time to roll

So, the treatment team had diligently researched and recommended a sure-fire solution to my problem.  'You need long term care,' they had told me. 'You have been drinking for many years and it will take you some time to fix your chemical imbalance as well as your thought patterns. Your best chance of success centers around your commitment to in-patient rehabilitation.  There is a six week dual diagnosis program at another veteran's hospital that we feel you would benefit from.  Would you be willing to consider this as your next step?'  The social worker looked at me.  'It takes a long time to walk into the forest, realize that it will take a long time to walk out,' she said brightly.  I stared at her until she cleared her throat and resumed writing on her notes.  'Let me think for a minute,' I replied. 

Six weeks.  Probably seven hours of individual and group therapy a day, maybe a little less on the weekends.  Clive Cussler paperbacks.  Bingo, compliments of the Daughters of the American Revolution.   Three hots and a cot.  I knew I needed another barrier, something to physically stand in the way of my next drink.  This seemed to fit the bill as well as anything I could think of, and besides, I had no place else to go.  I would do it.  'Sure,' I had said.  'Excellent.  We have already called the facility and they will have a bed ready for you on the tenth.  Where will you be staying in the meantime?'   I looked at my watch.  It was the twenty-fourth.  My bed was seventeen days away.  I began to panic.  'I have no place to go,'  I said.  'Can I stay here?  If I leave, I don't think I can stay sober for seventeen days and I'm afraid that if I drink, I'm gonna die.  Please.'  'I'm sorry, but you won't be able to stay here,' I was told.  'Medically, there is no reason for us to keep you.  How about the veteran's homeless shelter for a couple of weeks.  Have you considered that as an option?'  I hadn't.  I mean, I knew about the place, but I hadn't considered it.  Barracks-style sleeping with old metal bunk beds, awful smells, loud snoring. Crummy food, mental illness, fighting, substance abuse.  All your shit gets crammed into a stand-up locker.  I put my head into my hands, defeated.  It's a good thing I don't have a lot of shit, I thought.

I picked up my phone for the tenth time.  The battery icon was half full.  I had to get a ride to the shelter, and the only person I could think to call was my girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend.  I didn't know. I punched in the number and she answered.  'Hello, Russ,' she said.  'What is it now?'