Detox Redux (It's Not Easy Being Green, From Where I'm Calling)

With apologies to Kermit the Frog and Raymond Carver.
Those of us there for detox sported green wristbands. Others, such as the dual-diagnosis crew, wore a different color. Yellow, I think. Dual diagnosis represents people undergoing treatment not just for substance abuse, but also an underlying condition, like depression or some other category of what's deemed mental illness. The majority of the detox cases involved heroin users, most of whom were younger. They used the needle. Some people depended upon opioids in pill form, Some, like me, on alcohol. Opiods and alcohol allegedly represent two of the most dangerous substances from which to withdraw, hence the roughly seven-day inpatient stay for me, my second go-round. Medically supervised withdrawal recommended. Which means they pump you with drugs to counteract the potentially lethal effects of withdrawal. I liked it so much I went back.
Two roommates again this time, but not the same ones for the duration. I spent my last night sharing a room with two guys in the early stages of heroin withdrawal. Not the most peaceful night.
One of these guys, el Lobo, equaled a predator, in that he preyed upon vulnerable girls. Take Darla, for instance (her real name...no it isn't). Smiling Darla, she of no confidence in her ability to stop using heroin, or drugging, in the vernacular. Heroin equals dope, by the way. I recall a time when "dope" seemed to represent a broader array of drugs, including marijuana. But now, according to my once-drug-addled younger brethren, heroin is dope (dope, bro).
So one day, el Lobo, Darla, another girl and I shot pool in the basement as, somehow, part of the therapeutic process. Beats shooting heroin or throwing back shots of alcohol, I suppose, at least in that environment. In between shots (billiard), el Lobo stroked Darla's hair, on, like, his second day. Not a time-waster. After which, I pulled her aside and inquired as to whether allowing that type of behavior was in her best interests. Darla, speaking to me: "Please don't say anything. Please. Pleeeeeeease." So I didn't say anything to him. Lo and behold, the next night he had moved on to a newly admitted woman.
Darla had a friend inside whom she called her wife, and vice versa. Chastity. Cute, young Chastity, who allegedly copped as soon as she left the building. Apparently she called in and told someone still on the inside that her dealer picked her up and she used right away. She showed me her arms one day and the damage the needle had done. Customarily, we had the opportunity to address people at our community meeting the night before their scheduled departures. I told Chastity, and included Darla, even though she wasn't leaving, that I didn't want them to become statistics. News reports contain statistics. And generally they don't mean anything to a lot of people. They mean something to me. These are people. Nice kids who perhaps have done not-so-nice things. I place myself in that category, though not a kid, exactly, and alcohol, not heroin. What's the difference? Because we can legally obtain alcohol? I check on Chastity occasionally via a Google search. Still alive, last I looked. Not sure what has become of Darla, but I wonder. She and I left on the same day, and I had offered her a ride home (against the rules). But some people looking out for my best interests advised against it because, well, addicts are capable of anything, meaning she could have asked me to stop at a convenience store and met someone to get drugs and got back in my vehicle with them. Or she could have said I did something inappropriate. To what end, I don't know, but I left without her and still feel bad. I lived with these people and didn't/don't want to believe she possessed the capability to do something along those lines. But, of the addicts I've encountered in treatment, many acknowledge how they were capable of anything while using.
And the activities these girls acknowledged. They more or less woke up and considered how to obtain money to procure dope. Before detox, not during. So they traded sex. Darla preferred older guys because they climaxed more quickly. Seems counterintuitive. Chastity didn't express a preference but indicated that the men's ages covered a broad swath. They divulged this information matter of factly, which is to some extent the beauty of detox. People in that environment tend not to judge one another because of a predilection to overindulge in wayward activity, because, hey, we were all there. That's not to say that the place lacked judgmental people, just not with respect to the drug of choice and associated behavior. People did judge based on sexual proclivities or otherwise aberrant behavior, like that of el Lobo, for instance. Guilty.
Jerry and Robert, for example, engaged in prohibited activity and got caught. I believe they had their mouths around each other's cocks at the time, to which Jack, the former Marine, took exception. The next morning's community meeting nearly devolved into a brawl, with Rick, the martial-arts instructor, taking Jack's side against Jerry and Robert. Jack had already revealed his hand when it came to homosexuals--not in favor.
Jerry had been married, to a woman, but took a shine to Robert. Jerry also heard voices in his head. I'm unsure if a link existed between the voices and having been married. One night he took to pounding his head on the table. Before that, he had discovered that I like the musician John Prine. So Mary looked out for Joe. Mary actually had kicked alcohol but resided on our wing because they didn't have room in the area she normally would have ended up in for her depression. Mary also told the nurses about Jerry's travails. So I got a towel and placed it on the table where Jerry kept banging his head. But back to John Prine. Jerry inquired about a song, he couldn't remember all the details, but I divined that the tune in question was "In Spite of Ourselves." So I started singing to Crazy Jerry, and he joined in, though mangling the words a bit. But at least we interrupted the head-banging.
In the evenings, after we had fulfilled all our obligations, usually following an AA or NA meeting, we'd pass the time in various ways (until they shooed us off to bed at 11). Movies on DVD. Cards. Or, memorably, a home (or institutional) version of Family Feud. I had the good fortune to be the moderator. At one point after I had read a question, one of our female housemates, dealing with an opiate addiction, struggled to come up with a response. She almost had it; to wit, she said: "It's on the tip of my cunt."
Some of the people with whom I spent my stint had double-digit rehab stays under their belts. Like 15 or 16. Considering how much time it takes up, that represents a not-insignificant amount of time. I, between electroconvulsive therapy and two detox residencies, consider myself to have spent a fair amount of time in that environment (same place each time), but I kind of pale in comparison. Nevertheless, I derive a certain degree of comfort from being there, among my peeps. The aforementioned lack of judgment, which differs from the lack of judgment we all display while under the influence of our preferred substances. I suppose not everyone would feel comfortable essentially in a dorm full of heroin addicts, pill poppers and alcohol abusers, but to each his own. One virtue is that there's almost nothing to steal, because my heroin-addicted friends, in particular, acknowledge that they would steal from anyone. Granted, that involved drug use, but some habits die hard. The place permits no cellphones, iPods, tablets, etc. Limited-use pay phones provide the link to the outside world. Visitors could only come on Saturday.
I got the sense that I had become well-respected on the inside. Perhaps because I provided some of the kids with guidance they were unaccustomed to receiving, like take your feet off the dinner table. Seriously. The line between the gratification that accompanied people leaning on me and having to look out for my own well-being could be precarious. In AA, the people want you to call them. They acknowledge that your reliance upon them helps them, as well. In that respect, I consider the program to have a selfish component. On the other hand, not providing support for fellow travelers also can reflect a sort of selfishness.
So, how did I end up there for the third, maybe a charm, time? The easy route to take would have been to keep drinking. Well, I have kept drinking. Percentage-wise, though, with a back-of-the-envelope calculation, instead of 100% of the time since I left detox, I have drunk about 5% of the time. The liver numbers went right back to normal. Less than perfect, but a significant improvement. Anyway, back to how I got there. To satisfy the state of North Carolina, and a judge therein, I got a substance-abuse assessment (moderate) before appearing in court. I wound up in court because North Carolina law-enforcement officials saw fit to arrest me. Twice. On consecutive days. I've seen more of the inside of correctional institutions there than I have cared to, including an overnight stay, also to satisfy the court. The food didn't quite meet my normal standards, but sustenance nonetheless. I can't say much for the decor, either. Bland, decrepit. Uncomfortable bed. And the bars, of the iron variety, as opposed to the booze-serving variety. The entire alcohol-fueled circumstances leading to my arrest cost me a fair amount of money and inconvenience. Especially since they seized my vehicle (eventually returned). On the other hand, having drunk about 95% less since December, I've accrued some money that I otherwise wouldn't have. With respect to the legal aspects of my situation, I did everything right after the initial colossal fuck-ups. I gave the police no shit. Got a respectable lawyer. Had my substance-abuse assessment. Showed up for court dressed relatively nicely, as opposed to my co-miscreants in the judicial complex. They committed drug crimes, theft, blah, blah. Fortunately, a number of people failed to show up for their court dates, the same day as mine, which enabled the proceedings to move along somewhat more quickly. Nevertheless, my case was but one of about 60 that day, if I recall correctly. In one little North Carolina courthouse. So what does that say? That I'm not unique in my fucked-upness. Far from it. To wit, gaining admittance to my friendly neighborhood detox center poses somewhat of a challenge. Some of that stems from most being Medicaid patients. They more happily accept people with private insurance, which I have. So I didn't encounter the same degree of difficulty, or, rather, the same wait, as did others. A bit of a tiered system exists, as in anything, I guess, which brings me back to North Carolina. My lawyer met privately with the judge before he heard my case. Upon briefing me of the situation, my attorney said, "He doesn't give a rat's ass about the details of your case, he just cares about who you are. He wants to know who's going to win the election." That would be the presidential election. I hedged my bets, figuring Clinton likely had the edge while also allowing for the groundswell of support that eventually favored Trump. Why would he care about who I am and not the details of my case? Because I have a job that provides access beyond the reach of most people. People with whom I've attended subsequent group sessions for substance abusers of various stripes took exception to that kind of treatment, which I understand. But I didn't consider turning it down. Justice ain't completely blind. But I've put a lot of time in getting where I am, fucked-upness aside, so it worked in my favor in this case. They even dropped the marijuana charge. Rationalization works wonders, but when confronted with such a situation, I took the advice of my lawyer and utilized my assets. I couldn't control the judge's reaction, but a bad situation resulted in the best possible outcome, even with incarceration.       
On the inside. Maw Maw sort of fulfilled the role of elder stateswoman, though I think I might be older. Maw Maw is an African-American woman with an infectious laugh. I think she preferred crack and alcohol. She had a seizure on my first night, and in came the emergency responders to cart her off to the hospital. Maw Maw bore little resemblance, at least physically, to Maw Maw from "Raising Hope." Our Maw Maw stood about five feet nothing. She provided some good moments of levity. For example, when a young girl recounted a story, deemed credible by few, about having been beaten by her grandmother, I think, Maw Maw opined: "That's sooome kinda ass whoopin'." Despite being in group and, on the surface, the ostensible inexcusability of such behavior (the beating), had it occurred, I cracked up. I suppose that speaks to the credibility, or lack thereof, of the story. That girl had an overbearing way about her, so I think we all had tired of hearing it. Maw Maw, in her way, crystallized it. She also reacted to one of my observations with such hysteria that I thought she might be having another seizure. I came across Mark, a young Asian guy undergoing heroin withdrawal and one of my final-night roommates, on his bed in our room with his torso more or less flat on the mattress and his ass stuck high in the air, At first I didn't know what to make of it. I thought perhaps he was praying, but upon closer observation, he was comatose--in deep sleep, that is. So I later observed to him, in Maw Maw's presence, that I thought he might be praying like a Muslim. That observation apparently struck Maw Maw as the funniest she had ever heard. Hence my confusion as to whether another seizure had visited her, bent over in hysterics as she was.
So there it is, a partial account of my most recent holiday at the institution of my choice. I don't care to return, though part of me feels at home there. I haven't been perfect since I left, but I've been more perfect than before I went in. My after-care program, well, I'll get into that at some other time. But I haven't completely divorced myself from the fucked-up people. My kind.