So here we are again, arriving at the ‘want phase’ of detox.
He is 6’4 and down to 169 lbs. very pale, chaotic, definatley rapid cycling; loving, angry, yelling, hugging and repeat.
He asked me to pick him up and take him back to L.E.
But First. . . we have to pick up clothes at ***’s
done.
But First. . . we have to pick up my guitars at ***’s
done.
But First . . . we have to pawn this guitar
done.
But First . . . we have to stop at ***’s…
O.K. I am beginning to get nervous and agitated. I know what we are picking up as much as I do not want to believe it. I begin to honk the car horn after 15 minutes.
But First . . . we have to go my doctor’s and pick up the medicine.
6 hours later; still in the clinic I tell the receptionist I believe he is shooting up in the rest room. She knocks on the door and goes back to her desk.
Yes. The good Doc gives him prescriptions. A total of over 100 pills, vicoden, seroquel, paxel, norco.
Yes. he is high.
Here we go again . . . a repeat of two years ago. I am frantic and driving on a packed freeway while he is nonstop chattering about incoherent subjects . . .
Ultimately I end up going to a separate hospital with stress related issues of my own that conclude a potential heart attack if this continues.
Three days later I call and the nurse tells me he asked to leave but changed his mind when they were ready to release him. Whew.
He leaves after four days. I get random calls, until last week.
Here we go again. I wonder will this insanity ever really end?
Dear God, this is in your hands.
