Cole Carrington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burninginside) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamlikenewyork2014-03-05 02:37 pm
burninginside) wrote in dreamlikenewyork2014-03-05 02:37 pm
@ muserevival || Quote of the Day 052.
HERE @ muserevival
“Life contains but two tragedies. One is not to get your heart's desire; the other is to get it.”
- George Bernard Shaw
The nightmares were bad enough, but the nightmares that had flashbacks that wouldn’t switch off once you were awake were the worst. He hadn’t been sleeping much at all since he heard of Emilio’s accident. He had been getting sleep in rehab with the aid of low dose controlled sedatives, but he was scared to have any medication in his control right now. Said control was only barely in his grasp and it was taking all his energy and willpower to hold onto it, hoping that it would slowly get better over time. That, along with the constant nauseating worry inside that Emilio would never recover from this accident, his brain had very little room for much else.
There has been checking into the outpatient rehab program at the hospital, though. It was something Gabe had discreetly suggested to him when they were chatting over coffee one day in the hospital cafeteria. It made sense because he was there for hours on end just to be close to Emilio and he had two sessions so far. His mind was struggling to latch onto anything productive, though, and therapy was all about trying to clear your head. He was failing that at every turn right now. The cravings were one thing, but facing another person he had fallen in love for fighting for his life, the PTSD was all-encompassing and making the battle of his addictions and cravings that much more difficult.
Gabe, Euan and his drug and alcohol counsellor all told him to go home to try to rest for a little while. Just break up the monotony of hanging around a hospital, which would be dragging his mood down to the gutter. He had accepted a single dose of a sleeping pill prescribed by the outpatient program’s psychiatrist and it had succeeded in knocking him out because he was exhausted enough to at least achieve that. He wasn’t out for very long, but long enough to trigger vivid dreams and then flashbacks as his heavy sleep started to falter.
He woke up abruptly, drenched in sweat, the vivid images of the flashbacks still churning over and over in his brain. He had woken up right in the middle of watching Brendan get shot to death in front of him replaying horrifically in his mind all over again. His throat felt like someone was strangling him and he was struggling to catch his breath. The bed sheets were all tangled around his feet and he battled to pull himself out of their confines. He was right in the middle of an awful panic attack and he felt like he was going to be sick. He fumbled his way out into the kitchen to get a cold drink of water, but only made it as far as they sink before he threw up. It was a roadblock to the panic, though, and once he was done, he could breathe a bit better. But his mind wasn’t any clearer.
He didn’t exactly know how he went from being bent over the sink to trawling through his pantry in a frantic and desperate mess. Everything in it was angrily pulled out onto the floor around his feet until he located the bottle of vodka he had hidden back there. He just wanted to switch his brain off. He wanted the awful feelings to stop. He twisted the cap off the bottle so roughly that he sliced his palm on it, and threw back a couple of large mouthfuls, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it went down.
As soon as he did it, though, he was hit with that feeling of dread that he had gone and fucked up all over again. There was anger at himself, mixed with disbelief that he was so fucking stupid, and took rest of the bottle to the sink and poured it down as fast as he could. He turned the hot tap on, the watery scalding as it washed away the mess and the remaining booze, completely out of his sight. It was the only booze he had left in there. Destina had helped him get rid of everything else before he went to rehab, but he had still been in a crap place then and had kept this bottle as a safety blanket. He was so angry at himself that he threw the empty bottle into the wall and it shattered atop the mess of food and kitchen items from the pantry.
He slumped against the counter and sunk down to the floor, burying his face in his hands and breaking down. The day before, there had been tiniest glimpse of hope when Emilio had woken up, but he had been in an out of consciousness since and hadn’t shown any signs of recognition to his surroundings. He was responsive to pain and seemed to be in a lot of it, but that was where the progress ended. Cole had only sat with him briefly before his family had arrived and he left because he felt like he was intruding. Maybe ever since then his mind had been locked on a bad path. The lack of sleep only exacerbated it, and that was what led his friends to stronghold him to agree to go home to rest because Emilio was in good hands.
Life didn’t feel fair, but it also felt like he had no hope if figuring out how to be happy. After the rigid and strict upbringing by a military father, he had never easily trusted many. He had truly fallen in love twice, and both times, just as things were beginning to feel right, his lovers’ lives were on the line. Brendan was slaughtered in cold blood right before his eyes and Emilio almost crushed to death in a car driven by a driver under the influence of drugs and booze. Was he a jinx, or was he just being punished for being a horrible person? Maybe the world was just trying to tell him he didn’t deserve to be in love.
He didn’t know. All he knew was that his head was pounding, he felt sick, confused, alone… but worst of all, he felt scared. This was twice now he had nearly fallen off the wagon because he couldn’t get through the mess in his head alone. He could barely function without the drugs or alcohol and he knew he wasn’t anywhere near the end of the road of recovery. He had barely set his foot down at the beginning of it. Pride of wanting to manage this himself had gotten in the way, but the reality was, the booze and the drugs still had too much power over him. That small taste of vodka and he wanted more. He wanted to go to the nearest bar and trash himself, to shoot up, down some pills to go back to the place in his head where everything stopped being so painful.
He was terrified. So terrified that he took pulled himself back up to grab his cordless phone, and he called Destina and begged her to come get him to take him to the addiction unit at the hospital. And straight away, or he was going fuck up and this time, fuck up to the point of no return because it was getting harder and harder to convince himself that he had anything good to offer the world or anyone he loved.
“Life contains but two tragedies. One is not to get your heart's desire; the other is to get it.”
- George Bernard Shaw
The nightmares were bad enough, but the nightmares that had flashbacks that wouldn’t switch off once you were awake were the worst. He hadn’t been sleeping much at all since he heard of Emilio’s accident. He had been getting sleep in rehab with the aid of low dose controlled sedatives, but he was scared to have any medication in his control right now. Said control was only barely in his grasp and it was taking all his energy and willpower to hold onto it, hoping that it would slowly get better over time. That, along with the constant nauseating worry inside that Emilio would never recover from this accident, his brain had very little room for much else.
There has been checking into the outpatient rehab program at the hospital, though. It was something Gabe had discreetly suggested to him when they were chatting over coffee one day in the hospital cafeteria. It made sense because he was there for hours on end just to be close to Emilio and he had two sessions so far. His mind was struggling to latch onto anything productive, though, and therapy was all about trying to clear your head. He was failing that at every turn right now. The cravings were one thing, but facing another person he had fallen in love for fighting for his life, the PTSD was all-encompassing and making the battle of his addictions and cravings that much more difficult.
Gabe, Euan and his drug and alcohol counsellor all told him to go home to try to rest for a little while. Just break up the monotony of hanging around a hospital, which would be dragging his mood down to the gutter. He had accepted a single dose of a sleeping pill prescribed by the outpatient program’s psychiatrist and it had succeeded in knocking him out because he was exhausted enough to at least achieve that. He wasn’t out for very long, but long enough to trigger vivid dreams and then flashbacks as his heavy sleep started to falter.
He woke up abruptly, drenched in sweat, the vivid images of the flashbacks still churning over and over in his brain. He had woken up right in the middle of watching Brendan get shot to death in front of him replaying horrifically in his mind all over again. His throat felt like someone was strangling him and he was struggling to catch his breath. The bed sheets were all tangled around his feet and he battled to pull himself out of their confines. He was right in the middle of an awful panic attack and he felt like he was going to be sick. He fumbled his way out into the kitchen to get a cold drink of water, but only made it as far as they sink before he threw up. It was a roadblock to the panic, though, and once he was done, he could breathe a bit better. But his mind wasn’t any clearer.
He didn’t exactly know how he went from being bent over the sink to trawling through his pantry in a frantic and desperate mess. Everything in it was angrily pulled out onto the floor around his feet until he located the bottle of vodka he had hidden back there. He just wanted to switch his brain off. He wanted the awful feelings to stop. He twisted the cap off the bottle so roughly that he sliced his palm on it, and threw back a couple of large mouthfuls, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it went down.
As soon as he did it, though, he was hit with that feeling of dread that he had gone and fucked up all over again. There was anger at himself, mixed with disbelief that he was so fucking stupid, and took rest of the bottle to the sink and poured it down as fast as he could. He turned the hot tap on, the watery scalding as it washed away the mess and the remaining booze, completely out of his sight. It was the only booze he had left in there. Destina had helped him get rid of everything else before he went to rehab, but he had still been in a crap place then and had kept this bottle as a safety blanket. He was so angry at himself that he threw the empty bottle into the wall and it shattered atop the mess of food and kitchen items from the pantry.
He slumped against the counter and sunk down to the floor, burying his face in his hands and breaking down. The day before, there had been tiniest glimpse of hope when Emilio had woken up, but he had been in an out of consciousness since and hadn’t shown any signs of recognition to his surroundings. He was responsive to pain and seemed to be in a lot of it, but that was where the progress ended. Cole had only sat with him briefly before his family had arrived and he left because he felt like he was intruding. Maybe ever since then his mind had been locked on a bad path. The lack of sleep only exacerbated it, and that was what led his friends to stronghold him to agree to go home to rest because Emilio was in good hands.
Life didn’t feel fair, but it also felt like he had no hope if figuring out how to be happy. After the rigid and strict upbringing by a military father, he had never easily trusted many. He had truly fallen in love twice, and both times, just as things were beginning to feel right, his lovers’ lives were on the line. Brendan was slaughtered in cold blood right before his eyes and Emilio almost crushed to death in a car driven by a driver under the influence of drugs and booze. Was he a jinx, or was he just being punished for being a horrible person? Maybe the world was just trying to tell him he didn’t deserve to be in love.
He didn’t know. All he knew was that his head was pounding, he felt sick, confused, alone… but worst of all, he felt scared. This was twice now he had nearly fallen off the wagon because he couldn’t get through the mess in his head alone. He could barely function without the drugs or alcohol and he knew he wasn’t anywhere near the end of the road of recovery. He had barely set his foot down at the beginning of it. Pride of wanting to manage this himself had gotten in the way, but the reality was, the booze and the drugs still had too much power over him. That small taste of vodka and he wanted more. He wanted to go to the nearest bar and trash himself, to shoot up, down some pills to go back to the place in his head where everything stopped being so painful.
He was terrified. So terrified that he took pulled himself back up to grab his cordless phone, and he called Destina and begged her to come get him to take him to the addiction unit at the hospital. And straight away, or he was going fuck up and this time, fuck up to the point of no return because it was getting harder and harder to convince himself that he had anything good to offer the world or anyone he loved.