It’s evening. I’m sat outside smoking and have been for the last 3 hours. I’m fast becoming a permanent fixture in the gazebo. I’m pretty fucking stoned. The Librium has kicked-in. If I keep quiet and don’t say anything, I can fool myself into believing I’m almost lucid but the minute I open my gob it all goes to shit. So I don’t. I’m relieved. I don’t think about drinking. This is what I remember I was like when I was into the gear. Miserable and fucked but happy and at peace with that.
There is another permanent member of the gazebo smoking circle. Her name is Lisa. She’s nice.
She’s about my age I would guess. Very tall. Very thin. Very gothic and very, very angry. She is a fellow chain smoker. We sit together in a strange foggy cloud of mutual resentment and bitterness. Neither of us can communicate verbally but that doesn’t prevent us understanding one another. I don’t want to be here and neither does she. She’s on the same program as me and came in the day before so we are on the same ‘trajectory’. Maximum dose. That’s a good sign. She isn’t one of the country club fucking martini crowd. She worked hard to earn her position in the first class fuck-up lounge. No complimentary drinks in this class but the drugs are ok.
Over the last 3 hours I’ve met most of my fellow residents. They’re a mixed bunch mostly defined by their addictions which seem to fit their personality traits. There’s a solitary smack head, Marcus, he’s a young guy, only 21 years old. Good looking, nervous, scared and lost. He walks round the garden endlessly in a circle. He’s foreign. From Serbia. He’s friendly in a remote way. He’s on Sabutex which is stopping his withdrawal but not giving him what he craves.
There’s a gaggle of coke heads. They’re a distinct entity. Their addiction doesn’t seem to have cost them to heavy a price on the outside. They all look fairly healthy. They talk endlessly about everything and nothing. They’re rehabilitation is purely a habit breaking one. They don’t need a detox or withdrawal, just a break from their routines.
There’s a few people in for benzo’s. They’re truly fucked. One is my room mate Danny. He’s one of the angriest people I’ve ever met. He hates everyone and everything. He fucking loathes me. I’ve got exactly what he wants – a massive dose of his favourite poison and boy does he resent it. He plays the game a bit or at least makes an attempt to but he can’t hide his fury at the world. He’s completed some kind of a detox but hasn’t slept for two weeks and looks like the living fucking dead. As he likes to tell anyone who will listen , he’s a millionaire property developer and its not his fault he is an addict. I’ve heard that story three times in three hours and have the feeling I’ll be hearing it again….and again….
Then there’s the alcoholics. Probably the most diverse group and the only ones in the privileged position of being in various states of drug induced stupor. All of us are on medical detoxes and at different stages in that process. Those who have been here longer are clearly identified by their ability to hold a conversation.
There is Kim. A middle aged woman from Devon. She has a pretty kind freckled face and short brown hair in a bob. Her soft Devonshire accent is warm and I like listening to her. She’s sharp and funny. Her stories are dark and tragic in a quiet domestic way. She has two daughters she loves and a husband she hates. Her poison is vodka, lots of it.
There’s Beth, young pretty dark hair from the home counties. Quite posh and swears a lot which I like. Her posh home county swearing is a novelty to me and is out of place which makes her fit in all the more. She has lived a life of plenty and seems not to have ever wanted for anything accept love and acceptance from her parents, neither of which she has ever had. She’s filled that gap with cocaine and wine.
Old Bob is the miserable bastard I met earlier. He’s a frequent visitor to this place from what I’ve picked up so far and his long years on this planet seem only to have served to hone his misery and unhappiness. I don’t like him. I can see myself in him a few years down the line.
Colin’s about my age. Medium height, tanned, friendly, kind face and approachable. Fairly normal in many aspects. Works for the police. Hobbies include scuba diving, travelling and shovelling copious amounts of cocaine up his nostrils whenever possible. He has a wife and young baby daughter and on the verge of losing both.
Keith is a bit older, covered in tattoos. Loud and sweary and energetic. He likes to make people feel a part of things. He’s a builder and has cultivated a ‘geezer facade that belies a gentler nature that we can all see in him. He likes beer and cocaine and lots of it.
There’s Sophie – very beautiful, long thick dark hair. Petite, slim, likes to be the centre of attention. Seems to think being positive will make everything OK. Worked out well for her didn’t it. She wants to be everyone’s best mate and irritates the fuck out of me.
Rosie is quiet and withdrawn with a ‘fuck-off’ aura that does what it says on the tin. I respect that. You know what you can expect from her. Not much. She’s pale and yellow. Her hair is thin and colourless. She looks like a dog chewing a wasp. She doesn’t discuss her problems but the yellow tinge and hair loss tell her story for her.
Maxi is another girl. Lots of girls in this place. 70/30 split I estimate. All youngish too. She’s haunted, rough and looks like life’s not been kind to her. Maxi is the social worker of our group. Here for everyone but herself. She’s a do-gooder. Maxi-pad I suffix her name. Toxic, full of chemicals and absorbs all kinds of shit. A human tampon. Bloody but defiant.
Then there is Ethel. Poor old Ethel. She’s in her 80’s, sparrow thin and frail. Translucent skin and totally broken. She sits in the corner of the canteen shaking and crying and trying to understand what is happening to her. Poor cow. She started drinking at home after her husband died to try and fill the empty lonely days. Alcohol is a cruel mistress it gives back what it promises to take away with interest. Like a fucking loan shark that deals in souls. And it doesn’t respect age. There are no concessions for OAP’s. As the therapists love to say, alcoholism is an equal opportunity disease. Money, status, age, race, no problem. All are welcome.
Ten O’Clock – medication time. Last dose of the day and my second since I’ve been here. We queue up. Me and my new friends. Those who don’t get anything hover around on the peripheries like Vultures; eyeing us drug coyotes angrily and hoping there will be something left for them. No chance. Life aint fair. I don’t care, I’m getting mine and that’s all that matters. My turn comes, I get a cup of pills and swallow. That should get me through this first alcohol-free night.
Evening medication time is followed by supper. Supper? I’ve never had a fucking supper in my life but apparently its good for us. Crumpets and jam or marmite are on offer. Marmite has lots of vitamins us alkies need apparently. I pass. I’m exhausted. It’s been a stressful day and the Librium is giving me a good kicking. I cant keep my eyes open. I’m slurring the few words I attempt and my thoughts are dull and disconnected. This is good. The more disconnected they are the better. I’m finally allowed back to my room.
I’m in bed and the door opens. In comes Danny the benzo king. He’s fucking pissed. Eyes are red and mad and he’s pacing.
“Alright mate”, I ask
“No I’m fucking not, I’m fucked”.
Fair enough. He’s honest at least.
“Look I’ve gotta tell you, I snore like a pig and I’m fucked on these benzo’s. I know you’re struggling to sleep so I’m just warning you”. I’m trying to smooth things out. I don’t give a fuck about him really. I just don’t want to wake up with him sticking a knife in me. He looks more than capable.
“fucking great. Well thanks for telling me. I’ll see if they can put me in another room”.
Yes that would be good. Get the fuck away from me so I can have some peace.
“OK I’m sure they will understand if you explain”, I say.
I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. This Librium is fucking heavy duty. I’ve dabbled with Valium and Temazepam in the past but this is an industrial dose and whilst I’m grateful for it, I do need more time to convince this fucking nut job not to do me in whilst I sleep.
I give up. I can’t fight this. I lie back and as soon as my head is horizontal I’m gone. Done. Lights are out. I’m exactly where I want to be and need to be.
“Darren……Darren…..DARREN!!”.
Fuck off, leave me alone.
Bright light is directed at me and smashes through my closed eye lids. Some cunt is shining a torch in my face. What is this, some kind of torture technique. I focus my efforts and prise my eyelids open a notch. Some fucker is standing with a torch in my face and a shadowy figure is behind him and I hear something rattling. Metal on metal. It’s dark still. What time is it.
“What’s going on, what fucking time I it”
“midnight”, comes the monosyllabic charmless response. Oh shit it’s the fucking psychopath. What does he want? What the fuck are they doing in my room shining a torch in my face for. I’ve been asleep for an hour and a half and these fucking goons come and wake me up.
“How are you feeling” the voice from the man behind the torch asks me. I don’t recognise the voice.
“What the fuck is going on?” Another voice. Oh Christ it’s the fucking benzo king. I take it he wasn’t successful getting another room.
“Where here to take your blood pressure and check you’re OK”
“What now? I’m fine. Leave me alone”
“We have to do this every hour for the first two or three nights”
You are fucking kidding. It never mentioned this in the terms and conditions. Did it?
“And what about me? I get woken up too because you have to do his blood pressure”.
The Benzo king has a point. It’s shit for me but it’s even shitter for him. I’ve got enough benzo’s in me to sedate a small elephant. He doesn’t have that luxury.
“Standard policy, we are here to look after you”.
No you’re not, you’re hear to torture me you cunts. Why else do you work here. Altruism? Bollocks there is no such thing. These are a select group of specialist sadists. The SS. Ha! Fits perfectly. They get off on this. Well fine, I’ll play along. It’s not like I have fucking choice anyway.
Danny, is up and about now. Pacing and ranting. I can’t make out what he’s saying but it’s not nice. Lots of fucks and cunts and wankers. He must have learnt his English at the same place my head went to school. The psychopath is busy trying to calm him down. This is good it means I don’t have to deal with him in my semi-somnambulant drugged state.
The other bloke comes over to the side of my bed. He introduces himself. He’s a Geordie. Softly spoken and he tells me they have to do this to because the mixture of alcohol and benzo’s could be fatal and its their duty of care to monitor me.
Fair enough. I appreciate that. Being treated like a human being and given some information. Not like the fucking psycho on the other side of the room who is now wrestling with the benzo king. If a stranger walked into our room right at this moment it would be impossible to determine who was the inmate and who was the warden.
The nice Geordie bloke sticks the arm band on me and takes my blood pressure. I’ve always hated the sensation. I hate anything that reminds me of the internal workings of my body. I’ve not been a good host to most of my insides and I always think they will grass me up given the slightest opportunity. They invariably do. Sneaky fucking grassing bastards.
He finishes, shines a torch in my eyes and does some more things. I’m so stoned, I barely notice and before I know whats happening I’m unconscious again.
This same scene repeats, as promised, every hour throughout the night. The Benzo king isn’t present at any more of these late-night visits and I vaguely wonder what happened to him. But the drugs are strong and stop any kind of worrying. Perfect. I could live like this and be happy.