When You Have Nothing Left to Sell, You Sell Yourself

The giggles poured from her lips like bubbles in a fountain.  Glittering bits of sound that tickled my ear drums like a feather underfoot. 

Infectious.  Contagious.  Effervescent. 

It was hard not to smile when you were around her.  She was just one of those people built on smiles – as if her DNA were stamped with happiness genes from a factory. 

But that was only on the outside.  The inside always tells a different story. 

— 

The first time I met Melody, she welcomed me as if we had been lifelong friends.  I was still pretty fucked up myself and running off the fumes from the Ativan they had pumped me full in detox, so I responded well to her kindness. 

Plus, I’ve always liked to smile.  I’ve always liked to laugh. 

Humor is the antithesis to a life roaming in the shadows.  Why feed the haunting darkness with furrowed brows when we can bask in the brimming light of molten grins? 

She was merely sixteen years old, bright eyed and still holding on to a little bit of her baby fat around the edges.  She was pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way and reminded me of one of those cute girls who are always overshadowed by that one knock-out friend. 

Yet I could tell all the makings were there for her.  Just give her a few more years and she’d be a stunner… the kind of girl that guys never get over – too beautiful to see it and too smart to believe it. 

And her laugh was infectious.  That’s what always did it for me.  If a girl knew how to laugh, then she was a keeper. 

But I digress. 

— 

“Why do you laugh so much?”  Melody asked me one day curiously.  “You’re always smiling.” 

I thought about if for a moment – why would I rather laugh than cry? 

Her beaming smile was glowing brighter than the sun.  “I love your laugh Q.  You know I do.” 

I looked up at her from the corner of my eyes.  There was a semi-smirk stretched awkwardly across my face like a T-shirt I had only managed to put half on. 

“Thanks.” I finally managed. 

“No, I really do.”  She pushed.  “You always seem so happy, like nothing can bother you.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

What I was I supposed to say to something like that.  Of course shit bothered me.  I was sitting in a fucking rehab with my life broken in pieces.  But she was a good kid, and I knew my role. 

It was to offer hope. 

“It’s all how you present yourself,” I winked at her.  “When you have nothing to lose, you can allow it to lighten your step a little.  Free yourself in a way.” 

She nodded as if she were the pupil, and I was the teacher.  But it sure didn’t feel that way. 

“Plus, it makes me feel better than being sad.  What’s the alternative?  Wallow in the world?” 

“Really?”  Her giggles were back.  She couldn’t even take me seriously.  And my own demeanor was eroding as well. 

“Think of it like this,” I persisted.  “A smile is like a handshake.  It’s a connection with another person, an acknowledgment – it’s like saying you and I are going to make this moment a better place.” 

She had stopped laughing and thought about what I said.  I could see that distant look in her eyes as she mulled over the possibilities with a sober mind. 

It felt good watching her.  It felt good thinking I had made a difference. 

— 

Melody and I became friends as both our sober journeys began.  I wasn’t as close with her as I was with Jade.  But looking back, I’d definitely seen a pattern at rehab. 

These girls were mostly teenagers.  I was 34, so more than double their time on Earth.  I had experience.  Perspective. 

I mean, they were fucked up and coming from being molested or raped – just trying to live by any means necessary.  Guys hadn’t been sparkling role models in their lives. 

They start hearing me share in group, that professionally I had my shit together, I had a good relationship with my wife (bear with me here – lying and being an addict usually doesn’t produce a healthy marriage, but minus that gigantic fumble, I wasn’t doing too shabby in the provider role and other departments). 

But I had accepted all my stumbles and was humbly starting to put in the work. 

So they seemed to resonate to me.  And not in some fucked up weird way at all. 

Maybe as a father figure or some shit.  I don’t know.  But we’d develop a trust and they’d ask me questions.  I sure as fuck didn’t have the answers, but I’d dole out what wisdom I knew and had experienced – which usually ended up being a lot more perspective than they had.  

I think the one takeaway, that I hoped I had instilled in them is that there are some good guys out there.  That aren’t trying to take advantage of them, that aren’t trying to get into their pants, they just want to help out. 

Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.  But it is sure as fuck heartbreaking watching how much we’ve failed these broken girls as a society. 

It’s tragic.  Absolutely fucking tragic. 

— 

Take Melody for example. 

There were skeletons in her closet just waiting to feast on her like maggots on a dead body every time she closed her eyes.  That’s why she smiled so much.  That’s why a trail of giggles followed her around like breadcrumbs falling out of her pocket in a Hansel and Gretel fairytale, only in her life, the witch was real. 

It was the best place to hide. 

Smile and play pretend in the open. 

She was good at the game of masks; I’ll give her that. 

Yet underneath it all, she was dying inside.  I’d hear it in her voice when she’d share during groups as clear as if she were shouting in my face. 

And she’d hit the jackpot of family and psychological baggage.  Name it and it was there.  Suicidal, cutter, tweaker, eating disorders, image struggles with a crumbling self-esteem, depression, single mom and Daddy issues. 

But man, she seemed like such a sweet kid in light of it all. 

These are the cases that are the hardest to watch.  They tear me up inside.  And if you aren’t careful, these are the cases that will break your heart. 

— 

After I got out of rehab, I’d still see Melody at meetings.  Plus, my wife would attend support groups with her mom, so I was able to keep tabs on her.  And then slowly at first, I stopped seeing Melody at meetings.  It was the usual cycle of the relapsing addict.  But when my wife told me her mom had stopped showing up at groups as well, that’s when I knew something had happened. 

— 

I’ll never forget the first time I saw her when she came back. 

She looked bad. 

Used up and empty.  Skinny as a rail and pale as milk. 

She was sitting alone on a bench outside smoking a cigarette.  Looking down at her shoes as if she had been branded with a scarlet letter.  Radioactive for relapsing – no one wanted to get close to her for fear of a metaphorical infection. 

She’d tried to live life on her terms and failed.  Now she was facing the consequences. 

Now she was back. 

No one has to say it.  You feel it every second relentlessly once you step inside a rehab for the second time.  “Told you so,” keeps ringing in your ears like a record stuck on repeat. 

When you’re there, living it in the flesh, you never think you’ll be going back.  But it happens to most of us. 

I walked over to her slowly, unsure of what I was going to say. 

“Mind if I sit?” 

She glanced up at me with dead eyes.  Dark halos dug into her face above her cheeks like empty graves.  I felt something break inside of me. 

That trademark smile was gone.  The sparkling giggles replaced with a lifeless stare. 

I knew what situation she was in and wondered how long she had been using.  This was bad.  Real bad. 

“Sure.” 

She said the word with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. 

I was still trying to figure out what to say when an awkward jumble of words spilled from my mouth with all the grace of an overflowing sink.  “I mean, I know the situation, but it’s good to see you.” 

“I missed your laugh Q.” 

She said the words before I could fit in another line.  Her voice sounded like a zombie, but I chuckled.  I couldn’t help it.  There was still the old Melody I knew trapped inside, fighting to get out. 

“Yeah, I missed your incessant giggles as well.  Just not the same without you around here.  I mean, I hope you never have to come back, but I’m trying to find a silver lining for you.” 

She smiled, and it was real. 

She took a deep drag of her cigarette and exhaled.  The silence stretched out wide as an ocean between us. 

I rolled the dice. 

“My wife hasn’t seen your mom attending any support groups lately.  You guys doing okay?” 

A half-smile tugged at the corners of her sunken cheeks, the skin stretched tight, a mask fitted on a skull.  But she decided to deflect. 

She kept staring straight ahead, as if in a trance.  “I like your wife a lot.  I loved watching you guys interact together in groups.  You look so happy together.” 

I laughed out loud.  I couldn’t help myself.  That wasn’t the reply I was expecting. 

I locked eyes with her. 

“That’s mending.  I broke something and now I’m trying to fix it.  What you’re seeing playing out is the comfort of years in the making.  I mean, our partners will always blame themselves for not seeing it.  For not knowing what we were hiding.  But it was me.  I did this.  Sure, there’s a we, it takes both of us to want to fix things.  But it’s up to me to take care of my part of the bargain.” 

“You will,” she said with a certainty beyond her years, still absently staring into space.  “You will.” 

Before I could say anything else, she brought up the elephant in the room. 

“So, you heard the news?” 

I nodded slowly and thought carefully about how to phrase my next words. 

“Normally, I’d say congratulations, but I’m not sure that’s what you had in mind with the pregnancy.” 

A cold, “yeah,” was her only response. 

“You doing okay?” 

She laughed a loud, maniacal laugh tinged with self-wallowing pain, before sarcastically letting me have it.  “Yeah Q, I’m fucking back here.  I’m killing it in life.” 

I nodded again.  Not much I could say to that one. 

“How’d your mom take it?” 

“Not well.  I haven’t been home in a month.  I’m no longer welcome if I’m using.” 

I paused before asking.  “So where are you staying?” 

I asked the question without even thinking.  As soon as it came out, I realized my mistake.  But it was already too late. 

She looked up at me with eyes full of shame.  “You know… around.” 

That one hurt. 

She didn’t have to say it, but I knew what she meant.  She was selling herself for anything she could get. 

I mean, she wasn’t doing full out prostitution or anything, like turning tricks on the corner.  But she was paying with her body for the drugs and a place to sleep. 

What are you supposed to do when you’re a sixteen-year-old girl, meth addict, have no money, and are homeless?  There’s only one kind of currency you have left. 

And it takes a certain kind of slum to cash in on that… to take advantage of desperate girls.  Let’s not sugar coat it.  They’re fucking raping children, and it’s sick. 

I’ve seen a lot of fucked up shit in this life.  But it’s this type of predator that makes my blood boil.  It’s this type of scum I wouldn’t trust myself around to not speak with my fists – and I’m probably as far as you can get from a violent person. 

But some actions deserve an answer. 

Some deeds must meet their arbiter. 

She took another deep drag of her cigarette and all I could think of was that she had a baby growing inside of her and needed to quit.  Plus, how ironic it was that my wife and I had been trying so hard over the last several years to accomplish what she had done by accident.  You spend your entire youth trying to not get pregnant and then when you’re older and finally want a child, you can’t have one. 

Who says the world doesn’t have a twisted and perverse sense of humor? 

Yet there she sat, sixteen-years-old, pregnant and addicted to Meth. 

Who the fuck was I to tell her to stop smoking?  Who the fuck was I to pass judgment and tell her what was right or wrong? 

In age she was still merely a kid, but in experience she might as well have been a war vet.  I had never felt so out of place in my life.  I was 34 years old, but in this situation, I felt like we had traded places – she was the adult, and I was the child. 

“You gotta stop,” I finally said. 

The tears trickled down her cheeks like drips from an eyedropper. 

I continued slowly.  “Not for you, but for the baby.  It’s not about you anymore.  It’s about your child.” 

“I know,” she sniffled.  “But I can’t.” 

The words were whispered with a desperation that I knew all too well.  It was the drugs speaking.  They were in control. 

We sat in silence for a while.  I was stumped.  I had nothing to say. 

When she finally looked up at me, she asked, “was it ever this hard for you growing up?” 

In that moment, I wished I could tell her yes.  Not that I wished I had ever experienced anything as extreme and fucked up as her situation, but that I could speak the words and they would be a salve of comfort.  She would have known someone had walked this path before and it could be done. 

But there’s a time to lie and a time to tell the truth. 

I didn’t hesitate.  “No. Nothing even close.” 

There was no point in telling her something cliché like life isn’t fair, or we usually don’t get to decide for ourselves when we have to grow up.  More often than not, the choice is made for us. 

Melody was beyond all that now. 

She let out a deep sigh, her lungs deflating as if the weight of the world were pressing down on her frail shoulders. 

“I’ll be okay,” she finally said.  “But I’m so scared.” 

And she did something in that moment that gave me pause.  She did something that gave me hope a piece of her upbeat personality which I had come to cherish was still trying to claw its way to the surface and escape. 

She looked up at me and winked.  Her wink – was the wink of all winks – a flutter of an eyelash with a feline grace like a prom queen’s undulating wave at coronation. 

It burned an indelible image in my mind. 

It was what I hoped she’d become someday. 

Who knows? 

Greater odds have been beaten before. 

Maybe she would survive. 

Maybe she would persevere. 

There was only one thing certain.  She was no longer alone.  Another life depended on her now. 

-Q-FI