The weekend begins.

Detox is a lonely place.  There is too much time for introspection.  I tried not to evaluate myself too harshly.  I was chemically unbalanced, I told myself.  I needed to just focus on sobriety and nothing else and I could get better.  This is easier said than done.  I tried to let my mind drift; not to focus on any one thing, because if I did, I would get the butterflies. Dinner came but there was nothing I could eat.  I briefly thought about taking a shower, but it simply seemed like too much effort.  The hours went by, the meds and the ice cream went down.  Eventually I found myself alone in the TV room; everyone else had gone to sleep.  It was 2 AM and I was approaching the 48 hour mark.  I thought I felt a little better physically, but the anxiety created by the mess I was in was eating at me.  I went to the nurses' station.  'Hey John, can I get some more Librium?  I'm really struggling here.'  He looked at me.  'Russ, you've been getting 50 milligrams every three hours since you got here. (Really? I thought).  Let's try to stretch this out for another hour.'  I looked at him in silence, then turned and walked back into the TV room.  I put my head in my hands and waited.  Exactly one hour later, I received my meds and crawled into bed.

I was surprised that when I opened my eyes, it was morning.  I had actually slept for a few hours.  Encouraging, I thought.  Heading into day three, I had a short burst of energy.  I took a shower.  I even thought about shaving, but that seemed way to difficult.  I felt...better.  A bit.  But enough to give me some confidence.  I went to the nurses' station to get some medication, but this time there was only one green and white capsule in the cup.  I looked up.  'I think I get fifty,' I said.  The nurse on duty said, 'Your orders have you at twenty-five now.  Let's see how you do with that.'  I made it to three hours before I felt like shit.  I must be getting better, I thought.