As Mrs. M says. I’ve made my “Rexit”: my rehab exit.
My second stint in rehab was purely to to detox after my massive bender. The last memory I have of that night was my neighbour literally scraping me off the pavement to get me back into my flat where I proceeded to get sick in my sleep.
I don’t remember that last bit of course but it’s actually terrifying to think about because had Mrs. M not been around, there’s a good chance I could’ve choked on my own vomit and died.
Did I say terrifying? I meant fucking terrifying.
But something happened in those seven days of detox. A lot happened, actually, and I know I won’t be going back there ever again other than for aftercare.
First of all, I mentally took myself into a very, very dark place. There is a school of thought that says you have to hit rock bottom before you truly grasp the will to recover. I’m not sure if that’s necessary because I know I can sink a lot lower; I just really don’t want to.
So I made damn sure I felt like hell and whipped myself – both metaphorically and physically – until something inside me came alive and said “MOPPY WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!”
And suddenly, that voice became this tiny but fierce little creature that took residence in my brain and it told me: “You’ve got this”.
I imagine it looks like a little punk sobriety Smurf or something like that except I can’t call it a Smurf because then I’ll make a bunch of Belgians angry so I’m going to call it Squidget because I made up that word years ago and haven’t had the opportunity to use it yet so now is as good a time as any.
Once I’m better acquainted with Squidget, I’ll draw you a picture if only because I’d like to know what he looks like. I think Squidget is male, I dunno, we’re just getting acquainted.
Anyway, I digress.
So Squidget moved in but then came another blow: I learned that someone I met in rehab who I considered a good friend relapsed as well. She broke her ankle and her liver is pickled. She was someone who I thought would just get it straight away because she had already had years of sobriety under her belt.
Hearing about her relapse really upset me. I cried. I cry at everything, but this was an especially sad cry. And then it hit me: This feeling is probably nothing compared to how Mrs. M and my family must feel every time I relapse.
And I got angry at myself all over again and starting whipping myself all over again but then thankfully Squidget was like “Erm, Moppy? Not helpful. At all.” And Squidget was right, of course. Clever Squidget…
So while I was having this intensely emotional week, Mrs. M was going through the same thing, trying to understand the madness of this past year. And something changed for her though I can’t say what exactly…but it’s been a good thing.
Naturally she is still scared I’m going to relapse. I am too. I haven’t explained Squidget to her yet but I’m not sure she’ll quite understand as let’s face it, it’s pretty weird.
But on my last day of rehab she came to pick me up, we hugged, we cried, we held hands on the drive home and basically just held each other tight the whole night until it was time for my AA meeting.
I would’ve held her all the way through that as well but that would’ve been awkward and inappropriate.
But as soon as I got back I grabbed on to her again, and she held me, and we fell asleep just holding each other…and I think we’re both holding on tight to hope that we’re starting something new now. Something better.
It’s good to be home.