band-aid over an amputation

blood-brain barrier by Paul Middlestaedt

Rehab.

The word makes me shiver once, twice, before I snap back to my senses.
I can hear her voice all distorted, blaring into my right ear and barely hearable to my left. Hearable, is that even a word? It shouldn't be.

Just like I shouldn't be a person. Ha, I've still got that knack for turning anything and everything into something uncomfortable.

I love dinner parties, the awkward silence, the pulse rates heightening, all those people wanting to dash out the door after I say something there can't possibly be a reply too, like replying to "How was your morning?" with "My dog was buried today, but I went for a walk so it was nice."

AUDIBLE. That's the word. 'Hearable', you scam. Worming your way into my vocabulary. Speaking of worms, did you know they have tastebuds all over their skin? I'm not sure about ALL worms but I can assure you, earthworms do. Oh, hearable is a word too. Who'd have thought? Not me. 

Where was I? Worms, dead dog, awkward silence....rehab.

Did rehab fix me? No it did not. Did it make me want to tear my own hair out? Yes.

They said the auditory and visual hallucinations were a part of withdrawal. I do not buy that bullshit. What I want to know is, what are all these eleven pretty pills they have me taking everyday, and these injections they push into the flesh of my-very unwilling-butt? I have so many questions and zero answers. Nada. 

Rehab is like placing a tiny, dinosaur themed band-aid over a fresh amputation. It is isolation and craving and twisting and turning. There is no light at the end of the tunnel and all you want to do is get so high you can't tell Trump from Demi Lovato. But hey, jokes apart, rehab helps a little if you really do want to get better.

After all the twisting and turning, you're forced to confront the runaway thief you have become and ask, "What is it that you're so afraid of, that you try to numb all your senses just so you don't have to face it?" The answer is, you. I don't want to face you. You had so much hope for me. You had so much love for me. I don't want to think about whether you would love me still if you knew. If only you knew.

As for the hallucinations, they're not all that bad. I just keep hoping I'll catch a glimpse of you the next time I hallucinate. It's not fair, I want to weep. I never got to say I love you. But I knew you knew already. 

I'm sorry, Grandpa. And I'm sorry, runaway thief. 
I'm even sorry for all the band-aids I've slapped onto my amputated heart. 

Please let me get it right this time.
Please.