6am!
6am means many different things to many people. Time to go to bed. Time to wake up. Time to do nothing and stay where you are. By 6am, most mornings I’m normally pissed. Scratch that, at 6am every morning I have enough alcohol in me to knock out a rugby team but I'm far from pissed in terms of what a normal person would consider pissed. I'm painfully, excruciatingly conscious despite my best efforts.
Like everything, the alcoholic life has it’s own rhythms. 2am – fall into blackout, wherever I happen to be in the house. My days of venturing out are long past. A hazy recollection. . 3am, come round briefly and consider going to bed. Slump… 3:30am get up and stumble into bed. 4am – lie in bed awake. The effort involved getting there has shaken some of the stupor off and I can’t sleep. 4:10- the shaking starts. Should have bought more alcohol. I can’t move. I’m dripping with sweat. Shaking. There are shapes in the walls moving and forming. 4:30am, the voices are back and the walls are twisting around and faces are laughing at me.
Thoughts start to form. Multiple thoughts, normally about people or things in the past where I fucked-up or lied or cheated. People I’ve hurt, intentionally or accidentally. People I’ve let down. Past pain, botched suicides failed relationships, dead loved-ones, dead friends. Betrayals. Destructive over-self-analysis. Unfulfilled dreams and desires, unfinished conversations. What-if’s….
They slam into me like bullets from a machine gun. Tat-a-tat-a-tat. A heavy suppressing fire of bitter self-recrimination…bang, bang….half formed memories. Another machine gun opens up at the same time, in parallel. Tat-tat-a-tat-ta-a-tat-ata-at..atat…atatatat… a solid wall of bullets from my own sub-conscious. Each one slamming into me. Accurate, deadly, overwhelming.
As the wound from one closes, the impact of others prevents any respite from the pain of the previous salvo. If only I could slow down time.
It’s my mind, why can I not control it. Why does it attack me so viciously?
I try and focus on one and it vanishes. A new one replaces it. If I can just get hold of one strand, a thread, some kind of a grip. Then I could process it and justify it but the fire is relentless and merciless. The smash into my soul and explode on impact.
Elusive in their frenzied self-destruction. Taunting me!
I open my eyes and a monkeys face screams at me from the wall. Big grinning teeth. Demonic!
Fuck.
I close my eyes as the face of a goat starts to emerge. I don’t want to know what he has in store. Bang! The thoughts explode in the dark space now. Visible outside of my mind. Real. They’ve taken form. A song comes into my head. I try and follow it and it laughs in my face and disappears.
Can’t catch me… ha ha ha….
Focus on the song. Where did you hear it. Who sang it. Shit It’s gone. Grab something else.
Your mum. Oh no please no… not that one again…
She died whilst you were sat in the next room pissed. You let her down didn’t you, you cunt? You selfish piece of shit. She always believed in you. She was always there for you and how do you repay her. You sit in the chair, pissed out of your skull. Self-absorbed. Selfish. Fucking spineless worthless cunt that you are. Aren’t you? Aren’t you? Admit it. Go on admit it. Your Auntie found you that night didn’t she? Remember that. The look of disgust. Yes that’s a face you're familiar with isn’t it. You might as well just fucking end it. No one likes you. You just let people down. Always. Jacky wouldn’t have done that. She would have been there for her wouldn’t she? Yes she would and you know it. She was twice the person you are. That’s why they loved her more. Deep down they knew what you were. They put up with you cos you’re their son but really they wish it had been you that died that day. Not her. You will hang for that. You’re going to hell. They;ll probably find a special place in hell for you. Not the proper hell that genuinely bad people go to. A special little unit for people that even failed at being properly bad. A special section for the terminally pathetic.
Fuck off. Fuck off. I’m already there.
I’m crying in the pillow.
Look at you. Pathetic. My Dad is screaming at me. Look at the fucking state of you.
Fuck off. Please it’s not my fault.
“Well who’s fucking fault is it then?”
“I don’t know”. I sob. Miserable, pathetic, useless.
Eyes open, the dog is sat there looking at me. Big round black eyes. Wise. She doesn’t judge me. She looks confused. Why are you doing this to yourself she asks me without judgement. I love you. Please stop.
“Fuck off dog!”
I’m jealous of her. She’s so loyal. She follows me everywhere. I wish I was her. She’s beautiful. Loyal, always happy. What the fuck did she do to deserve me in her life.
“Darren, Darren”
Oh fuck. Back to the room. I’m sweating. That’s why I’m here. A lucid thought. The first one in a while. That’s why I’m here. Remember that. Please God let me remember that’s why I’m here. I can’t go on. I’m fucked in every sense I can’t go on like this. I either drink myself to death or end it myself. If there’s any difference. There is still some part of me that doesn’t want to go. A small glimmer inside deep within. Maybe it can get better. Maybe there is a way out.
“Darren, are you in there? I’m coming in”
“Oh fuck off”
It’s the blonde girl from the previous day. She walks in looking liking a fucking catalogue model. Floats across the floor towards me, a look of pity and mock concern on her perfect little face. Bitch!
“If you don’t come down now you will miss breakfast and it’s morning meditation at half past”
Morning what? Morning fucking meditation. What the fuck is that.
“Oh it’s OK I’ll skip both”, I say casually
“er..it’s not optional”, she responds breezily with undertones of malice
Er, sorry darling, but am I – or more accurately –my auld man not paying for this fucking place? You don’t get to tell me what the fuck I do and don’t do.
“Yeah, I’m not feeling to great. I probably need a few more hours”
“Sorry I can’t let you stay in bed, you have to come down”.
She’s a persistent cow, I’ll give her that.
“OK, let me get dressed”
“You’ve got 5 minutes”
Fucking Nazi.
I wait to hear her footsteps depart. They don’t. She’s fucking standing there waiting. The cheek. Cheeky fucking bitch. I’m cornered. I want to get back into the bed. Pull the duvet over me and pretend this isn’t happening. Then another moment of lucidity hits me. That’s two in 24 hours. This isn’t good. Must be the lack of whisky. Here I am, a supposedly grown man. 45 years of age sat on a single bed in a fucking rehab unit in the middle of nowhere hiding from a 21 year girl who is bullying me into going downstairs. It’s ridiculous. It’s sad. But it’s also kind of funny. I laugh despite myself.
“You OK”, she asks from her side of the door
“Fine”, I say.
Just going quietly insane thanks for asking love. Just letting the marbles roll freely over your carpet. Don’t mind me. I won’t be here long. Maybe get the men with the butterfly nets on standby and book me one of those nice padded rooms please. I’ll go quietly.
Her stubborn refusal to move is getting on my tits. But some small vestige of pride doesn’t want her bouncing back in the room with me spread on the bed in my boxer shorts looking like Jabba the Huts fucking twin brother. So I get up and force myself into some clothes. The effort brings on a sweat and I’m drenched again. Ah fuck it. I don’t care.
As I leave the room I pass the untouched bed of the Benzo King and wonder what happened to him. He didn’t murder me which is good. But in a way I wish he had. Then I wouldn’t have to face this long fucking day.
I enter the Canteen. Its full. I can now put names to most of the faces. A few smile. Wan, soulless smiles. The smiles of the defeated. An acknowledgement that I am one them.
Again the addictions determine the groups. The coke heads are hoovering up toast and cereal like its fucking laced with gak. The benzo club are noticeable by their absence. The Benzo King himself is nowhere to be seen. The alkies are sat in a group drinking coffee and not eating. It’s been a long time since I had a coffee in the morning but oddly I feel like one. Maybe the caffeine will take away some of the sluggishness off the Librium. I don’t want to be straight, but it would be nice to string a sentence together. I get a coffee and find a corner where I can sit by myself.
Keith comes bouncing over and smacks me round the back.
“Alright mate, sleep well?”
Fuck off you annoying cunt.
“Yes fine thanks”, I mutter, meekly
“Nice one fella. First night is a fucker mate. It gets better trust me”
Fuck off. I never trust anyone who tells me to trust them. It’s the junkie and alcoholics mantra. He bounces off to annoy some other poor bastard and I return to my self-misery.
The psychopath is stood by the entrance to the drugs room like a fucking storm trooper. He’s got a face like a slapped arse and looks more fucked-up than most of the inmates. I’m glad he’s suffering. He deserves to. Wanker. And why is he stood there?
Ah…medication time.
I slowly recall them telling me there is four doses a day. Perfect, I will be getting more drugs very soon. This cheers me up and spurs me on. I’m energised. I venture over to the corner where there is toast and butter and orange juice.
“Hi Darren, you OK?”
It’s Kim. She’s sat next to the breakfast table with all the food on it. She’s smiling at me and it’s a warm genuine smile. It feels nice to be smiled at in that way and I feel a strong wave of emotion. I want to hug her. I don’t. I’m not a tactile person, Never have been. I find it hard to touch people and express affections like that.
“I’m OK. Thanks for asking”
“You’re looking better”, she lies. “It’s morning meditation in 20 minutes so try and eat something, it will help. I know you don’t feel like it now, but just try”.
It feels nice that she cares enough to tell me that.
“What is morning meditation?” I feel I can trust her to tell me what it really is.
“Oh, we do breathing exercises and listen to some relaxing music to prepare us for the day”.
Jesus Christ. Fucking whale music and yoga. That is not in my fucking repertoire. I wince. Kim picks up on it.
“It’s fucking bollocks I know, but it passes an hour of the day”, she winks. She’s got spirit. I like her.
“OK thanks”
I walk back to my corner and chew a corner of toast. Fucking breathing exercises. Yoga? Relaxation music!!!”. The only relaxation music I’ve ever listened to is chill out music on a Sunday morning after spending the weekend fucked out my skull on MDMA, amphetamines and ketamine. Under those conditions, it’s a perfectly valid music form. But not at 6:30 am on a warm sober weekday morning. No thank you. I think I will skip that.
I go outside for a cigarette.
Lisa is perched in the gazebo in a cloud of smoke. I join her, maybe the smoke will obscure us from the camp staff and we can get out of this relaxation bollocks.
“Right?”, she acknowledges me
“Right, you good?”, I enquire
“No”
“Me neither. Shit innit”
“Yup”
Conversation over. All the pertinent areas of discussion are discussed. I feel comfortable around here. There is no need to engage in pointless chit chat. We can smoke and seethe together in silence and feel ok. This is true friendship. Being able to enjoy the silence.
Through the smoke in the distance, the psychopath emerges into the sunlight. It doesn’t suit him. He seems to absorb the energy from the natural world. A force of anti-matter. He’s prowling round the walls seemingly muttering to himself.
I see people heading towards him like sheep transfixed by a hypnotic fox. He’s like an addict magnet. Wherever he walks, people are sucked towards him. He approaches us. It wont work on us. We have our own forcefield of negative polarity that will react against his.
“Medication time” he informs us. Woosh.. we are up and running. Damn, that’s how he does it. I follow Lisa into the canteen. The red light is on above the drugs door and the addicts are in line, twitching in anticipation.
I’m a bit more compus mentus this morning and start to process the information they are giving me. I’m taking 10 X 5mg of Librium, four times a day. That’s 4 X 50mg doses which makes 200mg a day. That’s a nice comforting number. I’m very familiar with benzo doses and am surprised at how high a dose it is. No wonder I’m totally fucking scoobied.
The bad news is that they take off one tablet for each dose each day until day 10 and then I’m straight. Properly straight. No drink, no drugs, just me and my fucked-up head.
That worries me but the well trained alcoholic thought process kicks in and saves me. That’s not today. That’s something to worry about later. One day at a time Sweet Jesus....When I get down to half what I am on, I will start working on my plan to convince them I need to stay on it for longer. I’m very persuasive.
Now all I have to deal with is an hour sitting in a room full of my fellow fuck-ups listening to whales yelping and pretending to be fucking spiritual. I can do that. In half an hour I will be so stoned I might even enjoy it.
We sit in the conservatory room. A hippy woman waltzes in. She’s head to toe in purple and pink. Never trust a woman in purple. They are generally always mad and fucked-up. Drugs or no drugs. It’s a red flag. Natures way of telling us men to stay the fuck away. Bunny boiler alert.
Anyway she has us trapped in here. A captive audience, literally.
She turns to the portable stereo and a selection of CD/s
“What should we have today” she asks us all in a patronising voice
“Tibetan bells or sounds of the Forest?”
What a fucking choice. How about some grinding industrial Gabber with DJ Hell and MC Fuck You instead?
“We had Tibetan bells yesterday”, someone complains. Twat!
“OK, sounds of the forest it is”, she says happily. Fucking dopey bitch.
“First we need to get ourselves ready to accept the day”, she chirps.
“Let’s get started. Focus on your feet….”
No, not the feet. My feet are fucked. Swollen to twice their usual size and skin taught, dry and red. They’re in constant pain. It’s hard to walk. I cant wear socks even though my trainers are two sizes bigger than usual to accommodate the extra volume. I know it’s not a good sign. Something to do with water retention because my liver can’t process anything but beyond that I don’t know and I don’t want to. In fact I make a point of avoiding the subject. Now this bitch is asking me to dedicate some time to them. No thank you.
“Clench them and breathe out...”, OK I can manage that. I close my eyes and do it.
“And breathe in slowly….hold your breath….hold it….and breathe out”
“Now moving up your body, focus on your thighs”. OK I don’t have a problem with them. They seem to be in fairly decent nick.
“..hold your breathe and breath out. Now move to your buttocks and repeat….”
We travel up our bodies, breathing in and out, eyes closed. Time does slow down. Maybe this works. Or maybe the librium is kicking in. Either way it’s not as bad as I thought so I go along with it. After 20 minutes I’m nodding off.
I notice a sound behind me. It’s the Benzo King. He’s in the room and not happy. There’s a surprise. He’s muttering and grumbling and swearing under his breathe. He’s not getting the same results as me. But he isn't really trying.
I turn and look at him.
“You OK mate?”
“I fucking hate this shit”
“Me too. what happened last night?”
“I bunked down in Colin’s room”
Good, I hope he fucking stays there. This could work out OK.
“Can you stay there?”
“Dunno, we’ll see”
He’s not in a talkative mood so I leave it. Also the dippy hippy bitch is giving us daggers so I go back to he sounds of the fucking forest.
It’s soon over.
“Don’t you all feel better now”, she exclaims. I’m not sure if this is a question, a statement or some kind of self affirmation to make her feel useful but oddly I do feel a bit calmer. Again, probably the Librium.
Time for a cigarette.
Outside in the Gazebo, Lisa is puffing away.
“Didn’t fancy the whale music?”, I ask
“Fuck that shit. It’s a load of bollocks”
“True”
I had my first one-to-one session”, she offers this up freely
“Right how was it?”
“Shit”.
I kind of guessed the answer before I asked but it was only polite.
I tried to think of something to say in response. I couldn’t’t. The Librium fog was back and my mind was blank and dull. Don’t fight it, this is good stuff. I tried to work out the cost of this dose out in the real world. Valium was normally a quid a tablet but that was for 10mg. So not too much, about twenty quid a day if my math’s is right. Not sure it is. Not even sure why it matters
The gazebo fills up. Kim, Keith, Old Bob and Maxi. They are all talking. They’ve been here longer which means they are probably near the end of their detox. They can communicate.
I can’t. I sit quietly like a retard, dull and drugged.