If I Weren’t Me, I Wouldn’t Want to Touch Me Either — James F. and A P.

We sit and we eat our lunches and Leonard talks and I listen to him talk. Leonard is from Las Vegas and he has been here for a week. He's addicted to cocaine and has been planning his stay here for over a year. For the last twelve months he's done nothing but eat rich food, drink expensive wine, play golf and snort enormous amounts of blow. He has done enough, he says, that if he does it again he will die. I don't know what he does for a living but I know it's not legal and I know he does it well. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his words, recognize it in the easy way he speaks of things most people would consider horrific. I'm comfortable with Leonard, more comfortable with him than anyone else whom I have met in here. He speaks easily of horror. He is a criminal of some sort. I am comfortable. I am comfortable with him. After lunch Ken gives me the MMPI test. It's all true-false. I am a stable person. False. I think the world is aligned against me. False. I think my problems are caused by others. False. I don't trust anybody. False. I hate myself. True. I often think of death. True. Suicide is a reasonable option. True. My sins are unpardonable. I stare at the question. My sins are unpardonable. I stare at the question. My sins are unpardonable. I leave it blank. I finish 566 of the 567 true or false questions of the test, and I close the booklet, and I lay down my pencil, and I take a deep breath. Hours have passed, and I am exhausted, and I want a drink. Vodka, gin, rum, tequila, bourbon, scotch, I don't care. Just give me a drink. A nice, strong, alcoholic drink. I tell myself that I only want one, but I know it's not true. I want fucking 50. I go down to the lower level, and I call my parents at a hotel in Chicago, and my mother answers the phone. Hello? Hi, Mom. Hold on, James. I hear her call my father. My father picks up the phone. Hi, James. Hi, Dad. Hi, Dad. How are you? All right. How is it there? It's fine. What's happened so far? I'm being detoxed, and that sucks. And yesterday I moved down to a unit, and that's been fine. Are you feeling like it's helping? I don't know. I hear my mom take a deep breath. Anything we can do. I hear my mom break down. I hear her cry. No. I listen to her cry. I gotta go, Dad. I listen to her cry. You're gonna be okay, James. Just keep it up. I listen to her cry. I gotta go. If you need anything, call us. Goodbye. We love you. I hang up the phone, and I stare at the floor, and I think about my mother and my father in a hotel room in Chicago. I wonder why they still love me, and why I can't love them back, and how two normal, stable people could have created something like me, lived with something like me, and tolerated something like me. I stare at the floor, and I wonder, how did they tolerate me? That night my body still wants what I cannot give it, and I'm unable to sleep, so I lie on my back and I stare at the ceiling. I think about where I am and how I got here, and what the fuck I'm going to do. At a certain point my eyes close, and at a certain point I fall asleep. I sit alone at a table. It's dark, and I don't know where I am or how I got here. There are bottles of liquor and wine everywhere, and on the table in front of me is a large pile of white cocaine, and a huge bag of cigarettes. There is a bag of yellow crack. There is also a torch, a pipe, a tube of glue, and an open can filled with gasoline. I look around me. There is blackness. There is alcohol. There are drugs. There is an abundance of all of them. I know I'm alone, and there is no one to stop me. I know I can do as much as I want of whatever I want. I look around me. As I reach for one of the bottles, something inside of me tells me to stop. That what I'm doing is wrong, that I can't do it anymore, that I'm killing myself. I reach anyway. I grip the bottle, bringing it to my lips, and take a long deep draw that burns my mouth, my throat, and my stomach. For the briefest instant I feel complete. The pain I carry with me disappears. I feel comfortable and at rest, confident, and secure. There is no one in there that can make me feel like I'm alone, and there is no one else which can do it. There is no one that can save me, secure, calm, and composed. I feel good. God damn it, I feel fucking good. The feelings are gone as quickly as they came, and I want them back. I don't care what I have to do, what I have to take, what I have to endure. I'll do anything. I just want them to come back. I take another drink. It doesn't work. I grab a different bottle, take a larger drink. It doesn't work. I seize bottle after bottle, take drink after drink. Nothing works. Instead of feeling better, I feel increasingly worse. Everything I felt that was good has become bad, and it has been magnified beyond any point of reference or comprehension. My only option is to try and kill. Kill what hurts. Kill it. I switch to the drugs. I take another drink. I don't care what I have to do, what I have to endure. I want them back. I take a deep breath, and I bury my face in the pile of coke, and I inhale, and my nostrils turn to fire, and the back of my throat becomes an inferno. I take a breath, inhale, take a breath, inhale, take a breath, inhale. Too much, too fast, and my nose starts bleeding. I wipe the blood away, and I take a breath, and I inhale. I do it again. The killing has started, but I'm not close to being done. I rip open the bag of crack, and I pull out a handful of small yellow rocks. I wipe the blood again, and I snatch the pipe, which is a long, straight piece of glass, and a screen filter, and I start stuffing rocks into it. I fill it, wipe the blood again, fire up the torch, put the pipe in my mouth, bring the white flame to its tip. I inhale. Hot peppermint honey mixed with napalm, followed by a rush a thousandfold stronger than the purest powder. I inhale. I inhale. I inhale. I inhale. I inhale. I inhale. I inhale. I hold, and the rush gains speed and power, and it grows, consumes, and overwhelms me. I feel good again. Perfect. Magnificent and invincible, like the power of every orgasm I've ever had, could ever have, and will ever have, has been concentrated into a single moment. Oh my God, I'm coming. Oh my fucking God, I'm coming. Let it come. Let it come. Let it come. Let it come. Let it fucking come. It's gone as fast as it came, and I know it's gone for good, replaced by fear, dread, and a murderous rage. Any pretense of experiencing pleasure disappears. I grab rocks, stuff the pipe, hit. I grab rocks, stuff the pipe, hit. The torch is white, and the glass is pink, and I feel the skin of my fingers bubbling, but it doesn't bother me. I grab rocks, stuff the pipe, hit. I do it until the bag is empty, and then I stuff the bag into the pipe, and I smoke the plastic. I have a murderous rage, and I need to kill. Kill my heart. Kill my mind. Kill myself. There is glue, and there is gasoline, and I want them both. I grab the glue, and I put the end of the tube below my nose, and I lay a thick line on the skin between my nostrils and my lip. Each breath. Each breath brings the stench of hell and death. Each breath brings on the desire for more. I am killing quickly and efficiently now, but not quickly or efficiently enough. I lean over and place my nose just above the shimmering surface of the gasoline, and I stare into the face of chemical annihilation. This face is my friend, my enemy, and my only option. I take it. Breathe in. Breathe out. Go faster and faster and faster. I don't feel anything anymore, or what I do feel is so powerful that my mind and my body are incapable of allowing it to register. I'm comfortable here. This is what I want, what I need, and what I must have, and this is where I have been living the last few years of my life. I realize that I'm cold, and I snap, and I open my eyes. The room is dark and quiet. I can hear Warren snoring. I sit up and I rub my body and I shiver. Goose pimples cover my arms and the hair on the back of my neck stands straight and I'm scared. Scared of my dream. Scared of the morning. Scared of this place and the people in it. Scared of a life without drugs and alcohol. Scared of myself. Scared to deal with myself. Scared of the daydreams. Scared of me that lies ahead. Scared shitless. Scared out of my mind. I'm scared, and I'm alone, and it's early in the morning and no one is awake yet. I get out of bed and I walk to the bathroom and I take a shower and I dry myself off, and the pain hits me and I drop to my knees and I crawl to the toilet and I get sick. Sickness is worse than usual. Thicker, bloodier, more chunks of stomach, more painful. Each wrenching ejection burns my throat and sends a sharp pain through my chest and makes me feel as if I'm choking. It makes me feel as if I'm choking and I almost wish I was because then it would stop. I just want it to stop. Sickness ends and I sit down on the floor and I lean back against the front of the toilet. Waves of emotion begin streaming through me and I can feel the welling of tears. Everything that I know and that I am... and everything that I've done begins flashing in front of my eyes. My past, my present, my future. My friends, my enemies. My friends who became enemies. Where I've lived, where I've been, what I've seen, what I've done. What I've ruined and destroyed. I start to cry. Tears begin running down my face and quiet sobs escape me. I don't know what I'm doing and I don't know why I'm here and I don't know how things ever got to me. I try to find answers but they aren't there. I'm too fucked up to have answers. I'm too fucked up for anything. The tears come harder and sobs become louder and I curl up on the cold tile floor and I hug myself. I hug myself and I wail and it's morning and I'm somewhere in Minnesota and I haven't had a drink in five days and I don't know what the fuck is happening to me. I get dressed and I leave. I'm in a hurry. I'm in a hurry. I'm in a hurry. I leave the room. I collect the cleaning supplies and I go to the group toilets and though they don't seem dirty I get down on my knees and I start cleaning them. Hey! I turn around. Roy is standing at the door. You did a shitty job yesterday. I lay down my sponge. What? I stand. You did a shitty job yesterday. Roy steps forward. They looked clean to me. He steps forward again. They were dirty. Do a better job today or I'm telling on you. The bathroom is small. You hear me? You clean these toilets well or I'm telling on you. I feel trapped. I'll clean them well. I promise. Like a rat in a cage. I'm not going to do it again. I'm going to do it again. I'm going to do it again. I'm not doing it again. Give me a better job. I'm not going to do it again. You've got to do what I say. You're not going to do it again. You've got to do what I say. I'm not going to do what I say. You know the rules. I know how to do things. I know how to be a good cop. I know how to be a good cop. I've never done it again. I've never done it. Why not? And I squeeze and I throw him against the wall of the bathroom and he hits with a thud and he starts screaming. Help! Help! Help! Help! I grab him again and I shove him through the door. He hits the wall outside the door and he slumps to the ground and he continues screaming. Help! Help! Help! Help! I step through the door and I stand over him. How clean are the toilets now, motherfucker? I want to beat him. Help! Help! Help! Help! I want to kick his fucking face in. How clean are the toilets now, motherfucker? I want to tear his limbs off and stuff them down his fucking throat. Help! Help! Help! Help! I want to kill him, reduce him to crushed bone, torn flesh and blood. How clean are they now, motherfucker? Fucking kill him. How clean are they now? How clean are they now? Help! Help! Help! Help! Two men rush into the hall and they grab me and they pull me back. I push them away. Don't fucking touch me! More come. They lift Roy to his feet, stand between us, stare at me as if I'm a monster. I stare back. I stare through them and straight at Roy. He attacked me! He's crazy! Get him away from me! Roy is crying and sobbing. Tears are streaming down his face and he's breathing quickly and heavily. The men try to comfort him. I came to help him with the toilets. I just wanted to help and he attacked me. I didn't do anything wrong. They stare at me. Stare at me as if I'm a monster. I turn and I walk back to my room and it's empty and I begin pacing. And my body shakes and I try to control myself. Half of me wants to go back to the hall and fight whoever is there and either destroy or be destroyed. Half of me wants to hide. All of me wants the liquor and the wine and the coke and the crack and the glue and the gasoline that I had in my dream. The fury has risen. I pace and I shake and I try to control myself. I need to calm down but I don't know how. The outlets I depend on, use for survival and have become addicted to are gone. Replaced by doctors and nurses and counselors. And rules and regulations and pills and lectures and mandatory meals and jobs in the morning. And none of them do a fucking thing for me. Not one fucking thing. I stop pacing. I stare at the floor. I ball my fists and I squeeze and every cell in my body tenses and prepares and it's coming. The fury is coming and I don't know what to do or where to go or how to stop it. And it's coming and it's coming. And it comes. Explosion. I scream. I see a bed. I grab the end of the bed and I lift it and I flip it and the mattress goes and I grab the simple metal frame and I lift it and I throw it down with everything, everything, everything. And it snaps but it's not enough. So I stomp it, stomp it, stomp it and it snaps again, again, again. And there are only broken bars and bolts and screws and I'm screaming and it feels good and I'm just getting started. I move to a nightstand. I pull the drawers and throw in there. I'm in a bed. I'm on the other side of the room and there are no longer drawers but pieces of drawers. And the nightstand is still there so I pick it up and slam it and it's just pieces of a nightstand. There's someone by the door and that someone is yelling but I don't hear him. I am beyond hearing, beyond sight, beyond feeling, beyond thinking. I am deaf, dumb and blind. Unconscious, unaware and uncontrollable. There is a dresser. There are pieces of a dresser. There is another bed and I flip it and destroy it. There is more yelling and then there are men in white. And there are arms and they're holding me and I'm screaming. There is a needle. I am in a new room. It is simple and white and empty but for a bed. I don't know how I got here or how long I have been here or what day it is or what time it is. I do know that I'm still at the clinic. I know this because I can hear the screams. The screams of the addicted without their addiction. The screams of the dead who are somehow still alive. I lie on my back and I stare at the ceiling. I have been sick twice today but it wasn't bad. There was no blood and no bile and no chunks, just acid and water. I find this encouraging. It is the only thing about my current situation that I find encouraging. I am waiting for someone to come and tell me, I am sick. Tell me that it is time for me to leave. I am trying to decide what I'm going to do. I have no place to live, nowhere to go. I have no money, no resources, no job. I have no hope for money, no hope for resources, no hope for a job. I have no self-confidence, no self-esteem, no sense of self-worth. My sense of self-preservation was gone a long time ago. I won't bother with my parents, or my brother, or the few friends I have left. They will write me off, once I leave here. I will write me off, once I leave here. There is a knock at the door and I ignore it, There is another knock and I ignore it again. I don't want to see anybody or speak to anybody or have anything to do with anybody. I need to decide what I'm going to do. Miracle runs, Thalamusx operation Hey! awakening process. The door opens and Ken and a man and a woman walk in and I say, Ken, you will you with Ken's body? Ken, you have too much to bring in. A PDF that says, It is really important if i may receive закончion check. it up. The man is taller than Ken, and his body is thick with muscle, and he has short black spiky hair. He wears large black boots, faded black jeans, and a black shirt that has a picture of a Harley on the front, and reads, Ride Hard, Ride Sober. His arms are covered with tattoos, and his knuckles are covered with scars. The woman is short and plump, and she has long gray hair pulled into a ponytail, and she looks like Mona Lisa. She wears thick baggy clothing and wool socks and Birkenstocks, and she wears silver rings on her fingers and a turquoise pendant around her neck. I see no tattoos, and I see no scars. Ken speaks. Hi, James. Hi. Mind if we sit down? I don't care. Ken sits on the end of the bed, the woman sits cross-legged on the floor. The man stands. Ken speaks. This is Lincoln. He motions to the man. The man stares at me. He's the unit supervisor on Sawyer. I stare back. And this is Joanne. Lincoln stares at me. She's a staff psychologist. I stare back. We'd like to talk about what happened yesterday. Lincoln stares. I stare back. Then talk. Lincoln speaks. His voice is deep and hard. Sounds like a rusty metal spike. We want you to talk. We want to hear your side of things. You gonna throw me out of here? Ken looks at Lincoln. Lincoln looks at Joanne. Joanne speaks. Right now, we just want to talk. Where should I start? Lincoln speaks. Where did the trouble start? I had a dream. A bad dream. And it completely fucked me up. I guess it started there. Ken speaks. What was the dream? I was in a room alone, and I didn't know where I was or how I got there, and I was drinking and doing drugs, and I got annihilated. It seemed real. And when I woke up, I was scared. Joanne speaks. You had a user dream. What's a user dream? When alcoholics and addicts stop drinking and using drugs, their subconscious minds still crave them. That craving is sometimes manifested in dreams that can seem startlingly real, and, in a sense, are real. Although you didn't use, some part of your mind did. You'll probably continue to. You'll probably continue to. You'll probably continue to have them for as long as a year. That'll be fun. Lincoln speaks. Then what? He's staring at me. I went to the bathroom, and I got sick, and I felt worse. I tried to look at my face, and I got sick in a different way, and I felt worse again. Then I went to clean the toilets. He's still staring. And then you attacked Roy. I turn, stare back. Roy got in my face. I got him out of my face. Ken speaks. Why'd he get in your face? No idea. He just did it? He's been giving me shit the whole time I've been here. I have no idea why. What's he been doing? Telling me I'm breaking all the rules? Telling me I'm doing everything wrong? Telling me he's gonna get me through this? Telling me he's gonna get me through this? Telling me he's gonna get me through this? Telling me he's gonna get me through this? Telling me he's gonna get me through this? Telling me he's gonna get me through this? Lincoln speaks. And you don't like that, do you? I didn't do anything. He had no right to say shit to me. And did you have any right to attack him? Once he got in my face, I did. What if I got in your face? I'd get you out of it. Lincoln stares. The tough guy act isn't gonna get you very far. I stare back. Won't get you very far either. Ken speaks. Roy told us he was helping you, and you went after him without a reason. Roy's a fucking liar. Lincoln speaks. Watch your mouth. Fuck you. What did you say? I said fuck you. Watch your mouth. Fuck you. Ken speaks. John speaks. Calm down, James. Fuck you too, Ken. Joanne speaks. Looks at Ken and Lincoln. Would you leave us alone for a while? Lincoln speaks. We're not done yet. Joanne speaks. I think it would be best if you left us alone for a little while. We'll talk as a group again soon. Lincoln turns and walks out of the room without a word. Ken looks at me. and he speaks. If you need to talk, I'll be in my office. He follows Lincoln out, and he shuts the door, and I'm alone with Joanne. She leans against the wall, and she closes her eyes, and she takes a deep breath, and she exhales, and I sit on the bed, and I watch her, and she just sits there, and she breathes, and I get tired of the silence and the sound of her breathing. I want to be alone, and I need to figure out what I'm going to do. I speak. What do you want? She opens her eyes. Just thought I'd sit with you for a few minutes, see if there's anything you want to talk about. There's nothing. Okay. She stands. Is there anything I can help you with before I leave? Yeah. What? I want to stop taking Librium. Why? Makes me crazy. Makes me feel like everything is a bad fucking dream. I'd rather have nothing than that shit. I'll tell the nurses to end your cycle. Thank you. Anything else? What am I supposed to do? Today is another day. Breakfast starts in about ten minutes, then the lecture. You have an appointment with the dentist at ten-thirty, and need to be back here to meet the driver at ten o'clock. Just go about your day, and if you need to talk about anything, I'm in room 312. Thank you. She moves toward the door. I'll see you soon? Maybe. She leaves, and I'm alone, and I'm surprised to be here, and part of me is relieved, and part of me is disappointed, and part of me is confused, and I don't know what I'm going to do. I can either leave or stay. Can either leave or stay. Leaving means going back to addiction and facing either death or jail. Staying means leaving addiction and facing something that is unknown to me. Not sure which scares me more. I get up, and I open the door, and I see I'm on the medical unit. I get in line, and I start to go about my day, and I remember Joanne's room number. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. 312. and it checks and she sends me to a waiting room and I wait. The waiting room has windows and I can see outside. Though it is late in the morning, it is still dark. I can hear thunder and sea sleet. The wind is whipping whatever lies on the ground into the air. The trees look as if they want to hide. It is ugly and it's going to get uglier. Hank walks into the waiting room. He's bundled in a thick, warm, waterproof jacket. He wears wool-lined rubber boots. Hey, kid. Hey, Hank. We shake hands. How you been? Been better. I stand. Bet you've been worse, too. I smile. Yeah, I've been worse, too. You ready? Yeah. Let's go. We walk out of the waiting room and through a short hall and outside. The van is twenty feet from the exit and I run toward it. The sleet and the wind pound into my skin. The thunder shakes my bones. I open the front passenger door of the van and I jump inside and the van is running and it is warm. There is an old, weather-beaten jacket similar to the one Hank is wearing sitting on the seat. I pick it up and put it on and settle in and clutch myself. After a few seconds, Hank, who did not need to run, opens the driver's door and climbs in. You found the coat. It's hard to miss. I used to wear it when I worked on my boat. It has that look. It's a good coat. It's working great right now. I know you don't have one or have anything from what I'm told, so I want you to use it while you're here. Thank you, Hank. I appreciate that. Don't mention it. I really appreciate it. Thank you. Don't mention it. Hank puts the van into gear and we pull away from the clinic and we start making our way toward town. Hank concentrates on the road and I stare out the window. We pull into town and it is empty. There are no parked cars, no shoppers, no young mothers walking with children, no old men on benches with coffee. I can't even imagine what he sees... Stop. They are gone. Where? lumber. It's a greenhouse. Are we buying it for a piece of strange Blood Tanner? Much about anything except for fishing and driving. But I have a feeling whatever you're getting done this morning is going to hurt. Probably. You're not going to get painkillers or anesthesia, at least not while you're still a patient at a treatment center. I've found the next best thing is those balls. When it starts hurting, start squeezing. I hold the balls in my hand, give them a squeeze. Thanks. Sure. He opens his door and he gets out, and I do the same, and we shut the doors and we walk into the building, and we walk up the stairs to the dentist's office. The door is open, and we go inside, and I sit on one of the couches in the waiting room, and Hank goes to reception and he starts talking to the receptionist. The Babar the Elephant book is sitting in front of me. I pick it up and start reading it. I remember reading it as a small boy. And enjoying it. And imagining that I was friends with Babar, his constant companion during all of his adventures. He went to the moon. I went with him. He fought tomb raiders in Egypt. I fought alongside of him. He rescued his elephant girlfriend from ivory hunters on the savannah. I coordinated the getaway. I love that goddamn elephant. I love being his friend. In a childhood full of unhappiness and rage, Babar is one of the few pleasant memories that I have. Me and Babar kicking some motherfucking ass. Hank comes back and he sits down next to me. They're ready for you. All right. You ready for them? I hold up the tennis balls. Yeah. It'll be interesting to see what you look like with teeth. It'll be interesting to have them again. I stand. I'll see you in a while, Hank. Thanks for everything. Don't mention it. I walk toward a door where a nurse stands waiting for me. As I walk past her, she is careful not to touch me. And I am brought back from the happy afterglow of pachyderm memories. And I am reminded of what I am. I am an alcoholic. And I am a drug addict. And I am a criminal. I am missing my four front teeth. I have a hole in my cheek that has been cracked. And I am closed with forty-one stitches. I have a broken nose. And I have black, swollen eyes. I have an escort because I am a patient at a drug and alcohol treatment center. I am wearing a borrowed jacket because I don't have one of my own. I am carrying two old yellow tennis balls because I'm not allowed to have any painkillers or anesthesia. I am an alcoholic. I am a drug addict. I am a criminal. I am a drug addict. I am a drug addict. I am a drug addict. And I am a drug addict. And I don't blame the nurse for not wanting to touch me. If I weren't me, I wouldn't want to touch me. She leads me into a small room. The room is like many other rooms I have been in lately, except that it seems cleaner and whiter. There are stainless steel cabinets along the walls, trays of sharp, sparkling instruments on top of the cabinets, a large halogen lamp hanging from the ceiling. There is a surgical chair sitting in the middle of the floor. It is metal and it has green cushions and long, menacing arms and all sorts of straps and buttons and levers and gears. It looks like a medieval torture device. I know it is for me. I walk past the nurse and I sit down in the chair and I try to make myself comfortable, but it's not possible. Torture devices are not made to be comfortable. Dr. Stevens will be here in a minute. All right. Can I get you anything while you wait? A Babar book. Excuse me? I would like a Babar the Elephant book. You have them in the waiting room. I'll be right back. Thank you. She leaves and I'm alone, and as I settle into the chair and look around the room I start to panic. The last of the Librium is nearly gone, and the food in my stomach has been broken down to the point that it no longer holds, and everything speeds up. My heart, my blood pressure, the thoughts in my head. My hands are shaking, but it is not the heavy shaking of withdrawal. It is a quick and fragile form of shaking, a form of shaking that comes from fear. Fear of this room. Fear of the chair. Fear of what the cabinets hold. Fear of what the instruments do. Fear of what's going to happen to me here. Fear of a pain so great that I need to squeeze deep. Fear of tennis balls to make it go away. The nurse returns with the Babar book and she gives it to me and she leaves. I set the tennis balls in my lap and I open the book and try to read it. As I turn the pages I can see the words and I can see the pictures, but I can't read the words and I can't understand the pictures. Everything is speeding up. My heart, my blood pressure, the thoughts in my head. I can't concentrate on anything. Not even Babar. I close the book and I clutch it against my chest and wait. Everything is shaking. My hands, my feet, the muscles in my legs, my chest, my jaw, my remaining teeth. I pick up the balls and I squeeze them and I try to force the strength of the shaking into the balls and the balls start shaking. Everything is shaking. The door opens and the lumberjack dentist, Dr. Stevens, walks in and he is followed by another dentist. The other dentist and two female nurses. Dr. Stevens pulls up his stainless steel stool and he sits down on the stool near the bottom of the chair. The other dentist and the nurses begin collecting bins and instruments and opening cabinet doors and closing cabinet doors. The noises they are making are sharp and I don't know what exactly they are doing, but I know the sum of it will be going into my mouth. Hi, James. Hi. Sorry for the wait. We were reviewing the procedures we're going to do today. No problem. The other dentist leans down and whispers something in Dr. Stevens' ear. Dr. Stevens nods. The sum of it will be going into my mouth. The first thing we want to do is cap the outside two teeth. We looked at the x-rays again and the roots seem to be intact. The base is stable. Once they're capped, they should be fine. Okay. After we do that, we need to do root canal surgery on the middle two. The roots are unstable and if we don't do the surgery, your teeth will turn black and die. After they die, they will fall out. I'm assuming you don't want that to happen. No, I don't. I'm sorry to be so blunt. I appreciate your bluntness. I appreciate your bluntness. I want you to know exactly what we're doing. I want you to know exactly what we're doing and why. I don't want to know anymore. There is one thing. What? This is going to be incredibly painful. Because you're currently a patient at a drug treatment center, we can't use any anesthesia, local or general. And when we're done, we can't give you any painkillers. I hold up the balls, give them a light squeeze. I know. And you think you can deal with that? I've been through worse. What? I've been through worse. Dr. Stevens stares at me as if what I have said is incomprehensible to him. I know what I'm about to experience is going to be horrible. And I don't know if I've been through anything worse. But in order to do this, I have to believe that I have. I stare back. Let's go, Doc. Bring it. He stands and begins to talk. He begins talking in hushed tones to the other dentist and to the nurses. And he helps them prepare the bins and instruments for their use in my mouth. I sit and wait. And my body slows down and my mind slows down. And I stop shaking and I stop squeezing the balls. And I'm calm. I have accepted that this is going to happen. And that I need it to happen. And that it's going to hurt. A calm descends. A calm descends. A calm descends. A calm the condemned must experience just before execution. Dr. Stevens steps forward and stands over me. I'm going to lean you back a bit. Okay. He reaches down and he pulls a lever and he slowly and gently leans me back. The halogen light is directly over me and it is blinding in its brightness and I close my eyes. I am holding the balls and the Babar book is resting on my chest. Just above my heart. Do you mind if I move this book? I'd rather you didn't. That's fine. We'll work around it. I hear the shuffling of feet and the placement of bins. And someone lifts my head and places the strings of a bib around the back of my neck. And clips them and places the bib on top of the book. The chair moves farther down and farther back. And a small firm pillow is placed beneath the book. It is now a There is still no wound in the spine and it is not a bad wound. Special thanks to St. Cummings Brick and Penka Back in politics As I read the script, I remembered when to stop. Okay. The same procedure is done with my upper lip and my cheeks, and it feels as if my mouth is full of soft, fibrous dirt, and almost instantly everything is dry. A spray of water moistens it, but not enough. It is dry, and it will stay dry no matter how many sprays I get. I lean back into the chair, and I close my eyes, and I open my mouth wide, and someone hands me the tennis balls, and I take a spray, and I hear low, quiet words and the sound of a drill being tested. The drill goes on and off, on and off. Check the sander. A sander goes on and off, on and off. Check the secondary drill. The secondary drill goes on and off. On. On and off. I feel the presence of people standing over me. A hand grabs my upper lip and gently pulls it so that my gum is exposed. A spray covers the remains of my teeth. Here we come, James. The spray continues, and the sander is turned on, and as it comes in toward my mouth it gets louder, and the noise is high and piercing, and it hurts my ears, and I start squeezing the balls. I try to prepare for the sander, and the sander hits the fragment of my left outside tooth. The sander bounces slightly, and white electric pain hits my mouth, and the sander comes back and holds, and pain spreads through my body from the top down, and every muscle in my body flexes, and I squeeze the balls, and my eyes start to tear, and the hair on the back of my neck stands straight, and my tooth falls. I try to prepare for the sander, and the sander hits the fragment of my left outside tooth. It fucking hurts like the point of a bayonet is being driven through it. The point of a fucking bayonet. The sander moves its way around the contour of the fragment, and I stay tense and in pain, and I can taste the grit of the bone on my tongue, and the spray is spraying, and it collects the grit and sends some of it down my throat and some of it into the space beneath my tongue. It continues, the sanding and the spraying. The pain and the grit and the pain, and the constant electricity of it keeps me tense and hard. I sit, and I squeeze the tennis balls, and my heart beats even and strong, as if it needs the test of this ordeal to prove that it works correctly. The sander stops, and I relax, and I take a deep breath. There are soft voices, and there are instruments being picked up. I think there's a cavity here, James. I need to check. The cotton in my mouth has shifted enough to allow me to speak comprehensively. Then check. It's gonna hurt. Get it over with. I prepare for more, but I'm not prepared for what hits me. As a sharp, pointed instrument pokes around one of the sanded edges of my tooth, it finds a small hole, and it penetrates the hole. The electric pain shoots, and it shoots at a trillionth. It's a million volts, and it is white and burning. The bayonet is twenty feet long, and red-hot and razor-sharp. The pain is greater than anything I've ever felt, and it is greater than anything I could have imagined. It overwhelms every muscle and every fiber and every cell in my body, and everything goes limp. I moan, and the instrument goes away, but the pain stays. It's a pain. It's a pain. It's a pain. It's a pain. It's a pain. It's definitely a cavity. We need to fill it to cap the tooth correctly. Every fiber and every cell is limp. James? Every fiber and every cell is white-hot and burning. James? The pain is greater than I could have imagined. James? I take a deep breath. Do what you need to do. Just get it over with. Low, muffled. That's right, Miss304. I take a deep breath. The pain comences automatically, but it dies as Efry goes. I have happened in the pipes where I want to choose my way of life. I do not want to know Immortality. I take a deep breath. No children at all. I am still. I am still. I am still. I am full. I am told sometimes, because I amrado that there is something that bothers you, that there is no other way to know myself. I can know Eleven One's sanity isCargr gam году but my growing up was what GuntherHaux wanted to do. I don't know if that is the same exciting episod learners. When we met PierreVenter, we passed through space. I happened to know here is things that affect my inner world and the way I see and live my life. and I squeeze the ball so hard that I think my fingers are fucking breaking, and I moan. I moan in a steady tone that fills my ears so that I don't have to hear the drill, but I still hear it. And I concentrate on the sound of the moan so that it will distract me from the pain, but it doesn't. Bayonet, bayonet, bayonet, bayonet, bayonet. The drill makes a hole and moves around the circumference of the hole and makes it wider, and the grit mixes with the spray and moves down my throat and collects beneath my tongue. Bayonet, bayonet, bayonet. The hole gets larger and larger. Bayonet, bayonet, bayonet. There's a fucking drill in my mouth. Bayonet. The drill stops. The pain continues. The squeezing continues. My moan continues. Dr. Stevens tells the nurses in the other day, and they do. They stuff the hole with some sort of putty, and they wipe it away, and they stuff it, and they wipe it away. The stuffing buffers the open pain of the hole, and the piercing pain fades, and a dull, throbbing agony remains, and my heart beats strong and steady, and the agony beats along with it, and it doesn't bother me. I have lived with agony for so long that as it beats along with my strong and steady heart, it doesn't. It doesn't bother me. I stop moaning, and I open my eyes, and through the deep well of tears resting atop them, I can see some sort of blue light being held above me and being focused on the putty. The putty gets hard and closes and melts around the hole, and I hear the sander, and I see it moving in, and I close my eyes, and the sander hits, and the chemical grit of the putty fills my mouth. The process repeats itself. Putty. Blue light. Sander. Putty. Blue light. Sander. I become immune to it, and immune to its pain, and I squeeze the tennis balls, and I wait for it to end, and it ends. One down, three to go. Now we want to cap the outside right tooth. I nod yes. Do you want a break before we do it? I say yes. I shake my head no. A moment of preparation, and then the sander comes back, and I endure it easily. There is no cavity and no drill, so the putty and the light come back, and they're nothing. I'm holding the balls, but not squeezing. The steady moan is gone. My heart rests. An easy and seamless rebuilding on the outside right. Two down, two to go. I hear the shuffling of feet, and the shuffling of instruments, and the opening and closing of cabinet drawers, and I open my eyes. Dr. Stevens is speaking with the other dentist, and the nurses are putting the used instruments in a small sink for sterilization. Dr. Stevens finishes talking, and the other dentist leaves the room. Is there a problem? No, there's no problem. I sit up. Where's he going? I don't know. Dr. Stevens pulls up the stool. I didn't want to tell you this until we were ready to start, but... I want to strap you down while we're doing the root canals. Why? Aside from the factor of pain, one of the reasons we anesthetize patients during root canal procedures is so they don't move. We need you to be still to work, and I'm not sure you'll be able to be still if you're not strapped down. Fine. Fine. You're okay with it? Yeah, I'm fine. The dentist returns carrying two long, thick, blue nylon straps with large, pressure-secure buckles. They are the kind of straps used to hold large objects onto the roofs of cars, to hook boats up to trailers, to keep the doors of animal cages shut. They have seen some use, and they are the only thing in the room besides me and the tennis balls that is not sparklingly... clean. I lean back in the chair, and the dentist steps forward. The nurses have stopped cleaning the instruments, and they are staring at me. Could you hold your arms at your sides? I put my arms along the sides of my body. The dentist lays the straps across my body so that the buckles fall beneath the chair. He crouches down, and he hooks the loose end, and he pulls it, and the straps start to tighten around my body. Let me know when it's secure. He continues to pull. The straps get tighter and tighter. When I can't lift or move my arms in any way, and when the straps start digging into my skin and pressing the Babar book into my chest, I let the doctor know the straps are secure. He locks the buckles, and he stands, and he walks to the sink to wash his hands. Dr. Stevens and the nurses step forward. We're going to try... We can do this as fast as we can. Make sure you do a good enough job so that I don't have to come back here. I'll definitely do that. Let's go. I close my eyes, and I try to settle in and make myself comfortable. There are wads of cotton in my mouth, and there is a throbbing agony from the earlier drilling, and there are thick blue nylon straps digging into my skin and pressing a book into my chest. There are fingers grabbing my arm, and there is a cold spray dousing the exposed remains of my front two teeth. There is a tennis ball in each of my hands, and there is the knowledge that I'm about to undergo a dual root canal procedure without any anesthesia. There is the sound of my heart beating ever more quickly. There is anticipation. There is fear. There is no comfort. The drill is back on, and it is working through the fracture. It is the movement of my left front tooth. It is moving through a thinner, more fragile section of bone, so it works quickly. It shoots the grit, makes the hole, penetrates. At the point of penetration, a current shoots through my body that is not pain, or even close to pain, but something infinitely greater. Everything goes white, and I cannot breathe. I cleanse my body, I clench my eyes, and I bite down on my existing teeth, and I think my jaw might be breaking. And I squeeze my hands, and I dig my fingers through the hard rubber surface of the tennis balls, and my fingernails crack, and my fingernails break, and my fingernails start to bleed, and I curl my toes, and they fucking hurt. And I flex the muscles in my legs, and they fucking hurt. And my torso tightens, and my stomach muscles feel as if they're going to collapse, and my ribs feel as if they're caving in on themselves, and it fucking hurts. And my balls are shrinking, and shrinking fucking hurts. And my dick is hard because my blood hurts, and my blood wants to escape, and is seeking exit through my dick, and my dick fucking hurts. And my arms are straining against the thick blue nylon straps, and the thick blue nylon straps are cutting my flesh, and it fucking hurts. And I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. It fucking hurts, and my face is on fire, and the veins in my neck want to explode, and my brain is white, and it's melting, and it fucking hurts. There is a drill in my mouth. My brain is white, and it feels as if it's fucking melting. I cannot breathe. Agony. The drill comes out, and a vacuum starts sucking the dying flesh surrounding my root from the canal. And I can't breathe. It's like a metal shell that holds it. The agony does not subside. The vacuum stops, and the remaining flesh is scraped from the interior of the canal with some sort of sharp pointed instrument. The agony does not subside. The agony does not subside. The vacuum goes back and comes out. The scraping continues. The agony does not subside. The root has to be cleaned to heal correctly. correctly. Please clean the motherfucker fast. Please, please, please clean the motherfucker fast. The agony does not subside. I start to fade into a state of white consciousness where I am no longer directly connected to what is being done to me. My arms are no longer my arms. My legs are not my legs. My chest is not my chest. My face is not my face. My teeth do not belong to me. My body is no longer my body. There is white. Everywhere there is white. There is agony. It is agony that is unfathomable. I try to will myself back to reality and back to the drills and the vacuums and the instruments and the cotton stuff. And the spray and the grit and the doctors and the nurses and the rebuilding of my teeth, but I can't come back. My body won't let me come back. It is as if it is sparing my mind what it can and pushing into a realm that is horrible, but somehow less horrible. I give up and I give in and I am consumed by the whiteness and the agony and I am there for what seems to be an eternity. A white man. The whiteness and the agony. The whiteness and the agony. The whiteness and the agony. I am brought back by the screaming pitch of the drill. I can feel a tooth on the left front side of my upper gum and I know the drill is coming in to fix the right. It hits, it penetrates, and I am conscious during the penetration and the process of endurance repeats itself. I lose the air and the ability to breathe it. I clench my eyes and I bite down and I squeeze the tennis balls and every single cell of my body feels as if it is going to explode from the force of the pain. If there was a god, I would spit in his face for subjecting me to this. If there was a devil, I would sell him my soul to make it end. If there was something horrible, I would sell him my soul to make it end. If there was a fire that controlled our individual fates, I would tell it to take my fate and shove it up its fucking ass. Shove it hard and far, you motherfucker. Please end. Please end. Please end. The vacuum sucks and the instrument scrapes and I endure. The interior of the canal is cleaned and drained and I endure. The canal is filled with new flesh and the root is protected and I endure. There is putty and blue light and a sander. Putty and blue light and a sander. Putty and blue light and a sander. I endure. I'm somewhere in Minnesota and I'm a patient at a drug and a drugstore. I'm at the New York Alcohol Treatment Center and I'm having my front four teeth rebuilt and I'm strapped into a chair because I can't have any anesthesia. All I can do is endure. I feel water flowing off what must be teeth and the last of the grit washes down my throat. The cotton is removed from my cheeks and my gums and I hear muffled voices and the sink is running and cabinet doors are opening. Closing. I open my eyes. I see flashes of white and I have trouble focusing. The halogen is still on. There is movement and the halogen is off and something moves away from me and other things move toward me. I hear the buckles on the straps release and the straps are pulled off and the book is removed and my body is now free to move and function as it wishes. I am immediately cold and I am immediately shaking. I try to sit up and I am unable to sit up. I try to lift my head and I am unable to lift my head. I try to focus my eyes and my eyes won't focus. I'm cold and getting colder. I'm starting to shake harder. I'm still clutching the tennis balls. The agony has yet to subside. Someone lifts me and wraps a blanket around me. The blanket is warm and the warmth brings on an intense nausea and I can feel it coming and there's nothing I can do to stop it and it comes. It comes easily and somehow it's coming loosens my stomach and my lungs and my torso and although I still can't focus my eyes I can see that it's red. It comes and comes and comes. Red, red, red. All over the blanket, all over the chair, all over the floor, all over myself. I let go of the tennis balls and I try to lift my hand to wipe my face but my hand is shaking and my face is shaking and I can't make them meet. My hand falls to my side. Get some more blankets and get some water, hurry. I lie back on the chair. Are you okay, James? I moan. Can you understand me? I moan again. Not yes. You need to go to the hospital. I'm going to call an ambulance. I don't want to go to a hospital. So I gather whatever strength I have and I push myself up and I open my eyes. Dr. Stevens is standing in front of me. No hospital. You need medical attention. Attention we can't give you. Chair. Chair. What? Lower the chair. Dr. Stevens lowers the chair. I put my feet on the floor. I am cold and I am shaking and everything hurts. I'm sick of doctors and dentists and nurses and chairs and tests and halogen lights and instruments and clean rooms and sterile sinks and bloody procedures and I'm sick of the attention the weak and the injured and the needy receive. And I don't want to go to a hospital. I have always dealt with pain alone. I will deal with it alone now. Get Hank and get me back to the clinic. You need medical attention. I'll be fine. If you leave here, it will be against my direct advice. I understand. I push myself from the chair. The muscles in my legs are twitching and my legs are unsteady. I take a small, slow step and I stop. I take the blanket off and I drop it on the chair and I take another small, slow step and I stop. Can you make it? Yeah. Do you need help? No. My eyes are focusing and my stomach is settled. I'm still shaking and I'm still cold and I'm still hurting but being away from the chair is very difficult. What do you need? I'm so tired. My hands are cold. I feel like I'm going to die. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Being away from the chair makes me feel better. I look at the door. If I can get to the door, I'm closer to being out of here. I want to be out of here. I take another step. My legs are jelly. Another step. They weigh a million pounds apiece. Another step. They hurt. Another step. They throb. Another step. Each movement is a titanic effort. Another step. After each, I don't know if I can do it again. Dr. Stevens is watching me, and the nurses have returned, and they are watching me, and I know if I falter, I go to the hospital. Another step. Another step. I get to the door, and I stop. To my right. To my right is a mirror. I glance toward it and catch a glimpse of myself. I am white as chalk. My face is hideously swollen. The area around my mouth is splattered with flakes of dried blood. There are stitches protruding from my lower lip, and my eyes are black. There is bandage across the bridge of my nose. I am too thin for my frame, and what flesh I have is loose. I am too thin for my frame, and what flesh I have is loose. I am too thin for my frame, and what flesh I have is loose. The white T-shirt I'm wearing is caked with brown and red vomit stains. The tan pants I'm wearing are caked with brown and red vomit stains. The tan pants I'm wearing are caked with brown and red vomit stains. I look like a fucking monster. I turn to Dr. Stevens and the nurses. The nurses look away. Dr. Stevens does not. I speak slowly. Thank you for helping me. No problem. It's what I do. I'm not what you do. You went beyond what you do today. Thank you. Dr. Stevens smiles. No problem. I smile back. It is my first smile with my new teeth. I'm amused by this, and I smile wider, and I point toward my mouth. Dr. Stevens laughs, and he walks toward me. Dr. Stevens laughs, and he walks toward me. He puts his arms around me, and he hugs me. Dr. Stevens laughs, and he walks toward me. He puts his arms around me, and he hugs me. We are two men who have just been through a terrible ordeal together. Although it was worse for me, I know it wasn't easy for him. This hug is our bond. Our bond to learn from what we have just been through and become better and stronger because of it. I know he will keep the bond. I don't know if I can. I pull away. Dr. Stevens laughs. Thanks, Dr. Stevens. Thanks again. Take care of yourself, James. I'll try. I turn, and I slowly walk away, and I don't look back. It has always been a fault of mine, but it is the way I am. I never look back. Never. I move down a hallway, gripping the side of the wall for support. Each step is more difficult than the last. Each step hurts more. My face is throbbing to the rhythm of my heart. The rhythm of my heart is not as strong or as steady as it was. It is speeding up and slowing down, beating with irregular strength, sending sharp messages through my left arm and my jaw. It held when it needed to hold, but it's not going to hold much longer. I'm not going to hold much longer. I get to a door and I push it, and I walk through it and into the waiting room. Hank is sitting on a couch chatting with an elderly woman, and when they look up, the elderly woman gasps. Hank stands and he walks over to me and I put my hand on his shoulder. Without his shoulder, I would fall. Jesus Christ, get me out of here. You all right? Not even close. What can I do? Get me the fuck out of here. Hank puts my jacket on and he places my arm around his shoulder and his arm around my shoulder, and he holds me up and we leave the office and we walk down the stairs. When we get to the bottom, my legs stop functioning and Hank drags me toward the door. He leans me against it and he pushes it open and he pulls me outside. The stairs are full of people. The storm, which was growing when we entered, is now raging. The wind is whipping sheets of frozen rain and sleet through the air. The sky is black. There is shattering thunder and shocks of lightning. Hank drags me toward the van and my feet drag along the cold and wet of the ground and the cold and the wet soak into my shoes. When we get to the van, he leans me against the passenger door. Can you stand? He reaches into his pocket for the keys. Yeah, but hurry. He pulls the keys from his pocket and he unlocks the van and he opens the sliding side door and he helps me through and he sets me down on the length of the three-man seat and he shuts the door and he runs around to the driver's door and he opens it and he climbs inside the van. He sits down and he puts the keys in the ignition and he starts the engine and the van. The van pulls out. As we drive through town, I lie on my back and I shake and I freeze. My heart beats irregularly and it hurts. The bayonet is in my mouth and I'm tired beyond exhaustion. I'm going back to the clinic and I don't want to go back to the clinic. If I leave the clinic, there is either death or jail. This is not the life I want or who I want to be. Threats I have never imagined spinning. It's common tree experience. Doing blood transfusionDoes not necessarily stuffing my chest. But for me to freeze and have to kontrol it can be quite a murder. Whether què is good or evil, At the end of the tunnel, I would run to it. I am an alcoholic, and I am a drug addict, and I am a criminal. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. After a few moments, the van is flooded with heat, and the heat slows the shaking and kills the freezing, and I'm tired beyond exhaustion, and I close my eyes. It is dark. I close my eyes. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. I close my eyes. It is dark. I close my eyes. There's no light. I close my eyes. Dark. I close my eyes. I close my eyes. I close my eyes. I'm in another white room, and I hate it. I'm in another white robe, and I want to tear it to shreds. There is another bed, and another desk, and another chair, and I want to destroy them. There is a window. I want to throw myself through it. I follow my usual routine. Crawl to the bathroom. Bonnet. Lie on the floor. Vomit, lie on the floor. Vomit, lie on the floor. Some of the vomit gets stuck in my new teeth, and it hurts cleaning it out. After the cleaning, I vomit again, and I clean again, and I crawl back to bed. I get out of bed. My clothes have been washed, and they are sitting on the desk. I take off the robe, and I put them on. They are looser today than they were yesterday. I open the door, and I walk out, and I'm on the medical unit. I walk out of the medical unit, and I make my way through the halls. I go to the job board, and I see my name is still listed next to the group toilets. I get the cleaning supplies, and I go to the group toilets, and they haven't been cleaned in a couple of days, and they are disgusting. I start cleaning. It is a foul endeavor. I vomit twice, and I have to clean my own vomit as well as the spit and the piss and the bloody tissue and the shit. When I am done, and the walls and the sink and the floor and the garbage can and the porcelain are sparkling, I feel no sense of accomplishment or satisfaction. I leave the group toilets, and I return the cleaning supplies, and I walk to my room. I open the door, and I step inside. The furniture I destroyed has been replaced. Larry has been replaced. There is a short, bald man in his bed, and the short, bald man is snoring. Warren and John are sleeping in their beds. John is mumbling and twitching. Warren is still. A Bible and a copy of the Alcoholics Anonymous big book have been placed on the nightstand next to it. I walk to the nightstand and pick up the Bible and the big book, and I go to the window, and I open the window, and I throw the books into the darkness outside. I walk over to the mirror. I want to see myself. I want to look into the pale green of my eyes and see not my physical self, but the self that lives beneath. I look at my lips. They are slightly swollen, but... almost... normal. I look at the stitches and the hole. The hole is starting to heal. The stitches are doing their job. I look at my nose. I take the bandage off, and I throw the bandage in the garbage can. My nose is straight, though there is a new bump along its ridge. I look at the area beneath my eyes. The black is starting to fade and is turning yellow. The swelling is nearly gone. I start... I start to look up. I want to look into the pale green of my eyes. I want to see not my physical self, but the self that lives beneath. I move closer. Closer. I want to look into the pale green of my eyes. I want to look into the self that lives beneath. Closer. Closer. I can't do it. No fucking way. I turn away. And I walk to the shower. And I step into the shower. And I am pummeled by the heat. It burns me. And it turns my skin red. And it hurts. But I won't step away from it. I deserve this hurt for not being brave enough to look at myself. I deserve this hurt. And I will stand. And I will take it because I am not brave enough to look into my own eyes.