The first few lines were what I lived for. I’d apply a fresh coat of lipstick, hitch my skirt up a little higher, and undo an extra button on my shirt. When I emerged from the bathroom, I was myself again. Confident. Sexy. High. It was how I wanted people to see me. It was who I wanted to be. I was quicker with my wit, sharper with my comebacks. Mostly, I loved coke because I knew who I was when I was doing it. I knew everything about that girl. She was sure of herself. Everyone loved her. Men and women wanted her. And she always got what she wanted.

But after those first few lines, the want became need. I was no longer in control of myself. I didn’t know what I was saying, where I was going. I was shaky, spilling all my secrets, talking simply because it felt good. I just wanted that next bump. It was all that mattered. I had to maintain the feeling. I didn’t want it to ever go away. Fiending, wild-eyed, scanning the room. Who has coke? Do you have any coke? Where can I get more coke?

I became sloppier. The ritual was no longer important. I just needed it. Now. I didn’t even try to conceal it. Snorting key bumps under my coat. White powder caked in my nose. I didn’t care about anything. I just needed it now.

I would pace around the room as the sun came up. Some guy passed out nearby. I wanted out of my skin, out of my body. Out. Out. Out. It wasn’t fun anymore. This isn’t fun anymore. Cutting up lines not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t stop. The self-loathing would come. When the coke ran out, the self-loathing would come. Lying in bed, crying and praying to God to please let me sleep. Please kill me. Please God, just let me die. Let me die tonight so this will be over. I can’t take it anymore. Please. Let me die. Please.

That part I didn’t love so much.

Chapter 35

Dr. Brace wanted to see me on a semi-regular basis, but he also wanted me to see a psychologist. On his recommendation, I went to see Dr. Rowe. She was a small, mousy thirtysomething with blond hair and eyebrows that had been overtweezed to the point of no return.

“You can call me Joanna,” she said, in an obvious effort to make us appear more like equals.

“And you can call me Grace,” I replied. Noticing my shoulders were drawn up, I let them fall.

She was watching my movements, her skinny eyebrows squiggling with sympathy. “How are you feeling?”

I ran the flats of my palms over the velvety fabric of the armrests. “I’ll be honest with you, I’ve been better.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, Joanna, it’s been a tough year.” I lowered my gaze to the white tiling of the floor. “First, I killed my baby. The one thing I was supposed to protect. Then Jack left me. He found someone else.” My voice came out louder than I had anticipated. “So as you can imagine, it’s getting pretty dark inside my head.”