Söbriety • Mötley Crüe •

1. Rehab

Warnings: Mentions of Previous Drug Use

JANUARY 1988

Ryan's POV

Everything is so fucking white.

The walls, the tile floor, the heavy doors that lock automatically when they close, the furniture, the beds, literally everything.

Whose idea was it to make everything white in rehab centers when everyone is sick here? Everything is liable to get barfed on at any given moment. I bet the janitors hate it here. I bet they don't get paid well either.

I swear all rehabs look the same. The same white washed decor. The same bland paintings on the wall that are supposed to inspire positivity and happiness. Like a painting with a small girl holding a balloon on the beach, why? Is the balloon supposed to represent her happiness and that shes in control of her own happiness, because she holds the string to it? I've seen the exact same painting in two rehabs.

You just have a problem with balloons.

The same expressionless nurses. The same patients with a look of wonder and despair on their faces. We're all sick. We all shake so bad that we can't hold a cup of water. We're all just waiting to die. We're all talking to the same mouse-brown haired counselor with the pad of paper in her lap and the glasses that won't stay on top of her nose so she constantly has to push them up.

"Ryan?"

Oh, shit. I snap out of my thoughts and look at the droopy glasses on my counselor.

"I'm sorry." I whisper.

"How are you feeling?" She tries to smile to make me more comfortable.

How am I feeling? I'm stuck in a sea of white when all I feel is black. I don't hold the string to my balloon. Somebody cut it a long time ago. I don't even have a fucking balloon anymore.

"I haven't thrown up today, so I guess that's a start."

"That's good to hear, the second week seems to be better for most people. The drugs are getting out of your system and your detox is almost over."

I've been in here a fucking week already? It seems like just yesterday I was being shipped from the hospital to here. I guess between crying, barfing, and shitting, I lost track of time. Oh my God, I missed Christmas. I really spent my Christmas laying in a hospital bed withdrawing. Have I missed New Years?

"Uh, yeah. Hopefully the worst of it is over." I sigh. I need a fix. I don't even want to be here. "What day is it?"

"It's January 2nd." Welp, missed New Years. She looks at me quizzically. "Are you alright? Do you not know what day it is?"

Shit, don't let her think you're totally insane.

"No I, uh, just didn't know if it was the 2nd or the 3rd." I poorly lie.

"Are you sleeping okay? You seem very disoriented and far away. You know it's very common to have insomnia when withdrawing from opiates. I could give you something to help you sleep."

My eyes lit up at that last part.

Rehab is a game. You get stuck here because of the law, or trying to make someone else happy. You go through 30 or 60 days just so people will get off your back when you get out, and you can go back to doing what you please in peace. The objective is to make your stay less shitty by having the counselors and doctors give you "needed" meds for your withdrawal. You fake extreme anxiety or insomnia so you can get a Xanax or a Valium. You make yourself barf to get Phenergan. Not exactly what you want to use, but it makes the stay more pleasant. You put on your best fake smile and throw a pity party talking about how shitty your life is, so they think you're opening up and on the road to recovery.