A couple of days later, the obsession took over again. The relentless need to escape my feelings consumed me. I relapsed—and this time, it counted. But I was going to be smarter. No one would catch me. I bought some vinegar, knowing it could mask a drug test, and headed back to the sober house.
Not long after, I was called down to the office for a drug screen. I sat there, watching the “counselors” examine the cup, ready to tell me I failed. Then, to their surprise—“Negative!?” they muttered, confused. “How could that be?” I smirked. “I guess your snitch was wrong.” Walking back to my room, I shut the door behind me. My roommate stood there, eyes wide. “Did it work?!” “It did!” I shouted.
But before I could settle in, the office called me back down. “You need to test again. You must have used someone else’s pee.” My heart pounded. “What?! How dare you accuse me!” The insanity of it all is so clear now, but in the moment, I was fully committed to the lie.
This time, they made me strip down and pee in front of them. I had never felt so dehumanized. Yet, somehow, I passed again. But they wouldn’t let me leave. My high was wearing off, and the weight of it all started creeping in. Was it worth it?
Finally, they had me test once more—with a different kit. This time, there was no escaping it. “Adulterated!” they shouted.
The fight was over. I exhaled, my voice flat. “Alright, fine. I did it. I relapsed.”
Since it was my second time, the consequence was clear—I was being sent to a homeless shelter. The reality of it all started sinking in. I wasn’t scared of the shelter itself. What haunted me was the thought of my mom. How was she going to feel when she found out?