“Good morning everyone.”
Various voices in varying degrees of half-heartedness returned the greeting, lapsing quickly back into silence. The guy next to me just lip-synced.
“Why don’t we start off like usual and go around the circle and tell the group how we’re feeling today.”
Her name was Dr. Fox but as far as I could tell there was nothing foxy about her. She has the reputation of being the most dedicated, generous counselor in the ward. Except her reputation has, for the most part, only been established by other doctors and any of her patients dumb enough to form that special, completely factory-made bond between doctor and patient, right up to that big moment when she gives them a big hug at discharge, the same she’s given a thousand times before and says through a sacrin, artifical smile “I hope I never see you again”.
She might act like every pathetic rehab-patient’s savior angel but I know that when she leaves at the end of the day, as in being able to open the door and walk out, she breathes a heavy sigh of relief. Just like anyone else would. And judging from the nicotine stains on her fingers she probably gets only six feet before lighting up. She’s no different than the other doctors who hate this place, hate us—she’s just the better actor. It’s hard to put your healing into someone’s hands when they’re made of cardboard and macaroni noodles.
“And remember,” Dr. Fox continued, brushing a lock of dyed red hair from her caring eyes, “’I’m fine’ isn’t an answer.”
Adjective restriction. Wrong on so many levels. There are eight of us in the circle. Actually, it was more of an oval, or maybe like an ameba, several people had pushed their chairs either in or out, breaking up the circle.
We started around the ameba-circle after about forty seconds of silent no-volunteer waiting. One of the idiots finally raised their hand and started.
“I’m not doing so well,” was his answer. The perfect vague answer that would cost us ten minutes of “what does that mean” and “tell me more about that”.
Bad part is that when I have to just sit here, bored out of my skull, it’s harder to ignore that I’m shaking. I don’t think I could even hold a pen if I wanted to. Not that I feel like sharing my inability to write with the group. As earth shattering as it is. Emotional support wouldn’t stop this. I know exactly what would stop this. I know what will take away the pain, the shaking, all of it. Nights are bad. Laying there on the spring-less mattress, staring at the ceiling, with nothing to do but concentrate on stopping yourself from screaming in pain.
The moron with the vague answer had stopped talking, bowing his head submissively. We moved on with various answers such as, “I’m tired” “I’m depressed” “I’m angry” “I’m hungry” and my personal favorite, “I want to kill you”
Glancing around the circle I saw what were close to a few nods of agreement to that answer.
“Greg,” Dr. Fox said and I looked up from my hands, “Your turn. How are you feeling this morning?”
“I feel great.”
“You feel great.”
“I just said that.”
“Everyone else in the group has admitted they have a problem, Greg—they’ve made progress.”
“My only problem is being locked in here—but then, it was this or prison.”
“You don’t have a problem?”
“Not except for you.”
“What about what brought you here,” she said in almost a sing-song voice, She was referring to the have-yourself-a-miserable-little-christmas incident, “Let’s talk about that.”
She stared at me. That tactic wouldn’t work with me, neither would the bitchy woman angle, so I stared back. She was like a worm, burrowing into the weakest point and crawling around, making itself at home by consuming dead flesh.
“Nothing to talk about.”
“What were you feeling that night?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing happened.”
“Do you like Christmas, Greg?”
“Nope.”
“Because?”
“Because apart from the surge in electric bills and time off work it’s just another day on the calendar.”
“You don’t believe in good-will toward men and peace on earth?”
“What does that have to do with Christmas?”
“Christmas is at least a time to spend with your loved-ones, you do agree with that don’t you?”
She was trying again. Trying to find another weak spot.
“Was there anyone for you to spend Christmas Eve with?” she continued, face switching into something like a sympathetic expression, lower lip pouting a little as she gave a slow shake of the head, “There wasn’t, was there?”
“There was,” I said, defending myself.
“But you went home alone that night,” her confident tone tore into me.
“I wasn’t in a celebrating mood. I was tired from saving yet another patient from certain death, takes a lot out of a person.”
“I think you, and everyone else here knows, that a person . . .” she paused, letting the silence strain between words, “Can only take so much.”
“Not me.”
“But those around you? You were hurting them, weren’t you?”
“I never asked them to do anything for me.”
“Because you wanted to suffer alone.”
“Because I didn’t need their help.”
She paused, switching gears again, allowing me to truly question her counseling abilities. Always leading the witness, interjecting whatever chapter header she was writing for her no-doubt-to-be-best-seller, “And now?” she asked, folding her hands on top of the clipboard in her lap, “It sure looks like you’re detoxing.”
I clasped my hands together, hoping my shoulders shaking wasn’t obvious, biting at my lower lip.
“Let’s get back to Christmas Eve,” she persisted, I sighed impatiently, running a hand across my rough face, “You say you feel great. I don’t think that’s true, Greg. I think you felt bad enough to do something about it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You stole the oxycodone.”
My hands moved to my upper arms, holding them still, “I needed them.”
“Then you went home—”
“After solving the case!”
“You went home on Christmas Eve and then what happened?” she asked, “You had no one to go home to, no Christmas to look forward to—you only had the pills. What did you do when you got back home, Greg?”
“I took them,” I said angrily.
“You took all of them.”
“They’d taken my Vicodin away!” I realized I was almost yelling. She was going about this all wrong. She was trying to get me mad so I’d admit something. Good luck with that doctor, you can forget about it. “I’d just spent two days detoxing.”
“So once you had the pills you were happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
“So it was Christmas Eve, you went home, took the rest of the pills, and then what?”
“You know what happened—I had a drink, didn’t mix well with the pills, and that’s it.”
“Greg,” she said, “I don’t think that you, as a doctor, didn’t know what taking a whole bottle of pills then drinking half a bottle of scotch would do.” Her eyes held a satisfied air as she leveled them with mine, satisfied because I had nothing, couldn’t think of anything, to say to that. She didn’t want a response. She just wanted to scare me.
I’d said I didn’t remember a lot of what happened that night. I was lying. I remember everything that happened. I’d known what I was doing. And why. The last few months were a sort of slow motion spiral, an uncontrollable downwards descent and every choice I’d made, every angry, bitter choice, drew me down faster. The meger things I’d held of value, the few things, the few people, or person, that mattered, were gone. And I didn’t care. They were better off without me.
So yeah, I remember. I remember trying to stop myself from puking, trying to force my body to keep the pills down but failing, eventually puking and not being able to stop myself. I remember lying on the floor, not able to move, brain caught in an ugly cycle starting with when I’d first met Stacy and I’d thought I could have the Polaroid dreamhouse life right up till when Wilson had shouted at me to get out and I’d just left, no intention of fighting for him because what would be the point and I’d downed the last of the scotch.
And then it was just random, totally unrelated memories in between. I remembered the time Stacy and I had gone upstate to meet her parents and I’d fallen in the water trying to help with the sails in her father’s boat. A rope had caught around my ankle and I couldn’t get back to the surface. Didn’t matter how much I kicked, it wouldn’t come off. By the time I had started to panic my hands were already numb from the icy water and couldn’t untangle the rope to free myself. Stacy had jumped in after me. Saved me.
And then I remembered years ago, during the start of Wilson’s second marriage when he and I were working on building a deck out back of their new house. Bonnie had entrusted it to us, though in a non-joking way had accused us as “no where near handymen” because we were doctors, not carpenters. Wilson said it was easy, we could figure it out together. Bonnie had latched herself onto him, arms wrapped around his neck, his bare arms around her waist, and kissed him for luck, she said. I remember standing there, hands resting on a piece of wood laid out on a saw-horse, trying not to watch them. She had been leaving for a weekend at her sisters whose husband was an alcoholic, sort of a support thing. She’d be gone for two days. Just me and Wilson, wearing jeans and a layer of dirt and grime, getting sun-burnt and sore, working all day then going in to drink beer and relax without Bonnie around to bother us. I’d been glad to have him for myself. Bonnie was fine. Nice enough person. Just not good enough for Wilson. He wasn’t him when she was around. He was who she wanted him to be. Which made me miss him. He’s not like that around me. He’s just himself. And not to mention he had looked way too attractive with a hammer and a tool belt on, it all seemed too much to handle. But I didn’t do anything. Not that time.
The first time we kissed was on the fourth of July. With Bonnie of course and some of her family, some of Wilson’s, watching fireworks. Everyone else had turned in, some kids were there, had to get to bed, Bonnie and everyone else helped. Drinking, too much drinking maybe. Blanket spread on the ground, a blanket that not twenty minutes ago Bonnie and her sister’s kids had sat and watched all the explosions and pretty colours. We were lying in the dark, on our backs, staring up into the sky. He’d told me they were fighting. I told him no duh. It would have been impossible not to feel the tension between them back then. Told me he was upset. Stray, far-away fireworks coloured themselves across the dark sky over maybe fifteen minutes of silence. Hand found his, my fingers tracing the lines of veins on his hands. He’d said he felt helpless, worn out, not good enough, like that was possible. She wanted too much from him. He smelled like grass and sun and beer. Called himself stupid, hand suddenly wrapping around mine. I’d been so amazed he’d look for, and would find comfort in me. Didn’t know I could be that for someone. Somehow, don’t know how, we’d moved closer to each other, me sort of leaning over him. Wilson’s wide brown eyes staring up at me. It was all dark and quiet as I, or we, kissed each other, too suddenly for either of us, clumsy lips meeting, wet and desperate, needy, hands gripping clothes, dragging each other closer. Typical fourth of July, hate fourth of July, hot-dogs and potato salad, only this time Wilson and I were kissing on a quilt in the backyard. Sound of the screen door slamming shut stopped us. And we didn’t talk about it. What it meant. Not the next day. Not ever.
The second time we’d kissed was after I’d told him about the job at Princeton. We went to a small hole in the wall bar to celebrate New Years. He was excited and happy, full of effortless smiles and easy laughs, he was always goofy when he drank champagne. Someone had let loose confetti when the clock struck midnight. It clung to his shirt and flecks of it shined on his cheeks and in his hair as the bar exploded with laughter and cheering. He’d smiled and said “everythings going to be different now”, and in the back of the bar, unnoticed because everyone else was, he kissed me, said “happy new years house” and kissed me again. Auld Lang Syne played from tinny speakers and because it felt good, felt wonderful, we didn’t stop, caught up in the moment. He smiled as he kissed me and I’d kept my eyes open, like I had to make sure it was real, only closing them when the kiss deepened. When the song stopped he’d backed away, taking his hands from my legs and glancing anxiously at the other people in the bar, the moment gone, my lips swollen, heart racing as he finished his champagne. That night when he’d dropped me off I’d asked him to come upstairs, not even sure what I was asking, but he said no. Again, we didn’t talk about it.
Then I remembered after the infarction, after Stacy had left and I hated her and I hated my leg and I hated my life. Back when one Vicodin was enough to feel high for hours. When I’d spent over two weeks not leaving my apartment. Stacy didn’t call. No surprise there. Wilson came over though. Found me amongst the empty peanut butter jars and a more than fairly substantial mess. He changed my bandages. Helped me to bed. We watched movies on the couch and his head would rest on my shoulder. Stayed with me for almost five weeks.
“You tried to kill yourself,” Dr. Fox said, her voice echoing in my ears, “You don’t feel great.”
“You know,” I said after a while, licking my lips slowly, fingers laced together between my knees, “You’re a lousy counselor,” I looked up at her, “Putting words into people’s mouths doesn’t constitute sorting through the issues, it means you're correlating evidence into whatever theory fits yours the most. Maybe it makes sense for everyone else here, psycho-babble sells, stamping meaning onto whatever addiction they have, but I’m not comforted by you, or anyone’s, ability to make judgments and assumptions concerning my personal life. Especially when it's just so that I can go through a program that’s only guarantee is that there’ll be another bed free for whatever loser comes after me once I’m out of here,”
She eyed me with growing contempt, “Does this mean you’ve accepted living is better than dying?” she asked, “Are you less lonely, less depressed, than you were before?” she seemed angry, angry because she was losing control, “You might deny it, hide it, mask it, whatever, but you know, and I know, that you have to face your intentions that night,” she stared at me, “Which means you’re in a lot more trouble than you think you are. And you can’t run from yourself forever.”
“I can’t run at all,” I said, glaring, “I guess that’s my problem? I think I need to talk about it.”
She didn’t like that answer. But we continued around the circle. Next person’s answer was, “I feel fine.”
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