The Fall

Today I did something. I let myself fall. Like really fall. Hard. I gave up, turned over, surrendered, whatever it’s called that people do when they sink into their feelings and accept life’s bottom falling out. I fell and stayed down. I did that. Fuck. No rush to get up. Save face. Not looking around to see if anyone noticed my face-plant in the dirt. Not literally. No one was there. No one fucking cared. It was just me. Alone. I gave in to the hurt, the helplessness, the shame. The heavy burden of loss. I let myself lay in it. It was like being under a toppled wall of bricks. I laid there and felt the misery and hot flood of grief gush in.

The Call

Then I made a phone call. One that I’ve avoided making but knew would have to happen if I was going to start to pick up the pieces of my life. There was no way I could get back up on my own after last night. Not this time. Not anymore. I knew exactly who to call. I’ve made the call once or twice before, referring someone for help. Now the person was me. I needed the help. I bit the inside of my cheek as my cell rang and was answered by an outgoing message, “Welcome to Homewood Health Centre. Please leave your name and phone number and someone from Admissions will return your call…” I took a breath and said my name. “Hi, this is… please give me a call back when you can.” Jesus, I sounded small and apologetic, as if I was inconveniencing the intake worker’s day by calling the day after a long weekend. My name added to a list of other addicts, alcoholics and trauma survivors needing help.

The Wait

So now I wait for a call back. It’s a little like sitting at the doctor’s office waiting for your name called out while starring blankly at a tv screen showing community news and avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. You’re only there because you have to be in order to have an embarrassing problem dealt with. Life is pretty much put on hold until your turn comes up.

I’m nervous about the call-back. I’d be sitting on my hands if I wasn’t writing this. The sound of my ring-tone already going off in my head. I dread the conversation I’ll have. I know how it will go. The person will sound warm and encouraging. There will be questions. Information to give. Secrets to disclose. It will feel awkward. I will be expected to describe the losses over the past year. The drinking and grief, the explosive anger, relationship difficulties, other adverse consequences and traumas going as far back as I can remember. Helplessness and guilt will show up. My hands will feel cold. My stomach will go from flip-flopping to sitting heavy in a knot. Desire for relief and shaky hopefulness will be noticeable in my voice. It will feel like being asked to look under the kitchen sink. Like the one in my childhood house that used to scare me. Asked to shine a light on the moldy, soap-scummed corners and drippy faucet of an ugly grief that frightens me. The only hand I will have to hold will be my own. Questions will swirl around in my head. Will I meet the admission criteria? Will I have coverage through benefits? Will I have to wait long for help? Who would look after my dog? What do I tell my son? Can I do this? Would this really help me?