The In-Between: Chapter 4

It’s funny how sometimes, someone else’s exit becomes your entrance.

“Uh oh, what is it this time?”

I hesitantly approached the kitchen counter where Holly stood, brow furrowed as she stared at three aluminum trays, the foil half-peeled and condensation pooling in the middle.

It was 5 p.m., dinner time, and I braced myself for whatever sad excuse of a meal they’d handed us this time.

“Hard boiled eggs. Literally just eggs, rice, and a salad with no dressing,” she said flatly.

I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe this is their idea of something,” I lifted my hands into air quotes, “healthy?”

Earlier that day, we’d begged every staff member to pass along a request to the kitchen for meals that didn’t feel like punishment. This felt like mockery.

“Let’s just order Seamless,” I said. “They can’t actually get mad at us for feeding ourselves.”

She looked up and gave a tiny smile. “I’m down.”

Moments like these give me life. Not the food, definitely not the food, but the rebellion. The quiet thrill of shared survival. We snuck up to the gate to grab our delivery like teenagers breaking curfew, then sat cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom sharing pad thai and dumplings. Laughing, eating, existing. Together.

These are the moments I feel most alive. Just sharing space. Sharing energy. I’ve always hated being alone. It’s actually my biggest fear. The fear of being alone. While I manage fine on the outside, I’ve always used coping mechanisms to stay afloat. Little addictions. Not drugs or alcohol, though same mechanism, but the socially accepted ones. Daydreaming. Instagram. Scrolling mommy wellness blogs. Replaying fantasies of a different life, one where I was already healed, already chosen, already loved.

Addiction is just a human response to pain. And my addictions worked. Until they didn’t. When Drew left and Instagram didn’t feel safe anymore, I couldn’t hide from myself. The silence cracked me open. My tools were gone and my fear of being alone finally took the mic.

So I went to treatment. Not just to get better, but to not be alone. Being alone felt like dying. And being surrounded by doctors and patients felt like proof I still existed.

Ironically, my biggest fear, the very thing I thought I was escaping, followed me there and settled in beside me.