(13/13) “In prison there was a pill cart. They’d wheel it out at...

(13/13) “In prison there was a pill cart. They’d wheel it out at 5 PM, and they’d shout: ‘pill line!’ And everyone would get in line for pills. I wouldn’t do it. I told the warden: ‘I’d rather die. Either I keep my pills in my locker, or I’m not taking them.’ It’s been an obsession my whole life, keeping that secret. I gave a draft of this story to my bosses; just to let them know what was coming. Since then it’s been nothing but texts: ‘We love you, John. We’re proud of you.’ I guess it was a much bigger deal to me than everyone else. Last Friday was my birthday. Before the shift I could see everyone sneaking around. I thought: ‘They made me a cake, whatever.’ But it wasn’t just a cake. It was racks and racks of Philly Cheesesteaks. And an entire ice cream bar: hot fudge, sour patch kids, gummy bears. All my favorite stuff. The whole staff sang Happy Birthday, which I fucking hated. I’ve hated that song since the age of two. But then one of my bosses Maya gave a speech. She said: ‘John drives us fucking crazy, but we love him. And when his story comes out, you’ll realize he’s an even better human being than we realized.’ For her to say that: after knowing everything. I never knew. I just never knew people could feel that way about me. I grew up not knowing how to express. Then the HIV put me in a downward spiral of paranoia. Meth made it four levels deeper. And prison, prison threw dirt on the casket to make sure I’d never feel again. They almost got me. When they were singing that fucking song, they almost had me crying. But I said: ‘Listen guys, 5 more minutes to celebrate my birthday. Then it’s time for the show.’ The next day I drove out to New Jersey, to see my 86-year old mother. She can’t hear too well, so I read the story to her slow. She’s always been the one pushing me to get therapy. My whole life, I’ve been begging her: Stop worrying about me, Mom. Stop worrying if I’m ever going to be happy.’ But she’s relentless. It’s an obsession. But as I read the story to her, I could see it all drain out of her. Years and years of obsessive worry: gone. When I finished the last page, she said: ‘Johnny, maybe this can be the end. Maybe now you can let it go.’”