Friday, January 23rd

9:30am. I feel… what? Resigned to my fate…? Cautiously optomistic…? I don’t know what I feel. Although I imagine I’ll figure it out, as my Councilor friend, Rich is determined to break me down into a sobbing mess every time I see him. Man, this guy’s ruthless. Our first few sit-downs went something like this; “Tell me, Mark… do you feel like your father paid enough attention to you, growing up?” “I dunno, Rich. Tell me… are you sure you’ve got the right folder in front of you? Because I’m here for a drinking problem.” Rich tells me we’ll come back to it. I believe him.

I haven’t had a drink in over a week. To some, this might not seem like an incredible feat. To me, it’s pretty substantial. I wasn’t a daily drinker, like so many of my peers. That’s why I’m better than them. I’m kidding, Rich. Anyway, I wasn’t drinking every day, but if you caught me on the third day… Well, you wouldn’t catch me then actually, the blinds would be pulled and I wouldn’t be answering my phone. The point is, with a lot of help, I’ve broken that cycle. I’ve seen two 3 day spans, and I’m clean. So far so good, but again my optomism is cautious. Things could revert back pretty quickly. (…And on the 9th Day, Mark pulled a fire alarm to create a diversion and ran down the hill to the mini-mart in his slippers.)

3:45pm. Something’s happening… not only to me, but to some of the people around me. I’m not sure if it’s good, but it’s tangible. We’re realizing it’s a lot easier to join ‘em. Today we had ‘Activities with Brian’. This had, up until now, been my last pocket of resistance. Together with a few other brave Outliers, I had managed to offer the bare minimum and go relatively unnoticed. ‘Activities’ is all about team-building. And should I ever need to put together a kick-ass Duck Duck Goose squad, Brian’s the guy I’d go to. Barring that, I’d pretty much decided I’m not here for fun and games and had no use for such things. In that tradition, I was sitting around a table this afternoon with a few of my Buds (Including Flo, who is my boy. I hang with all the time. Taught me how to throw bones. That’s “play dominoes”, for Gene, and the rest of you) Well, my Pals and I, we’re not happy. We’ve been tasked with making colorful pictures, depicting our sobriety. The best ones will get hung on the wall. Seriously? A bunch of grown men are supposed to cut up construction paper and glue it to still more construction paper …With the hopes that maybe, just maybe, they’ll be showcased for all the World to see…? Please. I wanted no part of it, and was making my feelings known. This lasted for about 20 minutes. Then I started feeling like mine was beginning to look pretty good. The table had grown quiet. I looked around at the other guys. Flo had his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he labored over what I guessed was an oragami snowflake. Donnie Osmond and Johnny Guns were fighting over the gluestick. Donnie: “C’mon Dude. We only got 35 minutes left and these spots are’t gonna stick themselves on the giraffe!” Johnny Guns: “Don’t know what to tell you man, I need it. Bring it up in Group.”

6:00pm. I have to write a poem. Yep, you guessed it. For tomorrow’s ‘Activity’. I’m going to take a little time with it this time around. My picture did not make it up on the wall. Johnny Guns’ offering got selected from our table. Go figure. He had the fucking glue stick the whole time. So, I’ve got to nail this one, and it’s not really my forte. Here’s what I’ve got so far. It’s only the first draft, so bear with me.  RECOVERY. You may have to listen. I don’t scream out loud. I’m not very boisterous, sarcastic or proud. I won’t sneak through your window. Or knock down your door. Though I’m competing with voices that did all this, and more. I won’t force myself on you. I can’t even try. I can only wait quietly, watch while you die. I beg you to look for me yet sadly I know, in order to find meyou’ll have to let go. I can’t be your lover, your husband, your wife… My hands are outstretched, come take back your life.

10:00pm. Alright, I’m turning in. I’ll work on this more tomorrow. I’m feeling pretty good, though. I just went by Johnny Guns’ room. His poem sucks. I’m pretty sure he pocketed the gluestick however, so by class time I’m sure it’ll be all covered with glitter and confetti. I wonder if they’re having pancakes again tomorrow. The food is good here. 

Friday, January 16th– 1:15pm. I’m on a semi-circle couch, sitting quietly. Except for the sound of my fingers drumming on the full-circle table in front of me. TOBACCO PRODUCTS OF ANY KIND ARE STRICTLY PROHIBITTED. This is unexpected and may just be a deal-breaker. I mean, I realize where I am. I didn’t imagine I’d have a burner dangling from my cafeteria table so I could rip a few drags before pudding. But I sure wasn’t planning on this, either. Glad I stopped at the Reservation and picked up a carton on the way here. Wonder how many of them I could pile through in the next five minutes.

1:25. There are, what I’m guessing is two sisters on the other semi-circle. They’re both sort of crying and laughing and hugging. But every couple of minutes one of them drops out of the whole routine to stare blankly at the  wall. She stares hard, like she wonders what it tastes like. I’ve gotta think she’s the one that’s going to be sticking around here for awhile.

3:30pm. Okay. They’ve relieved me of my ipod, laptop, books, WALLET, phone, mouthwash (In case I decided to drink it), Gold Bond powder (In case, I decided to snort it. No shit.)  and my Q-tips. Don’t ask me… I realized protest was futile. Up until this point, I was feeling like I could pull the plug at any time. That would now be difficult, and this is all seeming very real. Final. Sure, I could still walk out of here, but how far am I really going to get without my  mouthwash or Gold Bond? Let alone my phone, wallet and car keys. I guess it’s official. I’m in rehab. Jesus Christ. How the hell did things things get to this point…? That’s probably a subject better left for another day, but Jesus… Rehab?

6pm. My roommate thinks I’m soft. I know he does. He’s in here for pills. Maybe heroin. Used to sell em too, I’ll bet. He’s dressed in low-riding sweats, and a wife-beater. (I know, I don’t care for this term either, and wouldn’t have used it here, did it not so clearly paint the picture.) His name is Flow, or maybe he spells it Flo. I’m not sure, but If you’re thinking the waitress from Mel’s Diner, put it out of your mind. This Flo might be capable of bad bad things. And he’s sizing me up. I’ve got like six inches and a hundred pounds on him. He must see this. Still, he didn’t blink when he dropped my hand and said “Better not fuckin’ snore.” (*Note to self. 1. Don’t snore. 2. Practice detaching metal roll bar from side of bed and swinging blindly in the dark.) I’ve already seen Flo’s got some clout on the Cell Block. The other guys don’t mess with him. Unlike Gene, who gets slapped in the head and puple nurpled the moment he leaves the Nurse’s Station. Gene’s my Buddy. Everybody gets assigned a Buddy upon arrival. I got Gene. Dammit. I am still not sure if someone matched me n Gene up because they thought we were of the same mold, or if Gene picked me out, hoping it might turn into a My Bodyguard type of arraingement. Either way, it’s not working out and I plan on ditching him as soon as I can. It’s not personal, and I appreciate the effort… But I’m in an institution now. I can’t afford to have a friend like Gene. There’s a pecking Order. Yes, Flo’s cooler than me. Understood. But I’m definitely cooler than Gene. I don’t make the rules.

10pm. Almost time for lights out. First half day under my belt. 27 and a half to go. I can’t believe I’m here. It’s not really like I thought it would be. I don’t know what I’d thought it would be. I keep thinking I could have stopped boozing if I just took the AA Meetings a little more seriously. Those guys gave me their phone numbers like half a dozen times and I never used them. I guess it doesn’t matter now. Wow. Rehab… Jesus.