18 hours to go!
Some of you may have completed marathons, cured cancer or climbed Kilimanjaro. But I survived rehab bitches so suck on that! Tomorrow morning is my little graduation ceremony, called 'Medallion' where "Johnny" is giving me away. My parents and brother must peer through a window from the hallway, as the ceremony is supposed to be private. We're very exclusive here in rehab. Only drunks and junkies can attend.
Yesterday, I was forced to read a "goodbye letter to alcohol" to my entire group. Upon completion, I looked up from my little notebook to 7 concerned faces.
"You seem to romanticize vodka."
"It's like a relationship that you're not over."
"How can you possibly go back to your life and not drink?"
Thanks guys. Thanks. First of all, you've obviously been drinking cheap, hobo vodka to wash down your Valium, you fucking hypocrites. Otherwise, you would know how goddamn wonderful it is to sit alone at a fabulous bar and sip the glory that is Belvedere. Second of all, I'm still pining after Vinnie from kindergarten and my favorite fragrance, Night Rhythms that was discontinued in 1993. I will mourn forever. Why the hell do you think I wear black all the time? Finally, Mr. X has informed Gina, the owner of Le Club (at the fabulous Le Club Holiday Soiree that I missed) that I'm in the clink and it's all her fault. Thus, if the high priestess of San Francisco watering holes knows of my delicate condition, I should be fine and dandy with my diet coke. Somehow, my group thinks that people will be shoving Gibsons down my throat, dismissive of my recovery. "What about peer pressure, Beth?"
Silly rednecks. Everyone in the big city is wildly familliar with rehab. I don't plan on being embarassed saying, "Sorry, I don't drink." And I'd regard anyone presurring me to drink as an asshole and most likely, a 17 year old. Wouldn't you?
Smack, however, is a different story all together.
Anyway, I'm very excited about my Medallion tomorrow, which is a big gold coin passed around the room in a silent ceremony while I stand in the center and wonder what the hell kind of fucked up energy these deadbeats are putting into my Medallion. Then Johnny gets the Medallion, walks me to the middle of the room, says all kinds of fabulous things about me and my recovery, then hands me my coin and I get to bail! The best part of Medallion, I imagine, is when someone who you don't like very much has to pretend to shove their fake good thoughts into your medallion and you just get to look at them, smiling and knowing you get to go home and they're stuck here, trying to get relish out of a packet and onto last week's hot dog.
Emmanuel's reading over my shoulder now, desperate to get on the computer to research his internet quest to become a male escort. (You think I'm kidding. Think again.) If ever you find yourself in the San Diego area looking for companionship, lemme know.
Anyway, I am now 28 days sober, which doesn't sound like very much, but if you told me that'd be the case a few months ago, I would've told you to get your head checked.
San Francisco, here I come!