Post by CM Poor: DeepFigureValue on Nov 27, 2011 21:25:57 GMT -5
Four Steps Back
"Hello, my name is David, and I'm an alcoholic."
The white of the room is blinding. It is a hospital, so it makes sense, but for Christ's sake - with such blinding, pure fluorescent lighting, you'd think they could tone down the color of the room just a bit. The walls are white. The cabinets are white. The tables are white. The only off white is the gray padding on the white plastic chairs. It's too damn early for this. David's pounding headache resounds. He can hardly hear himself speak. He can hardly speak. And the others, their faces. Their eyes. Do they need to look right at him?
"Welcome, David. You're among friends, here. Why don't you tell us a bit about yourself?"
Maybe 'cause he damn well doesn't feel like it. He's here, isn't that enough? The moderator stares the most. And he smiles. Why does he have to smile? It's not comforting - it's angering. The others stare, but their eyes aren't so much like daggers. Some don't stare, not at him at least. They won't take they're eyes off the ceiling, or their shoes. They're the ones he could probably find the most solace in, but this is a meeting. Designed to clear the air. Get it out there. He may as well play along.
"Oh...um...well, what is it you want to know?"
"Well, why don't we start with your last dri..."
"NO. Not that."
"We'll come back to it. What is it that brings you here today, David?"
He smiles even as he says it. Even after he's sternly cut off and given a look that would have put some of the others into shock. It's hard not to hate him. But it isn't his fault. Well, it is. He dictates his demeanor. But he's trying to help. That should count for something.
"Well, it's...."
There's no real delicate way to put it.
"....it's my father. My dad."
"Your father. Is he a drinker?"
"No. Well, he drinks, but he....he doesn't struggle with it? Yeah. But no, he's....uh......he's in this hospital, and I saw your sign, and, well, I've been sober for a while now....four years? Four years....but I figured it couldn't hurt to drop in."
He's nervous. He's never nervous. But dammit, those lights are bright. They're never that bright. Why are they all looking at him?! He should have never come here. "Couldn't hurt to drop in" he says. Sure hurts now, doesn't it?
"Clearly your father's hospitalization is something you've developed your own struggle with, David. Why don't we move away from that for a moment? Tell us a little bit about yourself. What is it you do for work?"
"I....that is I...
He'd never really even considered it, but it sounds so stupid saying it.
"....I wrestle."
"I see. Competitively, or professionally?"
"Pr.....well, it's televised, if that's what you're asking."
Surprisingly, the moderator doesn't come out swinging with the lecture on evading the public eye. It's a central theme in the recovery mantra, but this guy seems focused on something entirely different. He's digging for something. He's still staring. Sizing David up.
"David, and forgive me if this comes off as confrontational or patronizing, but these clothes that you're wearing - are they tied into your profession somehow, or...?"
The clothes. The past 72 hours have been such a blur that he'd practically forgotten he was wearing the same outfit he'd worn into the ring at Superbrawl. But now that it had been brought up, it showed. His normally tucked in shirt was half removed. His braces were still clipped to his jeans, but hung askew at his side. One of his pant legs had come unrolled. He must have really had it in for himself to come here, to this place, to these people, looking like this.
"Well, I...yeah, I wear these in the...when I wrestle, but it's not a costume. I dress like this every day - well, not like this, but in this fashion."
"It's very vibrant. Some sort of subculture?"
"Uh...yeah. I guess you could...well, I do. I identify as a skinhead."
Some of the others recoil. People always do. The moderator sits firm. He's good. He's real good.
"It's not a Nazi thing....not like in that movie. It's...more of a punk rock thing, I guess? It's hard to explain and rather tiring if you don't mind!"
Here come the fireworks again. He's raising his voice. It must get scary - he'd never know, having never been on the receiving end, but the others, their faces show it. Gotta keep cool. Here to help. They're here to help.
"No one is here to judge you, David. We're here to help. I'm familiar with the skinhead culture. To have maintained sobriety now for four years, given that self identification, is a rather impressive feat. To those of you here unfamiliar, the subculture with which David identifies, along with I'm sure the nature of his profession, both lend themselves to a heavy exposure to substance abuse. Tell us, David - in your profession, has alcohol ever interfered with your performance?"
Just like old times. These type of questions open up the opportunity to discuss denial. To accept the existence of a problem. He's danced this dance before.
"It has, but not in this current position. I....I've only been at this a few weeks, so for the most part, it's...it's all been under the, the, the......well, the blanket of sobriety, I guess."
"'For the most part?' We still haven't quite tackled the standard question of your last drink. Are you ready to discuss that with us, David?"
"NO."
He says it loudly, sternly. But they don't recoil. The lights are dimming - not really, but they're less obstrusive. Less blinding. As their faces become clearer, the others show a different side. Some are leaning in now, intently listening. Some hang their heads, prayer being a large part of recovery for many. But the faces he can see, they all bear sympathy. He remembers this part, clear as day. It's the part where a new member of the group breaks - even if it's in a defensive manner, and the group comes to understand and sympathize. They're all in the same boat again.
"David, many people begin the road to recovery by taking full abandonment of the environment around them. Your presence here today, after four years of sobriety, is troubling to me. I'm not in the nature of drawing conclusions, but I'd like to suggest that you perhaps join us on this road once more, even if just for a small while."
"I...I can't. I've got matches to fight. I've got to win.....I lost. Three nights ago I lost my first fight. I can't lose again."
"David, what happens when the drink interferes with this job? You've told us already that there was a time when that's happened to you before. Won't losing be the least of your troubles then?"
What does this guy know?! His troubles?! Who turned those lights back up?!
"Don't talk to me about my troubles! You wouldn't know the half of it! I didn't come here for the arm around the shoulder and the road to recovery! I've got big things in the future - I'm becoming a pretty big deal at work, and the last guy I dealt with - who by the way, was way better at this then you'll ever be, told me that any time I needed any sort of guidance, the doors were open! But instead, I walk in, and I get you!
Ever steadfast, the moderator doesn't flinch. He doesn't blink.
"What's troubling you, David? Open up to us."
"I didn't come here for counseling! I just came for someone to talk to! I'm not here to open up. I lost a fight to a junkie, and now I'm in line to fight again. The opponents just keep getting bigger and bigger. At first I thought it was a game - my dad thought they were trying to kill me, but now I think he may be right. I was up against nobodies at first, but this last guy, and this next guy? These are serious names! I can't even remember them! How do you fight somebody you hardly know?"
Still doesn't flinch.
"You don't know who you're scheduled to fight next?"
David has to think. He strains. He can't come up with a name. Some loser. He lost too, didn't he? He had to have. Something to do with the weather....dammit, he was always so focused. What happened?
"I.....I know who he is, but I can't remember his name."
"You.....can't remember?"
The moderator's face flushes with a sudden dawn of realization. Everything, at that one moment, seems to fall into place and come together for him.
"David - why is your father here, in this hospital?"
"I.....he......he was attacked. Three nights ago, he was attacked."
"The same night you lost your first fight?"
David rises from his seat. His eyes, not able to open any wider, stare back at the moderator and the silent, staring others in a moment of absolute Terror. He backs away, trying to make for the door, as the moderator slowly rises and approaches him, cautious not to make any sudden movements or jolts. Before long, David finds himself backed against a wall, having missed the door by a good four feet. The moderator stops, keeping his eyes on David, carefull to keep a safe distance between the two of them.
"David.........I think it's time you told us about your last drink."
"Hello, my name is David, and I'm an alcoholic."
The white of the room is blinding. It is a hospital, so it makes sense, but for Christ's sake - with such blinding, pure fluorescent lighting, you'd think they could tone down the color of the room just a bit. The walls are white. The cabinets are white. The tables are white. The only off white is the gray padding on the white plastic chairs. It's too damn early for this. David's pounding headache resounds. He can hardly hear himself speak. He can hardly speak. And the others, their faces. Their eyes. Do they need to look right at him?
"Welcome, David. You're among friends, here. Why don't you tell us a bit about yourself?"
Maybe 'cause he damn well doesn't feel like it. He's here, isn't that enough? The moderator stares the most. And he smiles. Why does he have to smile? It's not comforting - it's angering. The others stare, but their eyes aren't so much like daggers. Some don't stare, not at him at least. They won't take they're eyes off the ceiling, or their shoes. They're the ones he could probably find the most solace in, but this is a meeting. Designed to clear the air. Get it out there. He may as well play along.
"Oh...um...well, what is it you want to know?"
"Well, why don't we start with your last dri..."
"NO. Not that."
"We'll come back to it. What is it that brings you here today, David?"
He smiles even as he says it. Even after he's sternly cut off and given a look that would have put some of the others into shock. It's hard not to hate him. But it isn't his fault. Well, it is. He dictates his demeanor. But he's trying to help. That should count for something.
"Well, it's...."
There's no real delicate way to put it.
"....it's my father. My dad."
"Your father. Is he a drinker?"
"No. Well, he drinks, but he....he doesn't struggle with it? Yeah. But no, he's....uh......he's in this hospital, and I saw your sign, and, well, I've been sober for a while now....four years? Four years....but I figured it couldn't hurt to drop in."
He's nervous. He's never nervous. But dammit, those lights are bright. They're never that bright. Why are they all looking at him?! He should have never come here. "Couldn't hurt to drop in" he says. Sure hurts now, doesn't it?
"Clearly your father's hospitalization is something you've developed your own struggle with, David. Why don't we move away from that for a moment? Tell us a little bit about yourself. What is it you do for work?"
"I....that is I...
He'd never really even considered it, but it sounds so stupid saying it.
"....I wrestle."
"I see. Competitively, or professionally?"
"Pr.....well, it's televised, if that's what you're asking."
Surprisingly, the moderator doesn't come out swinging with the lecture on evading the public eye. It's a central theme in the recovery mantra, but this guy seems focused on something entirely different. He's digging for something. He's still staring. Sizing David up.
"David, and forgive me if this comes off as confrontational or patronizing, but these clothes that you're wearing - are they tied into your profession somehow, or...?"
The clothes. The past 72 hours have been such a blur that he'd practically forgotten he was wearing the same outfit he'd worn into the ring at Superbrawl. But now that it had been brought up, it showed. His normally tucked in shirt was half removed. His braces were still clipped to his jeans, but hung askew at his side. One of his pant legs had come unrolled. He must have really had it in for himself to come here, to this place, to these people, looking like this.
"Well, I...yeah, I wear these in the...when I wrestle, but it's not a costume. I dress like this every day - well, not like this, but in this fashion."
"It's very vibrant. Some sort of subculture?"
"Uh...yeah. I guess you could...well, I do. I identify as a skinhead."
Some of the others recoil. People always do. The moderator sits firm. He's good. He's real good.
"It's not a Nazi thing....not like in that movie. It's...more of a punk rock thing, I guess? It's hard to explain and rather tiring if you don't mind!"
Here come the fireworks again. He's raising his voice. It must get scary - he'd never know, having never been on the receiving end, but the others, their faces show it. Gotta keep cool. Here to help. They're here to help.
"No one is here to judge you, David. We're here to help. I'm familiar with the skinhead culture. To have maintained sobriety now for four years, given that self identification, is a rather impressive feat. To those of you here unfamiliar, the subculture with which David identifies, along with I'm sure the nature of his profession, both lend themselves to a heavy exposure to substance abuse. Tell us, David - in your profession, has alcohol ever interfered with your performance?"
Just like old times. These type of questions open up the opportunity to discuss denial. To accept the existence of a problem. He's danced this dance before.
"It has, but not in this current position. I....I've only been at this a few weeks, so for the most part, it's...it's all been under the, the, the......well, the blanket of sobriety, I guess."
"'For the most part?' We still haven't quite tackled the standard question of your last drink. Are you ready to discuss that with us, David?"
"NO."
He says it loudly, sternly. But they don't recoil. The lights are dimming - not really, but they're less obstrusive. Less blinding. As their faces become clearer, the others show a different side. Some are leaning in now, intently listening. Some hang their heads, prayer being a large part of recovery for many. But the faces he can see, they all bear sympathy. He remembers this part, clear as day. It's the part where a new member of the group breaks - even if it's in a defensive manner, and the group comes to understand and sympathize. They're all in the same boat again.
"David, many people begin the road to recovery by taking full abandonment of the environment around them. Your presence here today, after four years of sobriety, is troubling to me. I'm not in the nature of drawing conclusions, but I'd like to suggest that you perhaps join us on this road once more, even if just for a small while."
"I...I can't. I've got matches to fight. I've got to win.....I lost. Three nights ago I lost my first fight. I can't lose again."
"David, what happens when the drink interferes with this job? You've told us already that there was a time when that's happened to you before. Won't losing be the least of your troubles then?"
What does this guy know?! His troubles?! Who turned those lights back up?!
"Don't talk to me about my troubles! You wouldn't know the half of it! I didn't come here for the arm around the shoulder and the road to recovery! I've got big things in the future - I'm becoming a pretty big deal at work, and the last guy I dealt with - who by the way, was way better at this then you'll ever be, told me that any time I needed any sort of guidance, the doors were open! But instead, I walk in, and I get you!
Ever steadfast, the moderator doesn't flinch. He doesn't blink.
"What's troubling you, David? Open up to us."
"I didn't come here for counseling! I just came for someone to talk to! I'm not here to open up. I lost a fight to a junkie, and now I'm in line to fight again. The opponents just keep getting bigger and bigger. At first I thought it was a game - my dad thought they were trying to kill me, but now I think he may be right. I was up against nobodies at first, but this last guy, and this next guy? These are serious names! I can't even remember them! How do you fight somebody you hardly know?"
Still doesn't flinch.
"You don't know who you're scheduled to fight next?"
David has to think. He strains. He can't come up with a name. Some loser. He lost too, didn't he? He had to have. Something to do with the weather....dammit, he was always so focused. What happened?
"I.....I know who he is, but I can't remember his name."
"You.....can't remember?"
The moderator's face flushes with a sudden dawn of realization. Everything, at that one moment, seems to fall into place and come together for him.
"David - why is your father here, in this hospital?"
"I.....he......he was attacked. Three nights ago, he was attacked."
"The same night you lost your first fight?"
David rises from his seat. His eyes, not able to open any wider, stare back at the moderator and the silent, staring others in a moment of absolute Terror. He backs away, trying to make for the door, as the moderator slowly rises and approaches him, cautious not to make any sudden movements or jolts. Before long, David finds himself backed against a wall, having missed the door by a good four feet. The moderator stops, keeping his eyes on David, carefull to keep a safe distance between the two of them.
"David.........I think it's time you told us about your last drink."