Day 3 of 28
This is day three here and I still don’t know what to make of this place. I feel like I’m walking through motions that someone else is making me take. Nothing here is done by me. Instead, everything is done all because someone else told me to.
They told me I would get my job today. They said everyone here gets one job until they retire a few days before discharge. Most get a few days off. Some work until their last day here but the job isn’t really a job. At least it’s not a job as far as real jobs go. Each patient (or inmate, depending on who you ask) has to do one shift in the kitchen to clean the dishes.
The kitchen is a real kitchen in the back of a large dining room with round tables and chairs. They serve coffee all day but the coffee is terrible and tea has never done much for me.The food is terrible. The cooks are all ex-drunks related to the owner. Either that, or they’re some old retiree, washed up like old relics, and nearly wet-brained. There is a maintenance man here and two matrons. He does the upkeep of the buildings and grounds and the two matrons clean the rooms and wash the sheets.
There is a small commissary just down the hall to the left of the dining room. The woman behind the counter is uncomfortable to look at. Her face is odd looking. Yes, odd looking is the only way to explain it.
Her face appears swollen and her eyes are like puffed-up little slits. She is very pale skinned and overweight. She walks slowly and she doesn’t seem to hear very well. But still, this is her job because elsewhere, she would be nothing more than an old lady, useless, and probably drooling on herself in a chair at some nursing home.
But ah, at least she would have meds for her at the nursing home. Here, the keep the old woman clean and on the wagon.
At this point, I say give the old lady a drink. She’s too old to live and too miserable to do anything else. Let her drink for Christ’s sake.
Today is day three and I am told they will give me a primary counselor for my one on one sessions. I have seen three out of the four different counselors so far. One of them is named Helene.
Helene is a big woman. She is kind of loud and claims that she smoked pot with a few member from The Grateful Dead.
The other counselor I met was named Kenneth. This guy has been around. Kenneth was an ex-junkie, as high as they come, and supposedly, Kenneth was a dangerous man at one point in time.
I find this hard to believe however, especially since Kenneth is shorter than anyone I have ever met.
He seems to be well-liked. And I can see why the patients would like Kenneth. He talks like he just came out from a dope nod. Kenneth sounds like he gets it, but who knows? I guess if I have to talk with someone, Kenneth wouldn’t be the worst choice.
Stacy, on the other hand . . .I think she would be the worst choice. She is new to the business. She is an ex-drunk too but she is young and dresses somewhat provocatively. Or better put, she is dressed provocative enough for the vultures in group to try and see what they can get away with.
I don’t like Stacy much. At least, I don’t think I would like her. Besides, she wears too much perfume, which, to me smells like bug spray.
Stacey gives me a headache but I will admit she does have a nice rack. Too bad I never saw her when she was drunk at the bar and crawling around in the downtown scene. I might have noticed her differently then but for now, she’s just a whiny bitch that gives me a headache.
They’re going to give me a workbook today. They tell me this is a book that will introduce me to the steps that will keep me sober.
To hell with that.
They want me to write down my faults and the things I did wrong to people.
To hell with that too.
I don’t see anyone else in my life writing down their faults or admitting what they did to me.
To hell with them all.
My roommate finally opened his mouth to me. He said his name was John. Said he prefers not to talk too much in the morning.
He told me he has been here for several months, which was odd because the facility is only short-term; however, John used to be called Father John.
The word on him is John sunk into a deep depression and didn’t open his mouth to speak with anyone for nearly seven years. I was told by a few of the others that John tried to kill himself a few times.
They said he was an odd man for sure, but as caring as they come. John had it rough though. Something happened to him as a boy. It was a priest that did John wrong. Funny though, why would a boy touched by a priest ever become a priest, but more how could a priest turn to the needle and become a street junkie like John?
There is a man in the room neighboring mine. He is a big man, strong, and makes no room for nonsense. His name is Armond, I think I would have like Armond but Armond came out first to tell me, “ I don’t like you.”
“I don’t like punks that think they know it all. I see punks like you in jail all the time.”
Armond was a correctional officer. Word on him was the job took too much out of Armond. The beatings he saw and the lives Armond watched go to waste turned him into a bitter man. One day, Armond decided to take out his frustrations on one of the inmates that enjoyed bullying and beating up on smaller prisoners. He was drunk at the time. Armond was angry as the devil himself, which is what led Armond here. to treatment.
“The only thing that kept me from being a murderer is God,” I heard Armond say in group.
Looking around at the faces in the crowd, safe to say, I guess the same thing was true for a lot of us.
There are 75 men in treatment here. That means there are 75 stories, I might need you for this because I have a feeling each story will be more interesting than the next.
Take The Breeze for example. At least, that’s what they call him.
They call him The Breeze because he liked to fly high.
Just like me, when The Breeze came in for his intake, The Breeze tried smuggling in a few bottles, a few bags, and some pills, which The Breeze kept hidden in his suitcase
Supposedly, The Breeze was a roadie that used to tour with different bands. He saw it all, says The Breeze. But no one believes him. I guess I shouldn’t believe him then either.
I am up now and awake earlier than usual. The sun is lifting over the mountain and dragging in a soft bead of yellow morning sunlight through the curtains.. I am sitting up in my bed and somewhat sleepless. As it is, the bed is uncomfortable but John’s snoring doesn’t help much either.
Same as yesterday though, John has been in the bathroom for at least 45 minutes already. Maybe he masturbates in there. Maybe he prays. Who knows what John does, but whatever he is doing, he does it for a really long time.
I will have to go downstairs soon. They already reprimanded me for not wearing a collared shirt. They told me I have to follow the rules. They said they will not tolerate me whatsoever. If I fail to follow the rules, they’ll kick m out, and then they will call the courts to advise them of my discharge.
I can’t have that though. I took the plea. I have to complete treatment. Otherwise, I’ll have to do one year, plus 90 days for my D.W.I. and a possession charge.
And I get that I have to do the time here. I get that I was caught. I really get it. But I’m not like the others here. I don’t look like them and I don’t feel like them. I’m different.
Looks like the old man is getting out of the bathroom (finally.)
I might as well get up and see what bullshit this place has in store for me.
Still hope I can find someone that brought in a few pills.
I tried The Breeze but he was no help .
I am told I will have my first one on one after breakfast. Then I’ll be in groups all day. Then I have an A.A. meeting at night but I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow.