s like building fences in your brain, setting boundaries for yourself. Growing up, every boundary I ever set was an invitation.

Let me just dismantle 30 years of abuse, manipulation, relentless punishment from the ones who claimed to love me, and then, one day, I’ll get sober. I’ll be sober.

For now, one day is all I can get. Do they give tokens for 24 hours? A one-day token?

One day.