If They're Well Enough - 002
A Memoir - Chapter Two
I woke up one day in my room
My hands shook with withdrawals and I was sick to my stomach. I wanted to call out for my parents but I was alone and it was midnight. I walked over to the bathroom - the door was glass with a pattern applied meticulously into it to ensure no one could see clearly through it. Everything in that bathroom had been bolted down a thousand times - as if we couldn’t be trusted to operate a shower without supervision.
My hands clutched the cheap porcalain sink and i spat into it - my spit was lined with grime. the grime you get when you’ve been trying not to throw up out of your mouth for the past 10 days.
The worst of the withdrawals had passed.
I had survived.
But the after effects would last longer. I do not know how long I stared at myself in the mirror but i stumbled back when I started seeing shapes surround me. I was alone physically but my mind didn’t believe in isolation. I scurried back to bed - vision blooming with figures - ears whispering voices - as if the psychedelics hadn’t ever left my nervous system.
I woke up to a loud bang on my door. It was 7am and it was time for morning therapy. I had dreamt of the outside again - what it would be like to see my friends, my family and play videogames and listen to my favourite music again (shoutout to bring me the horizon and deftones - I used to roll their lyrics on my tongue in rehab but the drugs had made most of my memories foggy so I struggled over the finer lines). I kissed my teeth and woke up with my jaw clenched.
I met up with the other patients in the common room on the way to the cafeteria but someone stood out in the crowd.
you can tell when someone’s new from the way their hands shake uncontrollably. the jitters and shocks that travel up their spine and the stench of urine and vomit coming from their being. withdrawals are never easy. they’re administrative. they move through you almost mechanically like your nervous system is following a order you never received audibly. you’ll writhe and you’ll scream until it subsides only for them to come back like a guest you can’t seem to get rid of.
he itched his nose furiously and a word lit up in my mind.
cocaine.
he was a cocaine addict going through some of the harshest withdrawals known to man but from the way he was moving, you could tell he’s been in the doghouse for a while. If they had just started, he’d be bedridden. I must not have noticed he had arrived. i was busy with my own.
i took a plate to the cafeteria and had breakfast. he surveyed everyone like a hawk; the way they do when they first come in, trying to identify which one of us he could take in a fight. a mind scanning for threats. he’ll realize the only threat present is his nervous system in a week and that’s when the terror sets in and his mind switches from scanning hostiles to surviving himself.
i wasn’t allowed to do this but a file cabinet existed in the medical room. beanie taught me that they leave it unlocked after medicine line up at 6pm. reading them became a form of entertainment in those walls. privacy seizes when you can hear someone vomiting through your walls at 2am every night. i checked the cabinet that evening and it revealed his identity.
Asad. 43 year old british male with - as i had guessed - a cocaine addiction. he had 2 children and a ex wife that he shared custody of the kids with. he was deemed aggressive as i’d find out a few days later when he threatened to kill me for not taking my dishes back to the kitchen after lunch.
i walked through the cafeteria after i finished my meal and left my plate on a empty plastic table. the cafeteria was full of them. flimsy as ever with boney metal pipes for stands.
“EVERYONE TAKE YOUR DISHES BACK TO THE KITCHEN”
his voice thundered over the commissary. his voice hung in the air for a second before people returned to their conversations.
I refused.
not out of spite; but because i didn’t want to walk down to the kitchen when i could barely move a few feet without tripping over the soles of my shoes. i tossed my plastic plate onto the table and walked away. Asad stared me down like i had just spat in his face.
“take your dishes back to the kitchen” - he repeated. slower. more serious. more threatening.
people turned their heads slightly as i continued walking. nobody stopped eating but they slowed down enough to listen. my body slightly stiffened at his voice.
I turned out and i met his eyes. he was hunched over and jittering. i turned the corner and my hand flipped into a gesture he deemed a little too disrespectful.
“im going to fucking kill you” - his voice thundered yet again. i walked away as the rehab staff overheard the commotion and came in to check on him. i made my escape.
there are alot of different people in rehab and despite what your first impression may be - asad was still a human. As the withdrawals dissipated, the anger subsided. He was like a second father to me. I exercised with him in his room. planks, pushups and jumping jacks for a hour a day and always participating in the nature hike when they’re hosted by the counsellors. he told me about his kids, his wife, his work and his excitement for people like david goggins - no matter how controversial that man may be. i respected his background and likes. he prioritised health like david and it helped him stay in shape while his body twisted and folded onto itself constantly.
i enjoyed his presence in the social circle. he laughed with beanie, taught us about british culture for fun, & told us stories from his past escapades. he had threatened to kill me at lunch and now he was teaching me how to work out in a damp room 3 days later.
What was your favourite part of the memoir? share it with me? i’d love to know how I could improve!
This is part two of my series - If They’re Well Enough - A memoir about my time in rehabilitation. you can read the first part here.