Ned Is Dead

Day 0: Life Before Rehab

Ned is dead. Not in the heart-not-beating-breathing-has-stopped kinda way. The way you and I are: inside. Staring at the clock. Waiting for another day to end.

Each day starts the same bleak way. The alarm screams too loudly too early after sleeping too little. Shuffling into the bathroom, Ned stares at the toothbrush he hasn’t used in months. The tooth pain stopped weeks ago. The nerve is dead. Just like Ned.

Ned is dead.

Like Ned, the tooth is rotting inside. Dying for a chance to be pulled. Removed from the job its not fulfilling. Ned hans’t chewed on the left side of his mouth for a long time. Too long to count. Too long to care at least.

The garbage can.

That’s a more appropriate place. The toothbrush drops into the abyss leading to a long, decomposing life six feet under in a landfill.

Opening the medicine cabinet, Ned stares at the bottle of anti-depressants. The doctor just increased his dose. 20mg of Escitalopram. His state insurance didn’t cover anything name brand.

“This is the strongest dose I can prescribe you.” The doctor warned. “Are you still seeing your therapist?”

Ned stared through the doctor and nodded obediently but hollowly.

Every week.

Being born with fewer dopamine receptors, a shortage of serotonin, a childhood filled with abuse - physical, mental, emotional, sexual and spiritual - a history of head trauma, poor coping mechanisms and partners who only blamed him for his mental illness had taken its toll on Ned.

And drinking. Don’t forget the drinking.

Or drugging.

Ned is dead.

Ned knows recovery is possible but fill-in-the-blank years of trying and years of therapy convinced him otherwise.

“Years?” Ned thinks. “Guess it’s been decades now.”

Day 1: Orientation

Today is the day. Today Ned checks into rehab. As Ned drives down the long driveway he can’t help but notice the beauty of the facility. The only green spots in the dead, yellow grass are sparse patches of moss. The onsite owner’s elderly dog struggles to squeeze out a tiny turd comprised of the soft mush his frail teeth can chew.

The only comfort Ned feels is from a few personal belongings. An electric guitar (no amp, of course), iPod, playing cards and a couple books: “Fight Club” by Chuck Palahniuk and “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” by Ken Kesey.

“At least I won’t be bored. It’s only 28 days.” Ned thinks.

A man comes out and meets Ned at the locked gate leading to the facility. The gate is rusted and tired - telling stories of past glory. Just like the patients at Raindance Treatment Center. The gate groans and squeals open for the man.

“Hello!” The man says flashing a mostly toothless grin. He obviously is a recovering addict like most the staff. “You can call me Cake.”

Ned nods hello back. He doesn’t want to know why the man is called Cake.

“I’ll be checking you in today. Follow me to the admin building.” Cake points to a stand-alone building apart from the rest of the facility. Judging by its better condition it must have been built more recently than the main building. “This building is for staff only. Off limits to patients after check-in. C’mon in!” Cake offers another jack-o-lantern smile. Or the owners care more about keeping the staff comfortable during their shift than where the patients live 24-7 for 28 days.

Instead of flat, grimy walls are cutting edge architectural, freshly painted walls, rather than barred windows with broken blinds are windows able to be fully opened, a welcoming atmosphere in place of the clink, heaven vs hell.

Ned is greeted by a spacious, plush office. Desks, tables and cabinets made with mahogany, the most up-to-date office equipment and exotic plants decorate the office like fine art. Ned grimaces as he hears Green Days’ latest hit playing over the lobby speakers.

“Check-in is this way.” Cake leads Ned into a nearby corner office.

Inside the office is more of the same. Opulent designer furniture with a price tag far beyond its worth, framed art and pictures of a group of douchey frat boys from Gonzaga. You know, status symbols.

Ned struggles to find which collegiate twat Cake used to be before addiction and recovery.

“Nah, those aren’t me.” Cake follows Ned’s gaze. “I usually don’t work in admin. I’m just helping today.”

Of course. This idiot couldn’t graduate from Trump Uni let alone Gonzaga.

Ned confirms his info for the third time. First by phone, then by email and now in person with Cake. They still don’t have Ned’s last name spelled correct. Ned doesn’t bother correcting their records again. Again.

Ned is dead. Again.

Yes, Ned is here on his own volition. Yes, nobody, including law enforcement is coercing Ned to be here. Yes, that is Ned’s date of birth. Yes, Ned is free of suicidal thoughts.

Liar.

Yes, Ned is using state insurance to pay. Yes, Ned thinks Cake’s personal anecdotes are funny. Yes. Yes. Ned nods his zombie head. He stopped caring what the questions were after the third question.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

…Yes.

“Kill me.” Ned thinks.

Ned is dead.

“Okay, that wraps ‘er up!” Cake says satisfactorily. Opening one of the drawers, Cake puts a half empty jar of Vaseline on the desk. “Oh, don’t you worry none about that.” He apologizes seeing Ned’s wide-eyed stare piercing the Vaseline jar.

Thank god.

“Think of the jar as half full! Plenty for all! Everybody gets a full cavity search when they enter Raindance.” Cake is too excited while saying this.

As Cake stretches a blue latex glove over his hand, Ned tries to go to his happy place. Like Ned, his happy place is dead. Killed long ago by years of sex, drugs and debauchery. All Ned could do is focus on the music streaming from the lobby. But that offered no comfort.

I am the god of fuck

I am the god of fuck

(Go on and smile, you cunt)

Virgins sold in quantity

Herded by heredity

Redneck, burnout, midwest mind

Who said date rape isn’t kind?

Porno nation, evaluation

What’s this, time for segregation

Libido, libido fascination

Too much oral defecation

White trash get down on your knees

Time for cake and sodomy

White trash get down on your knees

Time for cake and sodomy

Time for cake and sodomy

Time for cake and sodomy

I am the god of fuck

I am the god of fuck

VCRs and Vaseline

TV fucked by plastic queens

Cash in hand and dick on screen

Who said God was ever clean?

Bible belt ‘round Anglo waist

Putting sinners in their place

Yeah right, great, if you’re so good

Explain the shit stains on your face

White trash get down on your knees

Time for cake and sodomy

White trash get down on your knees

Time for cake and sodomy

Time for cake and sodomy

Time for cake and sodomy

White trash get down on your knees

Time for cake and sodomy

White trash get down on your knees

Time for cake and sodomy

Yeah

Time for cake and sodomy

Time for cake and sodomy*

Ned is dead.

*Cake and Sodomy by Marilyn Manson

Day 14: Surrender Story

Heavy doors slam shut signaling the start of lecture. B7. As riveting as geriatric bingo. G51. The only hope for excitement is somebody’s heart finally giving out. Or an aneurysm bursting. I19.

“Hope it’s me.” Ned thinks.

Ned is dead.

Today the lecture is on opiates and meth. Again. Ned feels all the air get sucked out of the room from the collective sign. Again.

There it is. You know what I’m talking about. It’s been used so many times it might as well be a stock photo. Maybe it is. Faces of meth. Sally has smoked meth for 18 months. A yellow skeleton of who she used to be. Billy snorted meth for 3 months. Pick sores cover his face and his once luscious, wavy, blonde locks have thinned and become brittle. His DIY haircut isn’t helping either. Ten different woman stare at you with hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks. You wouldn’t believe it’s the same person if you hadn’t seen Gina’s slide before. Mug shots over a decade. No two successive photos look like the same woman. Gina looks like she aged 30 years, not 10. We get it. Meth is bad, mmkay?.

Ned shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Trying to ignore his dishonesty to family, friends, group members and his counselor. Ned is a garbage can. Sure alcohol is his drug of choice and the main source of his problems but Ned will take any drug offered to him. Coke, weed, shrooms, acid, pills, heroin. But meth? Not meth. Meth has a special kind of judgement harsher than other drugs. Ned can’t fess up to using meth for the past few months. It started at a concert. Ned was checking out a local Seattle band, Cryptamnesia, a self-styled ‘Monster Rock’ band when he met Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.

Dum is Dee’s son - both tweekers. One is never without the other. A beautiful co-dependency. Dee is only 25 but somehow looks like he is in his 40’s and teens simultaneously. A babyface stretched and wrinkled against his skull ruin his boyish good looks. His home-customized clothing rings of youth but, like him, is worn and tired. Despite abusing meth for most of three decades, Dum still looks his 40-something years old and could easily pass for a Jason Stathem look-alike.

Ned started abusing his Adderall prescription earlier in the year and could only inconsistently find somebody selling. He needed a more regular supply. Ned hated the five day withdrawal of sleeping and eating too much. Nothing else existed in those five days. Drinking without amphetamines lost its luster too. Ned no longer enjoyed the effects of alcohol without speed. It made him too slow, too sloppy and too sleepy. Especially since he started drinking at 10:00 in the morning.

Like the spray of a cat marking its territory, Dum could smell the stim junky in Ned. Maybe it was the overt, dilated eyes or the exaggerated and too frequent movements. Whatever it was, Dum knew. Ned was spiraling well on his way to rock bottom when Dum offered him a small shard. Most people don’t care or choose not to understand why one would even try meth. Makes it easier to judge and condemn. To feel superior. If you’ve never reached the level of ‘fuck it’ to do meth, keep digging. You’ll find it eventually.

B2. The lecture is on opiates now. Oxycontin. Bad. Morphine. Bad. Heroin. Bad. Fentanyl. Really bad, mmkay?. The lecturer goes for a cheap laugh by mocking opiate addicts and pantomiming nodding out. Bored and no longer overstimulated, his audience laughs heartily at his routine. It seems a little too familiar.

Abscesses. Those yummy chunks of black, dead, necrotizing skin. You can tell the needle-users from the non-needle-users by the amount of squirming they do. It’s amazing how long you can ignore a chunk of you dying and needing to be cut out. Ned doesn’t know which is worse: the grand canyon left behind or the puss-y, oozy, swampy blackness spreading up and down arms and chests of our society’s most desperate.

Cue the surrender story. This is when the lecturer goes balls out for the academy award. Like amateur hour doing Shakespeare, or an unrehearsed middle school production of ‘Days of Our Lives’. The stories are powerful and always dreadful. However, the lecturers always get caught up and repeat themselves and drone on and on. And repeat. And repeat. Repeat.

This lecture is brought to you by Alexi, the letter M and the number 3. Alexi is hopefully somewhere the middle of his surrender and building up to his climax.

“I promised myself I’d never do heroin. I’d never do hard drugs. Pills come from a doctor. Pills are manufactured in top of the line laboratories. Vicodin, percs. They’re medicine. They’re used to treat pain. Prescribed by doctors all over the world. I have pain. I have a doctor. Hell, he even prescribed them to me after I broke my collar bone.”

Alexi is physically capable of seeing his captive audience but apparently incapable of seeing he lost them long ago. Maybe he thought they were pretending to nod out as well. You’ll never believe this, but Alexi has been through the same shit as every other addict. He stole from loved ones. He was physically and verbally abusive. He slept on the streets. He robbed people. He got robbed. Went without food. All the cliches. Then out of left field:

“So I’m sticking a needle in my asshole.”

Ned is dead. But interested.

Day 17: Numb

Procrastination. Or being numb? Maybe isolation. Guess they all go hand-in-hand to make the addict go round. Ever been so numb you weren’t sure you existed? Have another drink. Do another line. You can get there. I believe in you. Just takes some dedication.

The thing about being numb is time stops.

The concept of time seems foreign. A bunch of meaningless gibberish that also doesn’t matter. Glimpse the void. Go ahead. Get lost in a nihilistic fugue state.

When you finally snap back to reality you just want to scream. Not again. Not here again. Anything. You’ll give anything to feel anything again. Pain. Pleasure. Love. Loss. Anything.

Anything.

Ned is dead.

Ironically, at one point Ned increased his use to reach numb. To avoid those uncomfortable, awkward, painful feelings. Now Ned pines to feel that pain again. Anything.

Ned is numb.

Ned thinks he is dead.

“it takes time.”

Who said that? Ned snaps back to reality.

“Recovery, healing, getting better is a journey that chooses its’ own time. You can’t rush it.”

Time? What is time?

Ned brings his unfocused stare back into the room. Blinking a few times, Ned sees his group members and counselor sitting in the beige room adorned with vapid motivational posters staring condescendingly at him. The counselor - Ned didn’t bother trying to remember his name - was coaching Crazy Eyes through the same problem Ned is experiencing.

How long is this group session going to last? Ned’s boredom brought the concept of time into sharp focus. Looking out the window, Ned sees Cake mowing the lawn. Ned shudders.

Ned is dead.

“Alright, let’s wrap up for today.” The group members, the counselor and Ned stand up, move together to form a close circle, arms over each others’ shoulders and recite the Serenity Prayer for the seventh time today.

God

Grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change

Courage to change the things I can and

Wisdom to know the difference.

Then the emphatic stomp to drive home this point.

Day 28: Graduation

Never thought the day would come. 28 grueling days of enough boredom to force the deep introspection necessary to start recovery. The kind that turns the hardest, most stoic man into a snot-fanged, blubbering mess when it’s time to share. The level of personal honesty rich-prick, suburban soccer moms pay premium dollars to yes-man therapists to avoid examining. Shit, Ned was one of those soccer moms at one point.

Ned caught his roommate psyching himself up in the bathroom, berating himself not to get emotional. These guys. The man’s man. Emotionless. Unafraid. Not needing this touchy-feely share session. They always cried the hardest. Finally allowing themselves to feel a lifetime of stuffed emotions.

Boring.

And Ned thought he wouldn’t be bored.

Ned is dead.

The list of do’s and don’ts for graduation is exhaustive. Do keep it brief. Do thank god - oops, your “higher power”. Do tell yourself and your fellow rehabees that this is the time you’re finally gonna beat the drugs and stay sober. Lucky number 6… 7… 8… whatever. Don’t swear. Don’t say anything divisive. Do thank the staff. All these rules result in this: every-fucking-body’s graduation speech looks and sounds exactly the same.

“Well brothers, here I am. Know I couldn’t have made it without all of you. Blah blah boring. I’d like to give a special thanks to my counselor and group members. *Yawn* And, of course, give it up to God. Keep praying brothers!”

Ned has something else in mind. Not one for speeches, Ned decided to close out his stint at rehab with a single action. No words. Of course this means Raindance will withhold and cancel his graduation. Fortunately, that only matters if you’re court-ordered to attend and graduate. Ned is here on his own volition. Ned just wants help.

Ned is dead.

Ned doesn’t care if he doesn’t get his shiny coin and carbon copy diploma. Fuckin’ congrats! Drug free for 28 days. Which, in rehab, is harder than you might think. People get kicked out of rehab almost daily for bringing and selling drugs. But give ‘ol Nedrey a clap on the back. He avoided all his favorite drugs (read: all of them) in rehab.

“And our next graduate: Ned!”

Ned snaps back to reality. Trying to conceal a coy smile, Ned walks to center stage. He puts on a good act pantomiming he’s gonna play nice and follow the rules. His eyes scan across the room making sure all his victims are present.

What. The fuck.

Ned’s mother isn’t supposed to be here.

Ned is dead.

Oh well. Another casualty in the name of a good time. Ned clears his throat, turns his back to his audience and bares his tattooed ass for God, his mother and all his “brothers” to bare witness. There would never be a shorter, less verbose graduation at Raindance.

Day 42: Real Life

Ned was told the hardest part of recovery is leaving rehab and facing all the old habits and routines. What. A. Crock. It is hard but nothing compares to what is digging into Ned.

Step work is “heavily recommended” when leaving rehab. Currently, Ned is working on step 9:

Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

Most of Ned’s family was good enough and understanding enough to stay their hard feelings and self-righteous judgement to forgive Ned and support his new journey into sobriety. Unfortunately. Unfortunately, a few people closer than family to Ned did not believe, care or had been hurt so bad during the using days they had no interest in hearing about Ned’s new life or his apology.

Or his apology.

Ned is torn in two directions. How jaded and hard up do you have to be to refuse to accept an apology? Especially an earnest apology from a recovering addict? But, at the same time, what the fuck did Ned do to make some of those closest to him hate him so much?

Those competing thoughts plagued and haunted Ned. Time passed. 42 days became more than a year. They never forgave Ned or wanted to hear his apology. That kind of unresolved, unloving tension will wear on anybody. Would a mother refuse to hear her daughter’s apology or plea before entering rehab?

This might surprise you if you’re a normie, but YES! They would, they will and they do. That’s part of recovery. Realizing you’ve hurt the people closest to you beyond repair. And they will never forgive you or listen to your apology.

People deal with this differently. Some people have been on the other side with their loved ones. They understand some acts are unforgivable. Or time has run patience out. Others have no frame of reference but accept it. Finally, some people use it as an excuse to relapse and jump back into the lifestyle. This is Ned’s choice.

One of the myriad of problems with relapsing on hard drugs is the difficulty estimating how much shit to load into the rig. Ned is desperate to kill the feelings but not himself. Yet. And how strong and pure are the drugs? Fuck it. Kill the feelings.

As soon as Ned pushed the needle into his vein he knew it was too much. Again.

Fuck.

Ned tried standing up to get help but everything went black. Sometimes that happens. Eventually you run outta fun bucks.

Ned is dead.

“Breathe!”

Ned snaps back to reality briefly.

Then black again.

.

.

…

“Breathe!”

Ned snaps back to reality again. Ned has been brought back to life at the ER before.

Blackness. Eventually you run outta fun bucks.

“Brea…”

Ned is dead.