Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [28]
I look at my roommate, an older, withered black man who checked in only hours before me. He hasn’t left the room all day. It was whispered to me that he has terminal liver cancer. Earlier he’d been taken to the other, normal hospital, for some additional tests, which is why I didn’t see him when I first arrived.
I undress to my boxers and T-shirt and crawl under the thin sheet. The flat pillow under my head offers no support. I stare at the beige water stains on the suspended ceiling.
I sigh.
So far, mental health sucks.
ALCOHOLISM FOR BEGINNERS
M
y name is Marion and I’m an alcoholic and drug addict,” says Low-Esteem Marion as she looks at the two plump hands in her lap.
“Hi, Marion,” chants the circle.
“I’m right where I need to be,” says Marion to the hands.
“You’re right where you need to be,” echoes the circle.
“I feel my feelings and share them with others.”
“You feel your feelings and share them with others.”
Marion looks across the room at a member of the circle, briefly, before looking away. “I love myself.”
“You love yourself,” affirms the group.
“And I am somebody.”
“And you are somebody,” the room says in unison.
A brief, small smile passes across Marion’s lips, her cheeks flush with color and she wipes the palms of her hands across the legs of her jeans, turning to the person sitting to her right.
“My name is Paul, Alcoholic,” says Pregnant Paul.
“Hi, Paul Alcoholic,” says everyone verbatim, including Marion who is now able to look directly at Paul, who himself looks at the floor and represses a nervous smile.
“I’m a good person.”
“You’re a good person,” promises the room.
“I will get well,” says Paul optimistically.
“You will get well,” promise the addicts.
“I’ll lose my spare tire and find a cute boyfriend,” grins Paul.
“You will lose your spare tire and find a cute boyfriend,” sing the patients.
“And I am somebody,” he says, hands clasped across his belly.
“And you are somebody,” says everyone, except me.
As was explained by a counselor this morning, Affirmations are a time when we affirm in ourselves something we would like to strengthen. For example, if I feel I am fat, I would say, “I am thin,” and the group would affirm this in me. “You are thin.” It’s as simple as that. And you always end with the phrase, “I am somebody.”
Funny, but similar affirmations haven’t worked for me in the past. I do recall many times telling Greer, “I’m not drunk. I would never show up to work drunk.” And her telling me, “Bullshit, you lying fuck.”
When the circle finally comes to me, there’s a brief moment of silence, because I have stopped paying attention to the affirmations, and am instead imagining how it would feel to walk into a jewelry store in downtown Minneapolis and buy an expensive watch to replace the one that I gave to the ex-cop after sex one night during a blackout in my apartment.
There is a clearing of a throat. All eyes slide my way.
“My name is Augusten and I’m an alcoholic,” I grumble.
“Hi, Augusten,” says the room.
“I’m glad to be here,” I lie.
“You’re glad to be here,” they repeat.
“I won’t check out after lunch,” I say.
“You won’t check out after lunch,” they affirm.
There, I think. Done.
“And . . . ?” somebody says.
“And what?”
“And you ARE somebody,” three or four people say with some hostility.
Jesus Fucking Christ. “And I am somebody,” I say sarcastically.
“And you are somebody,” they overemphasize.
When Affirmations are over, I go straight into Group. Today, nice David is not the counselor of the group, but instead there’s Rae. Rae’s a big woman. And to add an exclamation point to this fact, she wears a loud floral print; gigantic blossoms all over her body. There’s something in her voice that makes me think I won’t get away with anything, that I shouldn’t even try. I feel pretty confident Rae’s clubbed more than her fair share of baby seals in her life.
“Today we’re going to talk