Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“Yes.” I grasped at the straw, eager to finish out my stay.
“It’s Monday,” she said, recovering from her revelation with finesse.
“The first thing I’m gonna do is go out for a cheeseburger,” I said.
She laughed. “I know the food here is a little…”
“Substandard?” I supplied.
“Industrial,” she countered.
“Do they feed you guys the same food?”
She shook her head. “We can buy it if we want, but I bring lunch from home.”
“You mean they make you spend your own money on that crap?” I was appalled, beyond coming up with things to make the conversation last longer.
She laughed again. “Well, I don’t think they consider it ‘crap.’”
When she left to continue her rounds, I had a lot to think about. I went back to my own room but found my roommate hosting a game of cards on his cot. There were three other patients crowded around, one of them sitting on my bunk. I went back to the arts and crafts area to clean up my pastels.
Monday was four days away. That meant I had four days guaranteed with Gina and only a short time left to make sure I was ready for the real world. I went to the nurses’ station to ask if I could make a phone call. They told me the call would be recorded, just to ensure I wasn’t placing an order with my dealer. I had to log each number with my name, the date, time, and my signature. After jumping through all their hoops, I put in a phone call to Mr. Matthews to let him know about my release date and to ask about my job.
“The job is still here. I said I would hold it for you, and I’m holding it,” he answered.
I called my landlord to tell her that I would be moving back on Monday. I held my breath throughout the entire phone call, expecting her to say they had to hire a hazmat crew to clean up after me, but no such crisis. She told me I was already paid up for another two months, so there was no problem.
I called Mike and talked to him until the stink eye from a nurse chased me away. He was pleased that I was coming home and, typical for him, optimistic about my chances at staying clean this time. He insisted that I come over for a cookout as soon as I was able and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I agreed after a lot of back-and-forth and then excused myself to go play video games.
One of the social workers came to find me later with a laundry list of things I had to accomplish before I was released. I had to sit with a therapist one-on-one to create a crisis plan that I would take with me when I left. The crisis plan would have phone numbers I could call and people I could reach out to if I found myself craving the high again. I had to pass a physical and talk to a peer counselor about my living situation.
A lot of people moved from the inpatient facility to a halfway house, where they still had direct access to counselors and social workers. I was moving out on my own, so there were all kinds of boxes they wanted checked before I left. Did I have a place to live? Did I have a support system? Did I have friends that weren’t users? Did I have a job? Yes to all four, but it had to be documented in triplicate and signed before I would be able to leave.
“How would you feel about having your employer come by?” the social worker asked.
I frowned. I liked Old Man Matthews. I couldn’t ask for a better boss, but the fewer people who saw me in this place, the better.
“I really think it might help create a bridge between where you are now and where you need to be,” the young man continued.
“Okay,” I relented.
We got on the phone together and called Mr. Matthews back. This time there was no protocol to follow and no stink-eyed nurse to chase us away.
Mr. Matthews got back on the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me again,” I started. “You’re on speakerphone. I’m here with my social worker…”
“Sean Patrick,” the young man supplied. “Yes, I’m working with Mr. Hayes. He tells me you have a job waiting for him.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Matthews confirmed.
“I wondered if you might be available to come by and talk to us about Porter’s goals. I’m not asking you to take any kind of responsibility for him. Just having an ally in his daily life would be enough.”
I widened my eyes at the guy, wishing that he didn’t have to be so dramatic. I didn’t need an “ally,” and I sure as shit didn’t need Mr. Matthews taking any kind of parental interest in me. But I shut my mouth and went along with it. The problem with hitting rock bottom is that you need help climbing up. And with help came vulnerability. It was a hard pill to swallow.