Beachglass Excerpt:
Welcome to Sobriety (page 38)

It was hot. There are a few summers that stand out in my mind as being just horribly, grossly hot, and this was one of them. I was in the part of the hospital treatment center called Detox, and most days I felt like I was dying of heatstroke, even in its cool air-conditioned rooms. Outdoors was painful, and I fainted once at the morning AA meeting. I panted. I soaked through shirts. I was miserable. I looked around to see if anyone else was as hot, but they all sat around easily in nice shorts and airy tops made of linen and silk and gauzy cotton, while I pulled and tugged at my own skin, my eyes darting around nervously, my mouth opening and closing like that of a dying fish, trying to find better air. I felt as if I had been bound in a swath of wet, scratchy wool. At one point I was showering three times a day in cold water just to get comfortable. I wondered if I could just go ahead and make myself die. I was convinced nothing good could ever come of this suffering. It would melt first.

By the time Timothy checked in, I was feeling better. He came out of the elevator doors one Friday night in a heap and was wheeled down the hall to his bed, where he stayed for three days in an Ativan-induced stupor. His room smelled like the whiskey that was working its way out of his system through his pores. We didn’t officially meet until he was moved to the other end of the hall—called Rehab, where the awake-people were, those of us who were well enough to participate in all the group activities: lectures, educational films, community meals, art therapy, group therapy, recreational therapy. When Timothy and I did meet, we fell for each other instantly, the friend equivalent of love at first sight. We sat next to each other in every meeting and walked together on outings and stayed up late talking, the whole time clamped together like children at a scary movie.