The doctor exits the room without any additional instructions. I scratch the back of my neck as I stare at the fabric lying in front of me. Is this really what I’ve been reduced to? A man whom others deem incapable of making sound judgments on his own? A man forced to get full-body exams because people feel that he has an addiction issue? I don’t fucking think so, but I’ll go along with it just to secure my spot in the band.
I love that band. It’s my life, and I’d do anything for it.
A couple of quick raps hit the door and then Dr. Shepherd pushes in. He doesn’t meet my stare, only keeps his head down and continues to jot notes on what I assume is my chart.
“You had quite the supply in your duffel bag and guitar case.” It’s clearly not a question but a statement of the obvious.
What’s really left to say after that?
I shrug. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I like to be prepared.”
He glances up at me with a raised eyebrow and a semi-amused expression. “A sense of humor is a good thing to have. It’s important to keep that because what you’re about to go through will not be easy. It’s going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life, but once it’s over, you’ll feel like a new man. I promise you that.”
I sigh. “I’m sure this is absolutely the most difficult thing in the world for someone who has an actual problem, but Doc, I’m not one of those people. I can quit anytime I want to. I use it to have fun. It’s not an addiction.”
Dr. Shepherd leans against the counter across from me and crosses his arms over my file. “Tyke, almost every single person who comes into this exam room for the very first time says the exact same thing. Admitting you have an addiction and deciding to make a change is the first step to recovery.”
“Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll breeze through this program. You’ll see,” I tell him with complete confidence. “While I’ll admit that my body has become dependent on a few things I use regularly, I don’t admit to having a problem.”
He tilts his head. “Then why did you agree to come to treatment?”
“My band,” I answer honestly. “They really didn’t leave me much choice. If I didn’t come here, they voted to throw me out, and I can’t let that happen. Black Falcon means everything to me.”
“I see.” He jots a couple more things down in the chart. “Well, while you are here, Mr. Douglas, I hope that you use the time wisely, and open yourself up to the possibility that you may actually have a problem severe enough for your brother to reach out to us. He’s worried about you, about losing you, and he feared he didn’t have what it takes to help you because nothing he’s done over the last year has succeeded. While I can’t make you see the issues at hand and want to get better—that part is totally up to you—I can give you the tools and the support to begin your recovery.”
He sets the chart down on the counter and washes his hands. “I’m just going to do a standard exam and go over your medical history. We’ll discuss where you’re getting your benzodiazepine supply. After that, you’ll get dressed, collect your belongings, and Timothy will help you get settled into your room.”
After about fifteen minutes of being thoroughly violated, consenting to STD testing, and witnessing a pat down of all my clothing, I’m left alone in the room to get dressed again. I quickly throw my clothes back on and head out the door. The male nurse’s gaze meets mine as he sits at the desk, my things spread out in front of him. I don’t care who you are, when someone else goes through your personal belongings, it ruffles your feathers.
I cross my arms across my chest and do my best not to rip into the guy for what I’m sure is just his job.
Dr. Shepherd clears his throat. “As you can see, Mr. Douglas, we’ve searched your things thoroughly, and we’ve recovered several items of contraband.” He gestures to the four baggies sitting in front of my clothes. “Two bags of an unknown white powdered substance, one baggie of some sort of dried herb that appears to be THC, accompanied by several rolling papers, and one baggie of pills that looks to be benzodiazepines. As discussed, we will be disposing of these items in your presence before we clear you into the facility.”
Timothy rises, his at least six-foot-five frame towering over me, and he gathers the baggies. I could tell them no—hell fucking no—but know that I can’t. No sense in me getting all testy in a situation I know I can’t change.
I sigh. “Lead the way.”
I follow Timothy and Dr. Shepherd into a restroom behind the desk, watching helplessly as everything I need to make my time here sustainable swirls around in the toilet before being sucked down the drain.
After the empty baggies are discarded, I follow the two men out of the bathroom. Timothy sits back down and begins doing paperwork. The guy hasn’t said one word to me since I got here, which is completely fucking odd and doesn’t make me feel comfortable around him, but I’m grateful that I’ve only got one of them firing questions at me.
Dr. Shepherd folds my file and lays it on the desk. “Anything else you have on you that we didn’t find? Now’s the time to come clean without any judgment.”
I shake my head. “Honestly, everything I brought with me was either taped inside the guitar, which you obviously found, or in the duffel bag.”
“Good. We really want to focus on the twelve steps of recovery with you, Mr. Douglas. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve already started the program by completing the first three steps in order to get here—acknowledging your addiction and deciding to change, exploring your rehab treatment options, and finding the support that you need.”