waningrhetoric
Greenlighter
- Joined
- Oct 30, 2010
- Messages
- 32
The one detox experience I had was horrible, though I'm sure there are far better ones. When I first got there, they grumbled at me about being there without calling first (even though they told me to just show up when I called earlier in the week) and locked me in what was exactly like a jail cell, nothing but a bare cot and a metal toilet. They promised I only had to be in there for 2 hours "for observation", but they forgot about me until 8 hours later. 8 dopesick hours on a cold, cement floor, with painted brick walls and the hundred most depressing shades of tan and offwhite. No books allowed, no music, no sleep, nothing.
They eventually transferred me to the regular room, but refused me any pills until I was well past the 24 hour mark. When they passed everyone's pills out, they gave me a fucking multivitamin. Throughout the day I eventually got 2 trazadone, 2 klonodines and 5 librium out of them after some confrontation and near-begging, but the only symptoms they helped were the runny nose and watery eyes. I don't "look like" a junkie I guess, so I often get responses akin to the eyeroll I got from the guy at the HIV Alliance who grumbled at me, "we only offer tests to at-risk populations" when I try to get help. My experience probably would have been a lot better if I'd been allowed enough drugs to actually sleep, like everyone else. I advise you to look as pathetic as you possibly can. Though I'm not sure what more evidence of my suffering I could have offered them aside from my shaking, shaking under two blankets in the chair nearest the bathroom I visited every few minutes, inability to eat, sneezing/yawning, paleness, saucer pupils and watering eyes... I heard if you puked in your room and showed it to them, they'd give you pills.
They dragged us out of our rooms at 7am for breakfast, made us sit through AA meetings they brought in, the sci-fi enthusiast harbored the remote control the whole time, and this scary Mexican meth addict/alcoholic (not that they're all scary) with tracks covering the parts of his neck the bad tattoos didn't, wouldn't stop blatantly hitting on me and said dirty things about me when I left. They tried to make me eat me and wouldn't let me wear my own socks. They watched my phone conversations. There was only one women's bathroom so I couldn't just sit in the shower and the rugs were always wet. I bonded over a several common interests (Elliott Smith and Velvet Underground especially) a little with the only person I found worth it and willing to talk to, but he turned out to be a scary creep.
I lasted two days there. After hours of listening to their grief and lectures and filling out their paperwork, they finally gave me my clothes and let me leave "against medical advice", letting me know I wouldn't be welcome back if I tried to come again. I was fine with that. I just finished kicking at home. I really hope this type of treatment isn't terribly common...
I really hope for the best for you. I can't pretend to know exactly how you feel, but I don't quite have the will to survive that all other creatures seem to possess. I actually attempted a couple of months ago, but ended up buying bunk dope for the first time ever (and from the same reliable dealer I'd been going to for almost two years without incident). The feeling came about halfway through my work shift. Out of nowhere, I switched to self destruct mode and within 5 minutes of thinking of it, I was walking out the front door with $200 from the register in my pocket (which I would never do if I expected to be alive the next day). I casually greeted one of my managers in the parking lot who was arriving as I left, bought enough (of what I thought was) heroin to kill a horse, drove out to the middle of nowhere, and did it all in one shot. I can't even begin to explain the awful feeling I got when I realized it wasn't really dope. Or the insult to injury when then the car wouldn't start... It turns out my dealer's guy was thrown in jail the day prior and she didn't get another good hookup until the day after, so I chose the only wrong day to try to OD.
My parents tried to have me admitted in the psych. ward at the hospital, but they wouldn't take me. Once again, I wasn't taken seriously. They heard "addict" and assumed I'd stolen money from work to get high and made up this elaborate story as a cover-up. I spent 6 hours alone in a fluorescent white little room debunking several psych. evaluators' assumptions and waiting, waiting, waiting, before they let me go with a list of local million-dollar rehabs. Real helpful. Thanks, guys.
I wish I could honestly tell you I've been glad it was a failed attempt and that I'm still alive, but I'm not quite there yet. Hang in there, though.
(sorry for being so long-winded)
They eventually transferred me to the regular room, but refused me any pills until I was well past the 24 hour mark. When they passed everyone's pills out, they gave me a fucking multivitamin. Throughout the day I eventually got 2 trazadone, 2 klonodines and 5 librium out of them after some confrontation and near-begging, but the only symptoms they helped were the runny nose and watery eyes. I don't "look like" a junkie I guess, so I often get responses akin to the eyeroll I got from the guy at the HIV Alliance who grumbled at me, "we only offer tests to at-risk populations" when I try to get help. My experience probably would have been a lot better if I'd been allowed enough drugs to actually sleep, like everyone else. I advise you to look as pathetic as you possibly can. Though I'm not sure what more evidence of my suffering I could have offered them aside from my shaking, shaking under two blankets in the chair nearest the bathroom I visited every few minutes, inability to eat, sneezing/yawning, paleness, saucer pupils and watering eyes... I heard if you puked in your room and showed it to them, they'd give you pills.
They dragged us out of our rooms at 7am for breakfast, made us sit through AA meetings they brought in, the sci-fi enthusiast harbored the remote control the whole time, and this scary Mexican meth addict/alcoholic (not that they're all scary) with tracks covering the parts of his neck the bad tattoos didn't, wouldn't stop blatantly hitting on me and said dirty things about me when I left. They tried to make me eat me and wouldn't let me wear my own socks. They watched my phone conversations. There was only one women's bathroom so I couldn't just sit in the shower and the rugs were always wet. I bonded over a several common interests (Elliott Smith and Velvet Underground especially) a little with the only person I found worth it and willing to talk to, but he turned out to be a scary creep.
I lasted two days there. After hours of listening to their grief and lectures and filling out their paperwork, they finally gave me my clothes and let me leave "against medical advice", letting me know I wouldn't be welcome back if I tried to come again. I was fine with that. I just finished kicking at home. I really hope this type of treatment isn't terribly common...
I really hope for the best for you. I can't pretend to know exactly how you feel, but I don't quite have the will to survive that all other creatures seem to possess. I actually attempted a couple of months ago, but ended up buying bunk dope for the first time ever (and from the same reliable dealer I'd been going to for almost two years without incident). The feeling came about halfway through my work shift. Out of nowhere, I switched to self destruct mode and within 5 minutes of thinking of it, I was walking out the front door with $200 from the register in my pocket (which I would never do if I expected to be alive the next day). I casually greeted one of my managers in the parking lot who was arriving as I left, bought enough (of what I thought was) heroin to kill a horse, drove out to the middle of nowhere, and did it all in one shot. I can't even begin to explain the awful feeling I got when I realized it wasn't really dope. Or the insult to injury when then the car wouldn't start... It turns out my dealer's guy was thrown in jail the day prior and she didn't get another good hookup until the day after, so I chose the only wrong day to try to OD.
My parents tried to have me admitted in the psych. ward at the hospital, but they wouldn't take me. Once again, I wasn't taken seriously. They heard "addict" and assumed I'd stolen money from work to get high and made up this elaborate story as a cover-up. I spent 6 hours alone in a fluorescent white little room debunking several psych. evaluators' assumptions and waiting, waiting, waiting, before they let me go with a list of local million-dollar rehabs. Real helpful. Thanks, guys.
I wish I could honestly tell you I've been glad it was a failed attempt and that I'm still alive, but I'm not quite there yet. Hang in there, though.
(sorry for being so long-winded)
