Saturday, January 17, 2009
Day 1, Jan 11 2009 -- When Darkness Falls Early
He was tired of my lies. Concerned about my ever-quickening spiral into that metaphorical drain. Cell phone gripped firmly in hand, he gave me two options -- admit yourself into detox, or I'll commit you myself. The alcoholic mind in me launched an attack with its typical arsenal: denial, rationalization, lashing out, obfuscation; "I need just three more days." Then one of those rare epiphanal thunderbolts struck at the core of my heart -- I couldn't look at myself in the mirror that morning while shaving. It's hard to shave when you can't look into your own eyes. I had lost myself.
We arrived at the public crisis center. A cavalcade of drunks, degenerates and bums either stumbled toward the entrance or were dropped off by Phoenix PD. A Native American, barely able to walk, looked as though a bucket of blood had been tossed onto his sweatshirt. The back of his hoodie read "No Guts, No Glory."
A man in the admissions office sat in a teal green waiting room chair. His face was bloated, splattered with hematomas and dotted with purpuras. Every capillary had burst in his nose years ago. His head had the look of a rotten pumpkin within hours of leaking dark, purple blood.
My alcoholic mind kicked in again. These people are vermin, human detritus. Pity them? Sure. But I wasn't wearing a blood stained shirt. My head didn't have the appearance of a festering gourd. I was cogent, already writing new scenes for an upcoming novel. I was better than these people. It still hadn't hit me that I had nearly destroyed any meaningful relationship I had had in my life.
I filled out my admission papers. I blew a .185. Numbers and calculations ran amok in my head like abstruse little monsters. My blood alcohol would reach .00 around midnight. The witching hour. And that's when serious withdrawal would take hold.
We arrived at the public crisis center. A cavalcade of drunks, degenerates and bums either stumbled toward the entrance or were dropped off by Phoenix PD. A Native American, barely able to walk, looked as though a bucket of blood had been tossed onto his sweatshirt. The back of his hoodie read "No Guts, No Glory."
A man in the admissions office sat in a teal green waiting room chair. His face was bloated, splattered with hematomas and dotted with purpuras. Every capillary had burst in his nose years ago. His head had the look of a rotten pumpkin within hours of leaking dark, purple blood.
My alcoholic mind kicked in again. These people are vermin, human detritus. Pity them? Sure. But I wasn't wearing a blood stained shirt. My head didn't have the appearance of a festering gourd. I was cogent, already writing new scenes for an upcoming novel. I was better than these people. It still hadn't hit me that I had nearly destroyed any meaningful relationship I had had in my life.
I filled out my admission papers. I blew a .185. Numbers and calculations ran amok in my head like abstruse little monsters. My blood alcohol would reach .00 around midnight. The witching hour. And that's when serious withdrawal would take hold.
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