Rehab

Oh boy. I'm sitting stunned. I'm here, I've got The Dresden Dolls singing "Boston" to me, and I'm not too brain-damaged. I'm 22. When I was twelve, all I could dream of was being an adult. By the time I hit eighteen, I was so messed up, I was in for a few bad years. But, all total, that gives me twenty two bad years. I don't want that, but I've got it. I just left a quick-detox stay on the second floor of Meridian in Ball hospital. It was bad. An accidental OD landed me there, and I spent the first two days drugged up, miserable at having exposed my relapse and lost everything I've worked for in the past three years in the relationship department. Then my blood pressure dropped to 40/70 and they took me off the detox drugs. Three sleepless nights, mitigated mightily by the friends I made. Believe it or not, I laughed more in the psych wing than I have anywhere, for a long time. You have to laugh. If you ever end up in rehab, or the psych wing of where ever, here are some tips. If someone is brought a CD, they're going to play it in the main room constantly. So be that person, and you won't have three days of Nickelback and Godsmack to sit through. And, ironic enough, Metallica's "Sanitarium" Cops are not for punching. If someone gives you a problem about meds, go find the prescribing doc or NP. They'll clear it up. If your roommate hits on you repeatedly, you get your own room. The nice kind, not the kind where you're not allowed to have your belongings, and they lock you in. More may be added as they occur.