I was really hoping that tomorrow (Day 3) I could get out of detox. No such luck. One more day at least until I can graduate to a regular room, doctor’s orders, but they do want to try to start me with some counselling (concentration permitting – not my forté at the moment).
My brain is a freaking pinball machine and the closest I can come to describe my headache is as though I’ve hit my head on an anvil then rolled onto a butcher knife, which lodged itself somewhere in between my eyes, while someone is repeatedly punching me at the base of my skull with brass knuckles. And, let’s not forget the vertigo and kick drums in my ears.
I have lots of reading to do but can’t imagine focusing on the words. I keep closing my eyes while typing this hoping the butcher knife will fall out for just 2 seconds. I’m getting super sensitive to light and I’m not sure if that’s normal withdrawal symptoms or just the headache / migraine / anvil collision.
I’m going to go crawl back into the stale detox room now, because the mosquitos are too brutal. The little bastards are attacking me from every angle like bad memories.
I keep swatting at them but they keep coming back to bite me.
I’m actually looking forward to counselling, despite my gut fear of talking and opening up – in person, to an actual human sitting across from me expecting eye contact. Typing is absolutely no problem for me. I can sit here with the biggest pregnant pause and no one will ever notice. In person, it becomes an ever growing elephant waiting for a peanut…and I’m never certain I have any in my pockets.
But, to actually talk about this. The root of this. Maybe, one day, anyhow. I am still very aware that there are two distinct parts to all of this – the alcohol, and the glass. It’s that glass I’ve been carrying around with me the last 30 years that I’m interested in understanding. The alcohol has just been there to fill it up, and now that too is a disease.
That stupid empty cup, weighing me down and looking for fulfillment.
It was only 10 days ago I committed to taking that 40 year bandage off to finally look at the wound.
I’m ready to start picking at the scab.
As terrified as I am, I’m ready to start bleeding.