Twenty-four hours in...

Later that morning, I was lying in bed in that semi-conscious limbo that alcoholics are usually in.  The myth is that alcoholics drink, then pass out for hours. The truth is that when I was drinking heavily, I rarely slept.  I perfected a way of lying in bed for hours, perfectly still, sweating, but not quite asleep.  It was horrible.  Once, when my ex-wife and I were separated, she came back to the house to retrieve some things. I was in bed, heard her enter, and decided to get up.  She came into the room to find me standing near the closet, shook her head in disgust, and walked over to the bed.  'Oh my god, Russ, can you please wash the sheets?  Better yet, burn them.'  I went over to see what the problem was.  There, on the fitted sheet, was a perfectly shaped green outline of my body formed from mildew or mold of some sort.  It was like the Shroud of Turin.  I hadn't even noticed. But I did notice that the other side of the bed looked clean.  I made a mental note.

There was a knock on the door, and someone entered. 'Mr. Jackson, the treatment team would like to see you.'  I looked at my watch.  11 AM. I hadn't had a drink in twenty-four hours.  I was also due for some more Librium.  'OK, I'm just going to stop by the nurses' station for my meds and I'll be right down.'  'No, the treatment team will see you first.  It will only take a few minutes, seeing that you just got here last night.'  I reluctantly agreed, got out of bed, splashed some water on my face, and headed down the hall, feeling a bit sick and woozy.  The treatment team consisted of a physician, a social worker, and a intern.  I entered the office and sat in the empty chair and looked at each one of them in turn.  The physician, a woman, addressed me first.  'Hello, Mr. Jackson.  Nice to see you again.  You did the right thing by coming back.'  For once, I had to agree with her.