"We’ve compromised our pride
And sacrificed our health
We must demand more not from each other
But more from ourselves"
-Jewel "Deep Water"
I’m not quite sure what woke me up the next morning. I knew as soon as I did, I wished I hadn’t. My body ached like I had been beaten with a lead pipe, and my head felt stuffed with cotton. The simple act of stretching hurt beyond belief.
"Good morning, Mr. Littrell," a voice said, in an accent I couldn’t quite place. I half opened my eyes carefully. I was confronted by what had to be a vision, a hallucination, the most perfect example of humanity to ever exist.
"I’d think I was dreaming, because you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life, except the pain’s telling me I’m completely and irrevocably awake," I croaked out. She laughed, and her voice had a musical quality, like water running over pebbles.
"I’m not special," she said. "In my country, all the women look like me." I opened my eyes a little wider to inspect her more fully. I wasn’t joking when I said she was perfect. She sat on a chair next to my bed, her posture straight, her head held high. She had long dark hair that reached to her waist, and her dark skin was smooth and clear. Her eyes were wide and expressive, her neck long and slender, her hands perfectly kept. But what caught my attention the most was the calm, serene expression on her face. Like nothing could or ever would disturb her. The kind of serenity Buddhist monks isolate themselves on remote mountain tops to achieve. The kind of serenity I thought only existed in the words of self-help books and motivational speakers. The kind of serenity I so desperately craved.
"Then the men in your country are the luckiest in the world," I said. She laughed again and it was the most soothing sound.
"My name is Makini." She pointed to her nametag. Underneath it read "nurses’ aide."
"Makini." I rolled the word around my mouth. "That’s beautiful. You know mine." She nodded.
"Would you like me to draw back the curtains?" she asked. I shook my head slightly.
"No the light kind of hurts."
"Yes, that’s to be expected at first." I blinked.
"So why do I feel like I’ve run a marathon with an elephant on my back?" I asked her. She leaned over slightly to brush the hair out of my face.
"It’s called abstinence syndrome, otherwise known as withdrawal," she said. Withdrawal? I was going through withdrawal? It seemed unbelievable. It’s not like I was a heroin addict.
"The symptoms are much more serious for barbituate withdrawal." That’s when it really hit home. I’d been so blissful, living in denial. I mean, a part of me was aware of every detail, but I’d done a bang-up job of suppressing it. But now it was in the open. Spoken aloud. Waiting for me to acknowledge it.
"What happened last night?" I asked softly.
"Yesterday was the first day of your recovery. But after almost two years of relying on the drug, your cells have come to accept it as a vital part of you, like the food you ingest or the water you imbibe. Our bodies are natural self-healers, existing in a dynamic equilibrium. So your body, used to the intake of the barbituate, has created in advance the enzymes necessary to remove it. But when it didn’t enter your system, you body reacted to the enzyme." I tried to take in the medical explanation she offered, but it was difficult to think straight.
"I got a shot…" I tried to remember. She nodded.
"A synthetic benzodiazepine compound. Similar in chemical make-up to the depressant you’d been taking, but in a much lower dosage. For a few weeks I think it would be best to continue as such."
"So I’m not quitting cold turkey?" I asked. She shook her head.
"It’ll be easier this way."
"You’re the professional," I said. "So, um, what can I do to get rid of this pounding headache? Can I get some aspirin?" She shook her head again.
"I can get you some chamomile tea, with a little gingko biloba. Some toast." I groaned.
"No Tylenol? No warm glass of milk?"
"No drugs, no dairy products. No sweets." No dairy products?
"Wait, no cheese?" I asked.
"We have to alter your diet completely."
"I don’t know about this," I whined. "I can’t live without cheese!" She laughed lightly.
"A hard sacrifice, I know, but it’ll make the process easier."
"So what can I eat?" I asked, dreading the response.
"Brown rice. Whole wheat. Green, leafy vegetables."
"Well, hell, at least I’ll be regular," I muttered, placing my hand over my eyes.
"It’s not going to be easy," she said. "But that’s what makes it worth it."
"Ugh, I guess," I pouted. She reached over to tousle my hair.
"You’re cute when you sulk," she teased. I moved my hand to look at her.
"Where are you from?" I asked. The accent was bugging me.
"Somalia. I was born and raised there, but I left about six years ago."
"Somalia… the Horn of Africa," I remarked, remembering what little I knew of world politics. She looked somewhat surprised.
"Hey, behind this adorable face lies a sharp mind," I said, grinning.
"I guess so," she replied, trying to hide her smile.
"So why’d you leave?" She shrugged, her shoulder rising elegantly before settling again.
"The usual reasons. And I wanted a better life for my daughter."
"Is it bad there?"
"It can be, for women." I thought about her statement for a minute. There was this whole world out there that I wasn’t aware of, I realized. Whole universes that existed outside of my reality. And it was so possible to never even know about them. I looked up to see Makini watching me with a quizzical look on her face.
"Just thinking," I said. "So, um, what’s on the agenda for today? Do I have to go to meetings and talk about my feelings?"
"If you want, but it’s not required. This isn’t NA, we don’t make you stand up in front of a group and proclaim that you’re an addict. We don’t approve of that sort of negative reinforcement." I nodded.
"Here are Brookview, we like to see you help yourself. We make accessible the tools for your recovery, but it’s up to you to use them."
"So I could sit in my room all day if I wanted?"
"If you wanted."
"Would you stay here with me?"
"I could, for part of the time, but there are other things I need to attend to. And I might suggest, it would be better for you to be out and about."
"I don’t think I can even walk right now." She smiled.
"Think if it as the day after your first concert. You’re just a little sore, but with a little motion, you’ll loosen up." I hesitated, not quite sure how open I wanted to be with her.
"Um, well…"
"I know, you’re scared." I didn’t say anything. "And you’re concerned what others might think of you." I looked at her, astonished.
"How do you people do that?" I asked in disbelief. "It’s like you read my mind or something." She smiled.
"You wear your heart on your sleeve, Brian. May I call you that?" I nodded. "And your face is like an open book. I know how you’re feeling; I’ve seen it before. We get all types of people coming through here, in all stages of recovery. But what everyone has in common is fear. You’re afraid of the unknown, and it’s not abnormal. We live in this society that teaches us to bottle up our emotions and present a façade to the world. But you don’t have to do that here. Feel free to admit that you’re scared, or upset, or angry or appalled or resentful. You’ll find that everyone else feels the same way."
"But I’m not, I mean, it’s hard. I live in the public eye. There are just so many things I have to take into consideration."
"Everything here is strictly confidential. Not a word of what happens here, or who comes through here, leaves these grounds. Our staff knows that, our patients understand that. Besides, you’ll find out soon enough, most people here are too wrapped up in their own problems to even think about it. We’re all here to heal the part of ourselves that got broken, to find that part of ourselves that got lost." Her words had a calming effect on the inner turmoil that engulfed me. They made me feel stronger than I had been feeling recently. Maybe I’d be able to work through this.
"What does your name mean?" I’m not sure what made me ask that, but it seemed like something important.
"Full of peace," she said.
Of course. Could it be anything else?
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