by J. Clifford Milligan
The room rocked
like a ferris wheel seat,
creaky-hinged and swaying
like sea-sickness spreading green
from my sweating face
to my twisting bowels,
and my breath like yellow mist
seemed to swirl in my eyes
like smoke that stings and
I touched my face
and hung there
in the air,
dangling and blinded.
Maybe it was the pills
from the little white cup
so kindly offered
by the young nurse,
or maybe the fresh blossoming
of a new-found shame,
or the rupturing of a blood vessel
in my brain,
or the old familiar anxiety
of social situations,
being crowded around
and surrounded
by the heavy breath and bodies
of a dozen panting addicts.
Baboons in a cage, waiting.
It was my first group meeting
on my second night in rehab,
and my roommate, Rob,
was “sharing his story”
a tradition of sorts
in the rehab community,
a public confession
meant to inspire
or merely offer hope.
He sat cross-legged in the chair
in the front of the room
like an eager third grader
and shared his story
with every addict
on the 4th floor.
The clipboard counselor
who was the Captain
of our leaking ship,
checked off a few things
then signaled for Rob to start,
and he jumped right in, explaining
How he’d been drugged and raped
while prostituting himself,
and how he fistfought his father
in the front yard
while his neighbors in Kensington
cheered them on.
Fuck em up
Kick his ass
Kill that sonuvabitch
He told of gobbling pills and shooting up,
living under a bridge and
elaborated on the general depravity
and tragedy
of an addicted sex worker’s life.
He bought, sold or stole
everything
at one time or another.
This confession brought a giggle
which he smothered quickly.
He told us too
how his Mom was his best friend,
standing by his side
through thick and thin,
overdose and jail.
This was the one time
I heard a quaver in his voice.
He spoke softly, without bitterness
and even a touch
of gentle humor.
He was an old pro,
on this his fifth trip to rehab
and he seemed no longer
burdened with guilt
or the trembling nerves
of public confession.
He was “doing the work”
and “working the steps”.
I sat,
enraptured in the fog
of my medicated and sobering brain,
and it seemed for a moment
that optimism was no longer
out of the question.
That a thin green shoot of hope
was emerging
somewhere down there
But I began to hear
an old familiar voice –
the Calvinist Drill Sergeant
who sometimes holds dominion in my mind.
He reminded me
what a weakling I was
how pathetic
and revolting.
How disgusted I should be
at my fragility and
spinelessness.
At first he just seemed to suggest I was
A sniffling, sniveling, self-consumed
puddle of piss
Then he just came right out and said it,
We all have our burden to bear, Milligan,
and you can’t handle the weight.
You want to flee from yourself
but you’re trapped in your skin
and you ache and you twitch with the tension.
You should fall on the floor
self immolate with shame,
and beg for forgiveness
from the world itself
You are a sad excuse
for a man
You’re a pussy
a loser
a bum.
You need to confess, my son.
You are weakness incarnate.
And I knew he was right.
I looked at Rob,
with a once-ruptured anus,
being punched in the face,
living in a windowless warehouse
stoned in a stupor
in the cold of winter.
And what was I?
a middle-class drunk
on the verge of suicide?
I was ashamed of the hope I had felt
and I knew I did not deserve serenity,
but only to tremble and sway.
I had no sea legs for institutions or honesty,
and everything shook inside.
I focused on my breathing
and tried to stay centered or rooted,
whatever that meant.
We applauded as Rob finished
and he waved like an actress
or the winner of a beauty pageant.
And this was somehow endearing.
I knew what I had to do.
And that night in our darkened room
each in our bed
separated by a curtain
I took a final breath
and began my confession:
Rob, that was quite a story.
You must possess real fortitude
and inner strength.
I admire your courage and
want you to confirm my lunacy
and the weight
of my middle-class suffering.
I ended up here because one night
I walked the drunken highways looking
for the tire of a tractor-trailer
to lie down before.
I simply could not go on.
The memory leaked into my voice
and it cracked and I had to stop talking.
I waited in silence for his response,
and he said:
Yeah, I’ve done that a few times too.
Good night.
Soon he was snoring
and it was just me
and the curtains.
and the dark.
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