Detox: Day 7, 30/04/13

Her name isn't Sharon. It's Meg.

She's wearing sunglasses inside at 7:30 AM.

***

Well, final day in detox, bar the exodus tomorrow. Chris, the batshit crazy loudmouth ice addict leaves us this morning, which is both a boon and a loss. He won't shut his fucking mouth for 5 seconds, but he's mostly funny.

I can't help but think he'll be relapsing sooner rather than late, more's the pity.

There's such a residual feeling of sorrow and failure in this place, it's almost palpable.

Rehab is still up in the air. I haven't the faintest fucking clue about where I am going after this.

Still, it's seven days without alcohol, and that has to count for something.

Mick has a handlebar moustache and a haircut that looks like it was done by someone given a pair of scissors while having an epileptic fit.

I still don't want to be Mick.

***

I knew I'd be in here with some emotionally stunted, backwater fuckheads, but it didn't fully rear it's head until this morning's chat about *gasp* homosexuality. Their stance was the usual ignorant, frightened bullshit.

"It's not natural!" "We were designed to make babies!" "Any gay cunt comes near me and I'll fucking uppercut him!"

The usual hate-filled shit. I defended homosexuals, so that instantly made me one of them, even though I have a wife.

I made a point later in the conversation that you need a licence to do things that require responsibility in this world, like drive a car, own a gun, pilot a plane, own a reptile... but any shitheel can make a baby, and that's why there are so many 17 year old mothers out there pushing prams and contributing nothing to society.

"But that's not necessarily their fault!" the others cried.

"Neither is being gay!" I responded.

It isn't natural! Yeah, and neither is doing ICE, you fucking hypocrite.

***

Jesus imaginary fucking Christ get me out of here. Two new admissions this morning, one of whom is Rory, who looks like a cross between Steve Buscemi and a rat with Down Syndrome. He hangs around the kitchen and instructs everyone on how to cook, prepare, mix, or make a cup of tea.

For lunch, I'm tasked with making a salad dressing, so I make the best of what we have, and mix up a balsamic and olive oil concoction, which is then branded as 'disgusting' by a few of the guys. Well, I guess all of Italy must be wrong!

Fucking philistines.

I know it sounds like I'm looking down on these guys, but I just want to talk to someone on my level.

***

Apparently, there's meant to be yet another admission today. With any luck, his name will be Fucko McDicksmear, and he'll want to shower with me.

I swear, this place is trying to make people fat. Pasta Carbonara for dinner, accompanied by cheesy garlic bread. I only had a little, with a large helping of salad. Not to mention Rory dipping his fingers into every fucking dish while preparing. Just as Floppy doesn't want me approaching her with 'poo hands' after I've been to the toilet, neither do I want 'junkie hands' in my fucking dinner.

Whatever, it's my last night.

In the words of Red from The Shawshank Redemption, 'I find I'm so excited I can barely sit still'.

***

One last relaxation session with some stretching, and I feel quite peaceful. Despite some of these people appearing to be useless assholes, I find that we are brethren in sickness.

I am inexorably tied to these people, through innumerable matrices of addiction, pain, sorrow, grief and heartache.

Oceans of tears and loss create the perfect storm, and we ride the waves, clinging to the driftwood of hope and memories.

'I must fight this sickness. Find a cure.' - Robert Smith, 1982.

Detox: Day 6, 29/04/13

Were I a betting man, I'd put some serious money on the wager that the coffee in here is actually flakes of dried horse shit.

In addition, I did come in here hoping for a diet rich in vegetables, to purge some of the toxins that lurk in my body. Instead, I've had roast beef, roast potatoes, pizza, baked potatoes, lasagna, potato salad, whipped cream, sponge cake and jam.

Floppy informed me that Tool were fucking awesome. Even though it would have been the 5th time I'd seen them, I still wish I wasn't in this fucking place at this point of time.

Two gents are leaving us this morning, leaving me with the dregs, although we apparently have three admissions this morning. Whether any of them turn out to be capable of decent conversation remains to be seen.

***

Prior to lunch, we had a session of, and I'm not fucking kidding, 'Laughing Yoga'. It consisted of various stretches and bends, and in between, breathing in deeply and letting it out in the heartiest laugh you could muster. Except they were mostly fake laughs, because there wasn't anything to laugh at.

I'm open to all forms of rehabilitation, but I couldn't help but find this particular method fucking  redundant.

Still, it's taught me that I need to stretch a lot more.

One of the new admissions, a woman, wears an ill-fitting Collingwood cap on her head, slightly lopsided. That aspect alone is cause for concern.

I bet her name is Sharon.

***

I call my wife to chat about rehab options, and not 5 minutes goes by before we're arguing about money. I'd rather talk about clay, or spouting. She said she'd had a shitty day, so fair is fair.

I have a warped kind of envy for most of the guys in here. They can just tune out and vegetate in front of the TV, nicotine inhalers dangling out of their mouths.

I'm climbing the walls after 6 days, what the fuck is 3 months going to be like?

Perhaps I should try to lower my standards and join the throng of morons. Either way, every day feels almost Sisyphean.

***

One of the new admissions is Mick. Mick looks like every other Mick I've ever met, spliced with every other alcoholic I've ever met. I don't want to be Mick.

***

The nurses always seem shocked when I say that I don't have any withdrawal symptoms. My hands don't shake, I don't get headaches, sore stomach or anything else related to coming off booze.

Am I a freak? Glad to be one, I guess.

Anne, the lovely grandmother, has had her husband visit 3 days in a row. Can't help but feel a little jealous!

***

Focus group tonight, and the question for everybody was 'name something positive to do with your rehabilitation that you experienced today'. I turned a negative into a positive by saying that I had an argument with my wife about which rehab I should be going to.

When they asked how that was a positive, I replied that at least she stills gives a shit about where I go to get better, and that can only be a good thing.

Detox: Day 5, 28/04/13

Sunday is proving to be a slow day, apart from a mid-morning yoga session. I always knew what was involved but had never attended a class.

I found that if you applied yourself, it tended to hurt like buggery, but the payoff was worth it. I can certainly see the long term appeal, and I may look into joining some classes after I am rehabilitated. Perhaps even go with Floppy.

Most of the other guys approached it in a half-assed manner, making jokes and fucking around, which makes me feel that they're approaching their rehab in the same way.

***

Sometimes the depth of addiction can be truly frightening. Yesterday, while we played kick to kick, one of the guys spotted half a used cigarette wedged in between the pavement and the grass. A few of the other guys remarked that it should be smoked there and then, out of sight of the supervisor, but nobody had a lighter.

The cigarette was retrieved, however, and smuggled back into the unit. The faced another problem, however, in that nothing in the unit produces a naked flame. (Another H&S issue, I'm sure.)

Solution: Use the toaster!

If they are caught with this half of a used cigarette, they face immediate expulsion.

Hope it's worth it.

Detox: Day 4, 27/04/13

Another match late last night against Anne. She landed 3 triple word score tiles and shot out in front. There was no way I could catch her. At least I got to play the word 'cozen'.

Following that, we had a relaxation session, where we stretched out on yoga mats and listened to ambient music while Kate, the only attractive nurse, talked us through.

"Relax your spine, your shoulders, your hands and your feet. Breathe deep and feel the nutrients flow through you. Exhale the bad thoughts and the negative energy."

By then end it seemed everybody was well relaxed and sleepy, and Kate asked everybody to rise to a sitting position, whereupon Chris, who is constipated, let rip one of the most enormous farts I've ever heard.

Of course, everybody was reduced to helpless laughter, seemingly negating the whole relaxation session. Laughing felt good, though.

***

Midday focus group, and I feel so sorry for some of these guys. We were asked to write down the five most important things to us, and then remove one at a time, until the most important thing is left. I chose my wife, just ahead of family.

Some of these guys chose 'using'. If that's the most important thing in your life, how can you beat it?

One of the guys even admitted that he had spoken to a friend on the phone earlier in the day, and organised to have a deck of smokes and a bottle of whiskey waiting for him when he gets out.

***

The guys have taken to calling me 'Chuck', after Chuck Norris, on account of my beard. It's amusing, but I still can't wait to shave the fucking thing off.

Steve came and delivered some headphones for my iPod and a few extra books. Just seeing him made me deliriously happy, and I just wanted to bust out of the door and go with him.

After he left, I stood at the window watching him go. The glass felt more like prison bars. A bleak mood stole over me, and I thought of my wife, and wished that things could just be back to the way they were.

Whether I am going to Sydney or not still seems to be up in the air, and I wonder how I can instil trust in people if I have to hang around and wait for another rehab place to take me.

Detox: Day 3, 26/04/13

A fitful night's sleep, and still sleepy now. A nice woman came in early and took what felt like a litre of blood, I presume for tests regarding my liver.

I really felt like a sleep after that, but was roused to walk down to the local park for a little exercise. It was well worth the the effort! One of the guys, Kevin, kicked the footy into the middle of the lake, and despite a gusty wind, it refused to come anywhere near shore.

He took off his shoes and rolled up his jeans, and waded in gently, the water just brushing his knees. The ducks scattered at his entrance, but he surged ahead boldly, until he just disappeared under the surface. Seems it was a little deeper than he thought.

If I had to guess, I'd say that lake was made up of 1 part rainwater, 2 parts duck shit and 1 part pollution.

After a bit of coercion, i.e., 'Don't be a fag', I joined in a kick to kick, and actually did very well. My brother would be proud.

We made our way back to the unit and made our own pizzas for lunch. First good meal I've had here.

***

Out on the back patio there is an exercise bike, a few tables and chairs, and a disused barbecue. Sitting here during the day, it's easy to relax and watch the builders at work, constructing the massive new addition to Box Hill hospital.

The graffiti out here is my favourite thing, however. Most of it is standard, with scrawls like 'Trev was 'ere July 2008' and 'Alina dried out here, Oct. 2010'. Some genius even wrote 'Brooks was here'.

But the odd ones out delight me.

'Day 2. Shat half my meds. 14/09/09'.

'Cam was here. Now it's just Cam'.

'Hot violent not silent you your pocket rocket.'

***

Tonight I played Scrabble against Anne, who is an alcoholic grandmother (and the oldest in the unit), and I only barely won! Floppy would have been proud of her, as she played 'Qi' on a triple word score.