Admission - Day 1

"In the last 30 days have you had thoughts of hurting yourself?”
No I’m here because I want to live.
“In the last 30 days have you had thoughts of harming others?”
No, I only hurt myself
“There seems to be a disconnect in your answers.”
That’s fitting as there is certainly a disconnect in me, Can I have something to eat?

The intake process was what I had been told to expect only with more interruptions. Given my late arrival the majority of the staff had already gone home for the evening. The only person left to facilitate my paperwork was also in charge of managing all other functions that keep the center open. This included patient requests.

“Can I get something to eat?”
“Can we smoke now?”
“I took his meds about 4 hours ago, I think that I was given the wrong pills.”

The social hierarchy was reminiscent of a converted gymnasium basketball court on prom night. The ones who had been here multiple times before were the popular kids, the A-list. They knew all the ins and outs, when to sneak out into the trees, when they could make an unsupervised telephone call, exactly where to eavesdrop on the admission interview of new patients.

The chatter of myna birds could be heard as soon as I arrived. It was so rapid in its proliferation that I couldn’t determine who was the origin. It didn’t matter. I just had to assume that everyone knew the details of my admission interview.

My intake was processed by an elderly woman, Patricia, maybe late 60s in age. She reminded me of my great grandmother, the only grandmother I liked. Her hands looked soft and weathered yet hard as a thimble, a balance I’m sure proved beneficial in such an environment. It was clear that nothing in life came easy for her.

“What’s a part of you that you would consider an asset?
I don’t know how to answer that question.
“You can’t name one good thing about yourself? It could be anything.”
I don’t know myself. It’s been so long since I’ve been sober.
“How many times have you been admitted to a detox facility in the last year?
I’ve never been admitted before in my life.
“Treatment programs?”
No.
“You mean to tell me this is the first time you’ve needed help in 25 years?”
I’ve needed help since I was a child, but I could never ask for it. Needing help is a sign of weakness.
“Do you still see it as such?”
Very much so.
“So why ask for help now?”
Because my weaknesses are all I have left anymore.
“I hope that we can help you.”
Me too.

The interview was over. She offered me a meatball sandwich that she’d set aside from when dinner was being served. I devoured it without breathing and promptly thanked her. She smiled as if she were trying to hide it.

She placed a bag in front of me with a large locking zipper. I was told to place my cell phone and any other valuables into the bag. This was partially to prevent theft but largely because cell phone use was strictly forbidden while in the program. I also put my wallet and mobile batteries into the bag before taking the key.

I was then shown to my room. I’m not sure what I had expected when she opened the door to room A213. Inside there was four old twin sized hospital beds, all the same vintage but dramatically different designs. They were arranged in a way that resembled a misshapen E from a toddlers workbook on the alphabet. In the room there were no right angles and everything was coated in plastic.

The far wall was composed entirely of windows and looked out into the densely forested hillside. Every shade of green was represented. I could see a small lizard scale the sheer incline of the plexiglas and dart into a dark recess in the corner of the room.

It wasn’t glamorous by any means, but I didn’t care. There was a flat surface with a pillow near an outlet and that’s all I cared about. I thanked Patricia yet again and politely informed her that I would be retiring for the evening. I wrote for an hour before my eyes became heavy and I had to sleep.