w (heir) wrote in repose, @ 2018-06-15 07:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, burden bell, damian wainright |
Log, Treatment in Jersey: Misha B & Damian W
Who: Misha Bellamy & Damian Wainright
What: visiting
Where: St. Mark Executive Retreat, somewhere in NJ/NY
When: after a week in the hospital; afternoon
Warnings/Rating: drug mentions, probably sadness
The rehabilitation center was called a 'retreat.' It was luxurious, but strictly confidential, a residential treatment center tucked into a cleave of hills somewhere far outside of the city, with its address given only to those who were coming (and their chosen visitors, who could stay in any of the surrounding villages). With a maximum of six 'guests' at a time, it was a place focused heavily upon the individual. Upon arrival, each guest met with the director to approve a personalized treatment plan. Rather than viewing addiction in the now-traditional way, as a disease, it ran on something called the Freedom Model, which emphasized choice and the responsibility of the user, turning away from the popular notion of powerlessness. It strayed from the 12-step program, and boasted a high success rate with over 30 years of data used in the statistical analysis. A large house, on manicured grounds with lush landscaping, it stood flanked by pine trees and away from any busy roads. The drive was long and winding, turning around a small pond and giving a glimpse even of a pool. Visitors were allowed at will, for an hour per visit. Each guest had his or her own suite, but visitation happened in the open common areas of the 'retreat,' or outside. Damian chose to be outside. In typical black, he sat poolside, awaiting Misha's arrival at the hour designated by the woman who made these arrangements. He did not know how far it was outside of the city, or how far they were from the hospital, but his best guess from his own trip, said it was perhaps about two hours (or an estimated one hundred miles) away. The area surrounding them was rural. It was quaint and 'safe,' and Damian, who had been interred at this place for three days, was already bored. He enjoyed the proximity to nature. (He had taken several walks and had even arranged to have Titus brought to him.) But, it was so tranquil a space, it was nearly unsettling.—Still, normally, thus far, he did not have much time for sitting about thinking. The program itself was intensive, and he was in the first phase, which focused upon empowerment and disproving the model of disease. This meant he had done much discussing (which presented as arguing) with the therapists. This was fine, however, as it made him feel more like himself. Physically, Damian was still weak. He could feel it. His body was not the honed weapon he had been re-working it toward. It was something sloppy and clumsy, prone to fits of pique, and only just under his control, none of it fine-tuned. He was tired, his mind foggy, and his leg jittered in the pool chair as he sat forward in a hunch, but even all of this was a steep improvement from 72 hours prior. Pale, wan, and not eating much, he had much progress yet to make, but these things, he was told, took time, whether he wanted them to or not.—He wished he was in better shape, in every way, to see Misha, who he missed very, very much, especially now that he was in less pain and could think with a shred of clarity. He was anxious to see him. He had hardly been allowed to say goodbye at the hospital, as he had been kept away from others, after having been deemed a risk after suffering a handful of seizures and throwing his phone in frustration. (They did allow him to arrange for where he went for rehabilitation, however.) This meant it felt like an eternity had passed since he had truly seen the boy he had only desired to bring back. Somehow, an eternity felt manageable almost, compared to the minutes meted out excruciatingly until 3:30. Damian turned his wrist to look at the watch he had taken to wearing, since he could not always have his cellphone, and he sighed, tugging his hood up higher as he tucked his arms back under his chin. It had been suggested he take up a hobby to keep his hands busy. He glared at the knitting bag by his feet. |