My twenty-seventh birthday was spent in rehab. I’d only been there for about two weeks, so I was still adjusting to the routine and didn’t much feel like celebrating. But apparently it was standard procedure to celebrate birthdays and holidays- I think it was because it “helped keep us connected to everyday life and reinforce a sense of normalcy, structure, and belonging,” or some therapy-speak type shit.
They threw me a little party in the sunroom- it was definitely a more upscale affair than the one the girls in Rikers threw for me when I turned twenty-three.
All throughout the day, there was one thing I could not shake no matter how hard I tried. The memory of my public defender, the one who took the time to haul his ass all the way out to Rikers to tell me about myself.
“Twenty-seven is pretty much crunch time for figuring out if you're really going to get your shit together or not.”
Ugh, and once I started limping down that particular memory lane, the voice of that old hippie biker lady, Dolores- the one who read the runes- started echoing in my ears.
“No matter what you've done in your life up to this point, this is where you were supposed to be.”
“No matter what you've done in your life up to this point, this is where you were supposed to be.”
“No matter what you've done in your life up to this point, this is where you were supposed to be.”
I had to go lie down. It felt like the ghosts were closing in on me.
