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.
I've become an expert at this game. I've been in enough rehabs to perfect it.
"Yeah.. I haven't been sleeping very well lately. I don't know if it's all the noises or what, but I'm only getting like two hours a night." I blatantly lie, knowing damn well I sleep a good seven hours a night. If I could get a Valium or a Xanax that would make this so much more bearable.
"Okay, I'll give Sara a new prescription to give you during her nightly medicine rounds. It should help, but I need you to start opening up more, Ryan. This is the most you've said to me and I've seen you three times."
See? They want you to open up so they feel like they're doing something productive with their lives. I find it highly annoying when people pretend to give a shit. Like Dr. Mouse would give two shits about me if I wasn't paying her salary in this over priced, over white piece of shit. But she seems like she'll be easy enough to play.
"I'm sorry, I'm just not great at talking about myself." I chuckle.
"Do you think that might be what got you here in the first place?" Irritation is building in my gut already and weve just started talking.
"I don't know. I think it's a good thing I'm not narcissistic."
"It's not narcissistic to talk about your feelings, Ryan. That's an interesting point of view."
"Well, it's worked for me so far."
"I don't think you doing a court ordered stint in rehab, because you were found with almost a pound of heroin in your trunk while you were unconscious in the front seat of your car can be classified as working for you."
Ouch.
I stay silent for a few moments, eventually coming to the realization that if I want a fix I'm going to have to keep playing.
"Yeah, you're right. It's not working for me. It's just hard to get my mind in a 'recovery zone' when I'm so tired." She looks at me sympathetically. Bingo. She will be easy.
"Well, we will continue with this tomorrow. Hopefully you'll sleep better and be in a 'recovery zone' after you get your new prescription." I can hear the sarcasm in her voice. "It's almost dinner time, you can go."
I smile at her in hopes she'll see me as the perfect patient who just needs her help to become a functioning member of society.
"Thank you, Dr. Levinsky. I look forward to getting to work with you after I get some much needed rest."
Lay it on thick.
Her lips curl into a smile and she looks in my eyes, trying to figure out if I'm full of shit or not.
I am.
"Me too. Have a good night."
I leave the obnoxiously white room and continue into the obnoxiously white hallway in hopes of dinner being ready in the cafeteria. For the first time in months, maybe years, I'm hungry.
A deep feeling of dread makes me feel like my stomach is about to fall out of my ass. This is my fifth rehab center. Will I ever get better? Do I want to get better? I really don't know. I don't know why it's anybody's business what I do in my own time. I'm not hurting anyone. Just myself, so who cares? I've already pushed away everybody I cared about, which wasn't very many to begin with. Being a foster kid bouncing from house to house and school to school doesn't really leave much room to make friends. I never learned how to be a friend, I never learned how to be a good person. What's the point in learning now? I've already fucked everything up. Do I really want to piece it all back together when I'm most likely just going to fuck it all up again?
Ryan McAllister: The Girl Who Fucks Everything Up
I'm torn from my thoughts when a blue flash whizzes by my face. I squint my eyes as I see the blue blob that was once in the air, on the floor. I push my glasses up on my face so I can see a little bit better.
You just made fun of the counselor for the same thing, hypocrite.
I realize the blue blob is the big book of AA. Who would disrespect the big book by throwing it like that, in a rehab no less?
Somebody with big balls.
"Sorry! Sorry!" A tall, skinny, curly headed mess of a man runs up behind me as I'm staring at the book. I study the man in front of me.
Yeah, he probably has big balls.
"You almost hit me in the face." I stare at him. He's kind of cute, in a puppy dog kind of way. He smiles at me as he picks the book up off the ground.
"Yeah, man, I'm sorry. I'm Tommy." He reaches his hand out to shake mine. He seems like somebody who might make this court ordered stay a little more fun.
"I'm Ryan." I smile and shake his hand.
"Are you going to dinner?" He points in the direction of the cafeteria and I nod.
"Yeah, do you know what we're having?"
"I think spaghetti and meatballs. I dunno, dude." He chuckles. I can tell he's staring at me out of the corner of my eye. I don't know how to politely tell him he's barking up the wrong tree.
"Ugh. I don't like spaghetti."
"Who doesn't like spaghetti? What the fuck?" He abruptly stops walking and looks at me like I grew a second head. I laugh at his dumbfounded look and he continues to stare at me like he wants an answer to his question.
"Oh, um, I don't like tomatoes." I smile weakly, feeling embarrassed that the first thing my potential new friend learns about me is that I'm not just skinny because I'm a junkie, I'm an awfully picky eater.
"It was nice to meet you, Tommy, but I think I'm just gonna go back to my room. I'm not very hungry."
"Alright, man, it was really nice to meet you. I haven't met an interesting person here besides my band mates. If you wanna hang out I'd like that."
He's in a band? He does look oddly familiar. But I've been in a heroin hole for the last seven years so it's not like I'm up to date on the latest trends. This whole rehab center is full of celebrities and old porn stars trying to come off cocaine. My wallet may belong here, but I sure as shit don't. I tuck my hair behind my ear and give him a small nod.
"I'd like that too, Tommy."
We go our separate ways with a small wave at the next hallway as I try to remember where my room is. After ten minutes, I finally find it. My stomach growls, and I remember that I was hungry in the first place. Maybe there's a vending machine here somewhere. I'd kill for a snickers and a coke.
I go to the bathroom to get ready for bed and see the sunken bags under my eyes. You wouldn't believe it now, but I used to be really pretty. My blue eyes don't shine anymore, and my long brown hair has thinned out from drug use. At least I'm still skinny, I guess. I could put on a couple pounds though, I don't know if it's sexy to see my ribs.
By the time I brush my teeth and my hair and get into bed, I see the top of Sara's red hair down the hall. My heart skips a beat as I remember my new prescription. Thank God, I need something. I'm grateful that Dr. Mouse was so easy to play.
Soon enough Sara's in my room giving me my small medicine cup, and I look inside of it with the biggest smile I've had since I've gotten here.
After a quick look inside the cup, anger builds from my gut to the top of my head and shortly comes out my mouth.
"What the fuck is this?" I yell, staring at the small pink pill.
"It's to help you sleep."
"This is a fucking Benadryl." I sneer with my top lip curled like a rabid dog.
"Well...yeah. What else did you think you were gonna get?"
I roll my jaw as I look out of the window, trying to not scream or throw the cup in Sara's face.
Game on, bitch.