At 3:23 AM—according to my alarm clock—I get up to pee, relishing the freedom of solitude now that Junkiemind Jerry has moved out. I stand in the bathroom’s inadequate yellow half-light feeling stronger than I ever have since I got here. I look at myself in the mirror and decide to shave as soon as I can buy some razors from those thieves in the pharmacy. I shuffle over to the toilet, amazed at how I can now take pleasure in a simple thing like peeing. Relax...ahh… OH GOD OH GOD OH FUCK OH GOD
At our nightly community meeting, Lt. Dominic congratulates everyone on the success of the barbecue and thanks Jonah for cooking, even though he was sick. He says he is going to apply for a group day pass and maybe take some of the guys to a movie off-campus as a treat. I’m grateful we have a leader like Dominic. I just wish there was a war on so I could follow him into it.
At Group time, my check-in feeling is “concerned.” I’m worried that my liver is failing like the Yellow Man’s, that I am about to go over the waterfall of Suboxone withdrawal, that I will shit myself at any moment, and most of all worried about what will happen when my wife comes for family day this afternoon.
I’m flying down, down through layer after layer of sleep on the wings of Jerry’s pill when the dream begins.
I wake up to one of Junkiemind Jerry’s alarm clocks going off. Daylight has begun creeping in from the window, making diffuse, ominous shadows from everything in the room. We have an early house meeting on the Sunday schedule and then we’re supposed to go down to the Day Hospital auditorium for something called “spirituality.”
Isis-Aphrodite Metropolitan Museum of Art
I go back to the big auditorium for the next event on my folder: DBT SKILLS. Class has already started. A very tall woman with a long mane of chestnut hair is standing at the front of the room. She has dark eyes and a flowery dress that ends just above her tasteful brown wedges. I wish she was my case manager, but who really cares at this point. I sit in the back, temporarily exempt from the Cuntface’s ‘last row’ tyranny, and pull out my Rilke book instead of Cuckoo’s Nest. The cold-fire blowtorch of withdrawal is bearing down on my neck and back. My liver hurts and I’m scared of what that might mean. Worst of all it’s confirmed that no one loves me or cares that I’m even here.