She tells me treatment doesn’t work.
She tells me therapy doesn’t work.
She tells me she will never have a day that she doesn’t want to use drugs.
I tell her to keep fighting.
I want to tell her that hopelessness is the same thing as death. It’s a hell of your own making. But I don’t think she’s ready to hear that yet.
She asks me if it depresses me. This work I do. Hearing other people complain all day. Watching addicts struggle. I tell her no. I tell her I’ve seen people get through this and I believe she will as well.
She doesn’t believe me.
Words are powerful.
God speaks and the world is created.
With truth comes freedom.
The words we tell others and the words we tell ourselves. They matter.
I know the words that she needs to hear exist. They are out there floating around in the cosmos, just waiting to be found.
The combination of consonants and vowels that would make up the sentences that could change her life. The right words in the right order. And If I said these words, things would be better. But I don’t know what those words are. I rarely do.
So all I can really do is listen.
Hope she comes back next time.
Whether I have the words or not.