The Underground Man Part 3

Turning Point: Yearning for Connection and the Struggle for Recovery

Happy weekend! Here’s the third installment of the Underground Man series. I had an idea for new illustrations last night in a dream. I’m dreaming a lot more lately. Is that happening to anyone else? All theories of grand conspiracies and ecological warnings are welcome in the comments.

“What brings you in today, sir?” said the charge nurse as I signed myself into the waiting room.

Let’s see…“Unexpected cash shortage,” “fear of being kidnapped,” “Suspected of criminal activity,” “morally bankrupt"—no. Something clear, self-explanatory, that will force them to keep me… Atop my list of fears that day was this lady rejecting me, condemning me to return to a life that had turned on its host, sentencing me to the real consequences of my actions without access to chemical relief, for which my soul was thrashing.

A sign next to the desk read, “NO VISITORS PAST THIS POINT DUE TO COVID-19 PROTOCOL.” The sign made me remember having to follow the same protocol throughout my stay in the neural ICU. “Typically you’d be admitted to the general hospital for additional monitoring,” said the ICU nurse. “But the hospital is full, so we are discharging you early.” The people around me in the waiting room were in a different, more obvious, physical agony. One woman moaned, An older, ripe-smelling man hacked on excess mucus, others paced and a young woman in a sorority sweatshirt squeezed her temples. If they wouldn’t keep me after the stroke, why would they even admit me now when I couldn’t point to anything that hurt, except being alive.

“Suicide ideation.” I said, and was told to take a seat. Someone would call my name.

I was still afraid all the help I would eventually get was a quick consult and maybe a brochure for community services. That didn’t sound like help at all. Faced with that outcome, I had to consider that my next step might have to be getting myself arrested. Freedom can take on strange shapes when alcohol stops working. With nothing left to quiet the obsessive mind, you turn against your own desire to be autonomous.

I listened with my eyes closed, waiting for them to call my name. At one point, a platoon of heavy boots marched through the lobby behind me. Rubber soles chirped against the tile, the sound of reinforcements. Anxious they might be there for me, I shut my eyes tighter and pleaded privately. Please not me. I promise to change this time. As if…

An automatic door buzzed and clacked loudly. Every muscle in my body contracted. A woman’s screams escaped like liberated ghosts. The doors closed, and the footsteps of the booted crew gave way to more screams, this time muffled and worse. Someone clearly did not want the help. I wanted to raise my hand, to volunteer to trade places. An exchange seemed reasonable.

An ER nurse called my last name, took my illegible forms and shelved me in a cold, bare room. “Hang in there," she said. “We have to treat folks according to urgency.” I smiled at her, relieved. Just leave and forget that I’m here. I wanted to be the kid who falls asleep on the school bus and misses his stop.

When, finally, a social worker arrived, I faced another challenge. Social workers are mandated to report when someone’s life is in danger. What if they concluded that my children were in danger? How could they not be? Would we lose custody? I pictured Natasha greeted at the front door by CPS, completely unaware, the kids yanked away from her. Whatever I said would have to sound severe enough, but not so severe that I’d need to hire an attorney. “Enough” was not one of my assets. Forever too much or too little. That’s me.

The woman social worker looked at me with pity. She shook her head, removed her glasses and wiped away tears. Her sympathy touched my nerve. She left the room for a second and when she returned she brought with her a brochure, printed with the words “STREET SHEET,” on the cover. My fears had come true.

The photocopied page listed fifty institutions, each specializing in something different: mental health, food pantries, shelters, domestic abuse, faith-based vs. non-faith-based. “Where do you want to go?” she said. My face fell. My insurance policy was only hours old. What’s the difference between detox and rehab, sober living? What does “halfway house” mean? She said she’d be back in about twenty minutes for my decision. “We don’t have the resources you need here,” she said in a tone that I wouldn’t misunderstand.

A string of thoughts scolded me. My chest tightened and I cried real tears for the first time in months. Only two outcomes seemed possible. One was a version of rehab I had only seen on TV, a beachside building, minimalist, with white linens and shaman-led, group therapy in a circle of yoga mats, under some gazebo lined with Tibetan prayer flags. The other involved disappearing into some hobo gang, getting my teeth kicked in by a railroad cop, and eventually being murdered over a can of Alpo. Suddenly, one sentence emerged from all of the mental fog and external commotion. “Fucked up or not, your decisions are the problem.”

I got quiet, and just breathed. Soon she returned pre-occupied with new arrivals, eyes still pink from my story. That’s when I took my best shot. “I feel totally useless to everyone,” I said. “When I wake up in the morning, I’m angry to still be alive. It’s exhausting. If I don’t get help, I’m going to die.” I handed her back the brochure. “Thank you for this, but I don’t even know where to start. If I was your son, or husband, where would you send me? What should I do?” She looked at me, then down at the paper.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “No guarantees, but give me five minutes to see what I can do.” Whatever she did worked, because some paramedics arrived and wheeled me off to an ambulance. The sky was dark and the air a windy, shivering cold. It was like being packed up and shipped out to some remote post. I still didn’t know what to expect. My conversation with the social worker had done something to me that I didn’t yet understand. It wasn’t the first time I’d talked to a professional, but it may have been the first time I hadn’t lied.

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