No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. (Eleanor Roosevelt)

I woke up in my bed when it was over but sadly the worst was not behind me. The physical worst may have been done but, my God, the fun was just getting going.

“Good morning,” chirped Anastasia, the lovely woman who ran the heroin house. We all hated her. I hadn’t even heard her glide into our room until that greeting.

My roommate’s name was Gloria. She threw a pillow at Anastasia with a crude expression. I liked Gloria instantly, lie. Instantly I hated her for living in my room. However, from the moment I got over the fact that I had to share my room, I liked her. I mean, if I had to share it with someone it might as well be her. She was 39, single and skinny, angry and aggressive; she was mine.

We shuffled to the dining room after everyone else was already seated. We complained about the food and pushed it away.

“I’ll just have an apple.”

“I’ll just have a banana.”

Then when everyone else was gone to group therapy we loitered. We stayed at the table, impeding the staff as they tried to clean up the dishes. We bitterly mulled over the details of our lives. I loved it. Those angst-filled days with Gloria were oddly enjoyable. The staff tried to crack down on us.

“The longer you go without attending the sessions, the longer until you get better.”

Better? There was nothing wrong with us.