rehab redux

ret-conning
  -or-
cycle-brakes



internal struggle, external decay: that's how i spent most of my days. then i got a lil' too drunk a lil' too often and my mom said, "uh-uh, no way. you're goin to a rehab facility right away." and before i knew it, i was at a center that would help me and alcohol's sway; i said to mommy, "i'm scared, take me to a chic-fil-a!" she wouldn't budge so i said, "OK." next thing i know i'm admitted, trying to detox, again, like dr. dre.

the building is complex, unnecessarily so, and made of brick and mortar. before my sojourn, i'm not gonna lie, i imbibed liberally until it was time to go. my mindset was: this is going to be hell (i'd been here before), and i had to prepare. i peppered a prayer w/ some frankincense and resolved to repeat not ((a)gain) this non-sense.

it was a surreal experience: my first time i had resided in Unit 6, a detoxification unit that dealt w/ withdrawals from alcohol and/or pain medication abuse/addiction. i got lucky in that instance. however, before i backtrack i must describe this newer experience b/c like daft punk said, "see previous sentence." the building was the same but the layout had changed.  what was Unit 6 had become Unit 1 and it had co-opted part of the previous Unit 2, which consisted of con(s)umers/addicts of more assiduous affect. the first time through, it made sense for this delineation but the layout and guidlines had changed. Unit 6 had been reduced both figuratively and literally: it was smaller and devoted to adolescents w/ the same sorts of mental and substance abuse problems; it was slightly disheartening, while not completely unexpected. of course there are other factors at work here: the centre operates on a state-funded budget, but any profit or even break-even point is predicated by the # of patients and their individual insurance (or not). it appears to me this may be a moral conundrum: the only way to profit is by expediting patients' progress in order to keep the assembly line operating and, spoilers, this metaphor applies to a multitude of attitudes exuded @ the center.

in (m)any ways, this was both a familiar and discomfiting situation. a slight aside, i was born on st. patrick's day so i also got to deal w/ the paradoxical situation of liking to get stinking/corrupting (i'm looking at you jack) drunk/plain-fucked-up and a self-deceiving belief that i'm lucky (see daft punk reference [previous paragraph] that in and of itself is cheeky in its meta-crackhead mentality: humpty dumpty took a fall cause he was wasted.)

i promise this is going somewhere (a road many addicts travel) and emerson never met a caged outside that felt like relief and smelled like smoke (it was a 'break' and us smokers needed a release in order to help to not relapse; one addiction at a time, folks, seemed to be the motto, and i agree).  it was a sort of communal for the (better or worse) patients.

this time i was in Unit #2.  Unit #2 is for depressive, potentially suicidal people. these are people that epitomize the definition of 'dire straits' and that want nothing (or know nothing) of the band and its un-ironic connection to them: it's a drain-pipe of human emotion. on the other hand, these are people, for the most part, who were self-aware and

concerned-enough to seek this 'behavioral-health' treatment, so they got that going for them; it's a catch-22 w/o involving an actual bullet to the head (sighs stallone.) some are indeed in need of regimented treatment, but others are just caught in a burden that this facility harbors/hoards, a lonileness that cannot be consoled by an authoratian 'tech' or 'therapist', each conducting his own detached analysis.

it is not to say the techno-therapists are discompassionate or even absent, but for the disconsolate these perceived slights only perpetuate their ingrained suggestion of negative self-worth while testing the patience of those in charge of treating 'their' patients. one of our 1-hour rec times was simply about breathing and listening to an ocean soundtrack; the hilarity was only in my mind but i think i let slip a guffaw, obviously revealing my mind-set. this is just as much a test of your physical well-being as well as an exam of your mental state. i could understand the motives, yet it was all monitored and then reflected back in an insipid Q & A at the end. all i gotta say is that for doctors, nurses, and techs—i think techs are still in school to become full-fledged nurses but i never asked and frankly i don't care, especially b/c some of them were super-hot and the situation being what it was, fully un-attainable, thus making the whole situation a double-downer (i never got the female perspective on this issue since i think if they were lesbian they were in the same boat and if straight, they probably grasped at whatever straws they had and sadly i don't think i even met these standards)—which made everything overly awkward. i don't think depressive people want strangers to interact w/ them; it's just another agitation in egret.

ribald and w/o remorse: just some 'characters' you'll encounter at the centre. in a pollock way it often seems like a smorgasbord of a less-violent prison population: you're confined, defined by rules and time schedules, scolded for any action deemed offensive by whoever the hell is in charge at that particular time (and trust me, if you pay close attention you can tell what these people 'supposedly' in charge of us—the damaged—think about us.  it's sadly ironic: i'm pretty sure they don't fathom that we—the damaged—currently carry or could develop the ability to observe and judge, just like them. yet, we're told that that lack of capacity is a root problem in our lives.... but for the most part they are polite, and did i mention at least 85% of the women are on a scale ranging from 'good-looking' to 'if i wasn't withdrawing so bad my head would be exploding right now' attractive. oh, btw you are allowed only 3 sets of clothes (meaning 3 pairs of shoes, 3 pairs of pants, etc, etc) which also quickly implodes your already-diminished sense of self-worth and in my case, masculinity. for example, as previously mentioned, i had (unfortunately?) gone through this experience once before so this time i made a conscious decision to make style count and it was rewarded with a compliment by one of the hottest women there...of course she was decidedly bi-polar and locked in a mania b/c it wasn't april (that's a wrestling shout-out, so shut-up) and i still stood there dealing w/ the question of why i wear glasses instead of contacts. I responded perfunctorily, "my beauty is esoteric, ephemeral and ethereal."

that brings the bike to a path i traveled before, until i got lost in 'lush paradise' which now, upon reflection, is more parasite than paradise. or it's a mirage, an oasis of booze to fill that thirst for life; a paradox w/o a clear answer, unless you count vodka, gin, certain types of rum...ahh fuck this metaphor and its insistence on circular riddles; it's a g-damn sphinx in the desert, a monument to belabored death. now, i'm not gonna degrade the detox program 'cause it works, but it is a grind. it seems isolation is both beneficial (free mind, clear focus, whatever) and detrimental (empty connections, false hope, whatever) to the extent that I would actually (truthfully) be interested (even invested) in a report/essay regarding the faculty's dissemination of their charges. in fact, i'd be very intrigued given the presence of a woman who i immediately identified as a dead-ringer (sorry, don't intend to be macabre, as i will explain later in terms of my stay and the Unit i actually stayed within, 'cause that could read as careless or crass) for mayim bialik and, to whom, i was very attracted. i don't intend for this to dissolve into continuous mention of the women, yet in this situation you focus on what distracts you from focusing on the evolving internal struggle to adjust to sobriety; it's an outlet. anyway, she was not the hottest woman that took a shift or two, but the eyes (and she wore glasses, sometimes [you take what your mind will allow you to justify]) are really what got me. demeanor may be a more immediate indication of a person's mood or motive, but the eyes relay a more reliable read-out; they show joy, torture, irritation, and cruelty. interestingly, in my observation, the people who help others are looking for some sort of healing themselves and even if they don't know the word (and this is not disparaging) they seek the meaning of altruism w/o fully understanding their own internal conflict. it's just easier to be in control of others that have been deemed a threat to themselves or others; the damaged seek help from duct-taped dams, a slow leak.

an ancedote: one of the things i discovered my first time through on this not-so-merry-go-round was that they gave us the morning paper, and more importantly, it contained a somewhat difficult crossword puzzle; how apro-pos although that would be wrong, spelling wise. in other words (ha!) that maze resembled the way one's mind had to operate in that place. the hallways, separately locked Units, bedrooms, and the cafeteria were all tailor-made for horizontal or vertical movements. my guess is that it was an attempt at subliminal indoctrination that (at least i hope so) would transfer to deregulated life outside those confines; a sort of consistency that the people in charge hoped would make a (probably not substantive) impact on our lives. the paradox lies in the fact that we would not be there if we could healthfully implement these (simple) salves; if we weren't already slaves to our own demons. addiction is a hell of a problem; it's apoplectic. doing the crossword in the morning seems to organize my mind (i got 1 out of 4 completely right) and helps me from focusing on the f'ing hot nurses/techs running around checking my blood pressure, pulse and internal temperature. within the framework, analogies abound and hey, who was Moses' bro? couldn't get that like a depressed person trying to smile; it was an obscure question that i had no innate knowledge of, and that caused frustration (at least for me) 'cause i was thinking: i should know this (for no reason whatsoever, inconsequential as it may appear). irrationality dominates my demeanor.  if i were a puzzle at least i'd have a solution.

back to 'tails, as in the deats, just b/c homonyms are fun and this experience was just the opposite, at least for the first few days; also, to clarify: there is a clever reference in that previous (half)/sentence that ties in w/ both rhyming and a certain rap legend, although more renowned for headphones now-a-days, and it's only for the clever. in addition to the regimented schedule—each hour an itinerary, down to fifteen minutes—were things like 'triggers' and how the pain scale, from 1 to 10, applied both for the individual and the medical staff in charge of treating you (communication is a popular buzzword and is, in actuality, kinda irrelevant since most medical staff are now suspicious of anyone asking for a certain medication [esp. pain medicine] and therefore deaf ears are developed and real problems are met w/ skepticism and platitudes, which is, regrettably, probably responsible since they are dealing w/ addicts and thus, notorious liars). 

and there were the hour-long 'group therapy' sessions that were beneficial in an esoteric sense (a somewhat misplaced goal when dealing w/ people that have, to varying extents, deemed living too much a burden).  unfortunately, these hours only (slightly) occupy your mind (remember that some, including me, were suffering from the physical ramifications of withdrawal,) so it not only comes across as pandering to a child, but it also is a huge waste of f'ing time. a quick elaboration: each person who attends a 'group' meeting is given a sheet of paper that asks various questions about what one learned during said meeting, and while they are not mandatory, apparently (if you have) insurance, these are a litmus test to your actual willingness to embrace the program and desire for 'real' change; i learned this from the head nurse so i am a lil' suspicious of this supposed 'truth' but i am also conflicted because it actually makes a certain sense. i had developed a system of just filling out this form within the first 5 minutes of every session because i knew (based on either handouts given w/ one's personalized i.d. sticker or a big headline written on a white-board) where most of this shit was headed. i know it sounds egotistical and quite possibly a dereliction of proper edification/etiquette, particularly since these sessions were meant to illuminate underlying problems that cause our individual (and current) predicaments, but fuck it, i was right 95% of the time and it actually was beneficial in a twisted way since i paid more attention to the presentation since i had already taken care of the stupid questionaire and was present; game over bi-atches, although i struggle w/ who really won or lost. it was an existential quagmire upon reflection, but withdrawal is a hell of an experience and my brain was incapable of abstract or incisive thoughts at that time, so i filed it in the 'i will comment on this when i have time to contextualize the experience, after I decode the masonic engravings on the interior walls of my disheveled baltic castle' sub-category of my in-jeopardy mind; in any (air)duct, it is a long-winded, convoluted way to say that being 'clever' yields absolutely no accolades; in fact, it may have been detrimental to a certain extent.

but i haven't got to my fellow members of Unit 2 and their shit that put me to shame and made me generally sad; my moat may not have been breached but the enemy was showing its cards and i didn't like the possible outcomes for any of us. i may be emotionally detached at times, but a sentimental side lines my insides and this was a conundrum i could avoid only so much. i might have fucked myself w/ an addiction yet i still wasn't dealing w/ 2 divorces, 3 children, 4 trips to this facility and 5 excruciating minutes of trying to rationalize why suicide was a totally viable resolution. it was a shadow of how we are all broken/cracked in varying ways; an ever-changing manual for mania and/or its opposite: depressive self-dissolution, a passive hollowing. whispers.

because i refuse to dwell on the negative, i will regale all w/ some more entertaining anecdotes, which unfortunately for the reader, will probably dissolve into needless detail that derails the whole premise, since introductory sentences are supposed to set the framework for whatever follows. fuck that. i will ramble till i rumble, tumbling down a hill in discouraged word-play, laughing as i regress w/o regret 'cause i don't want to climb a jacob's ladder in search of the indistinguishable; i embrace decay since it's the only definitive end for anyone that makes it one day sober, wasted or clinging to a faith that tethers their legitimate fears to the tangible

wor(l)d.

this time. i was in rm 208c.

side-moats:

my first time at this facility i was given a breath-alyzer and blew a straight zero since i worried they wouldn't admit me. later in that stay i became friendly w/ a guy who admitted to going to lunch w/ his gf (who was sober to drive him to the centre) and drinking a couple bloody mary's and had blown a .7 and was still let in. so this time, remembering that story, i drank the rest of my booze in a misguided attempt at defiance; let's just say universal factions had a literal 'belly-laugh' when I, hours later, nearly threw up just looking at a plate of chicken fingers and curly fries, ostensibly my favorite mor-i-cel combos. my body resented the trick I tried to pull...

narcotic mirrors reflected in a link/line lined w/ framed pictures to provide just enough drab to distract and reinforce the notion that a person may need to seek this help, but whelp, it seems to suggest just the opposite: this choreographed 'dance' is all contained, quarantined in a labyrinthine morass of good-will and monetary necessity. a hippocratic oath only applies w/in sacred walls, right?