Bergen Regional Diaries Part II

An alcoholic finding recovery on the third floor of a hospital detox center

The Bergen Regional Diaries Part II - Four days and a wake-up

‘Fuck. Seriously?’

William’s alarm clock reads 3:06 a.m. Caressing an empty 40 of Steel, he looks down and around using his phone's background screen as a light.

‘It can’t be.’

Cans. Empty cans. Empty cans of Steel. Four of them.

‘I didn’t.’

The beginning of Sia’s Breathe Me plays over and over in his head. It’s just there; he can’t control it.

‘This isn’t good.’

He sits up, sweat beginning to protrude from his forehead. His hands have been shaking for nearly 24 hours now, but yet still growing more and more in power. Michael J. Fox would have nothing on him at this point, this is the real deal. ‘I really fucking drank all of it?’

Panic sets in. He jumps as hard as he can to the floor and opens his bedroom door to realize he’s been laying on the living room couch for as long as he can’t remember.

He opens his eyes. Sweat protruding from his face. He looks over to his right, seeing two cans full of medication left. The sweat doesn’t impede, but a smirk is pulled over his face as he grabs one of the cans and gets to work. With way more than enough in his body to cover some of the symptoms he has trouble with while sober, he chugs the entire thing, only taking two short pauses to burp. Even his burps at this point feel weightless, and his fear of vomiting through drinking is a non-issue as he still has enough left, in his mind. The clock under the TV reads 11:04. It’s enough time. He’s got enough to be drunk and make it to the next morning.

The next morning will have some challenges on his own.

1) Where should he go to restock his inventory? Patriot Liquors will be off the equation for at least two days now, because he felt like he made too much of an ass out of himself and they might refuse him…even though they never refuse.

2) He could go back to Sammy’s and buy more, because he only bought two beers from their establishment. This, however, does require driving and if he’s over his inebriation limit it would be too risky and dangerous to try unless he’d just go back to Patriot’s and risk that.

3) He should still be more than fine to shoo away withdrawals to the time of 9 a.m. More than fine. But if he’s up early enough, and up drunk enough to get to a place without having complete withdrawals kicking in, and to reduce the amount of shame, he shall do that. It’s safer than going through the ultimate panic of not having a plan and fighting early withdrawal symptoms all the same.

As of right now, he chooses alcohol. Nothing else matters except for he fact that it’s dark and he has his savor all but next to him.

_______________

“Hey, so you made it up here. Congratulations!”

That man. Oh dear lord do I loathe this man. He saw me and did nothing as I seized on his stupid office floor.

“Thank you. Glad to be here.”

“Yeah. Not everybody makes it to this point.”

He was right, of course. I have eyes the waiting room. All walks of life sitting there as some movie starring Bruce Willis carrying baby supplies was on a loop over the intake desk. If anything were to bring the world together, it would be addiction.

The asshat throws two clear garbage bags in my direction. “Put all your belongings in here. Cell phones, keys, jeans, vibrators—whatever you’re in to, it goes in here. White t-shirts are fine. Toiletries will be afforded to you once you become accustomed to your bed.”

I begin digging through my pockets. I check my cell phone once more. I had gone on an ativan-fueled texting spree last night where I messaged any and all of my friends so they know where I am for the next five days. No messages. Okay. Nobody is left on my mental list.

“Hold on just a second,” the man proclaims. “Wait until the hot chick is done in room one-bee. You can dispose of your clothes into the bags in there.”

He hands me scrubs, just like the ones that are worn on a certain TV show where they’re in a hospital and it follows a resident who loves Appletinis and is always berated by his mentor. I forget the name of the show. “Put these on too.”
Door one-bee opens, and he wasn’t kidding about her looks as she walks out. Even in scrubs she would be a seven or even an eight. Bleached blond hair, immaculate white teeth, and breasts subtly protruding out.

“Okay, your turn.”

I go in the room. When closing the door I feel a slight wind gust and a chill that rushes down my neck and through my spine. Hurry, hurry before I start hitting withdrawals again. Last thing I need is to collapse in a locked maintenance closet. Or maybe that would be the best case. I fall and a rake spikes through my skull. It would be like a lobotomy, except it would be through my eye and I would probably be dead.

Okay, maybe not so much like one.

Gladly, the doctor attending to me in the emergency room hooked me up with another dose of Ativan before I was wheeled out. It gives me just enough of a high to take my pants off without dying via lawn tools.
I walk back out, clothes and personal belongings in the bag.

“Welcome to Bergen Regional’s third floor program,” the asshat declares. “Your intake will be complete once you sign this form.”

He hands me a four-page intake journal with my name and history with alcoholism. It reads more like Moby Dick than it does Harry Potter, using information from each time I was admitted to the hospital.

“Sign at the bottom of the first page. I need your autograph when this form becomes popular.”

I take the pen and wiggle a half-assed signature across the line. My hand won’t hold still, so he gets what he gets.
“To be fair,” I joke, “two of those times were suicide attempts. Not all of it was for drinking.”

“It adds to the reason why you should be here and getting help.” I hand him back the form. He checks off two columns regarding inventory, and places a large zip tie with my name on it to the two bags. “Perfect. We are done here.”

“Thank you.”

He isn’t so bad of a person after all. I was wrong about him. It does become that way sometimes, when people in your lifetime appear out of nowhere. Here’s this man whom in two interactions already knows the perception of my life story, saw me at my worst defining moment, failed me once, then took me in as if I was a reeling son of his who decided to treat depression with booze. It’s funny that way. Also beautiful. He is the gatekeeper to my recovery.

“Here are some shower shoes,” as he throws a pair at my chest.

“Go take a shower. You stink.”