Tossing and turning on the narrow bed, she can't get comfortable. Can't stop sweating and shaking. She's lost count of how many times she's thrown up, tried to throw up, or simply sat on the cold tile floor and dry heaved. Her head is killing her. Light is a new form of torture and sound is evil incarnate. She bites back another sob; wipes away more hot tears. Finally she curls up in a ball, knees to her chest, face pressed to her pillow. This is hell.
How did she forget this? Why didn't she think about this before she cracked the seal on that first bottle of wine? The second? Or every glass of vodka? The martinis? The beers? Five years of sobriety are gone and her only reward is the misery of detox. She doesn't have the numbness of the alcohol to hide behind. Not even the blur of a hang over to distract her from everything that's wrong with her life.
She doesn't have anyone here to sympathize with her, to reassure her either. She has an emotionally detached staff to make sure she doesn't dehydrate or injure herself. Counselors waiting to drag her to group therapy once this ends. Another new old hell for her to live through. She tugs at the identification bracelet on her arm as she cries. Rehab. Detox. Alone. She says she needs to do this alone. And she knows she does, but it's so hard. So frightening. Painful. How had she managed to forget this part of it? Why didn't anyone remind her of this before she became so out of control?
Lonely disease, lonely recovery.
She tries to laugh through her tears but stops short as she chokes on the sound, the pain in her head, her heart, too much even for bitter laughter.