A letter from Dec 11, 2025

Dear FutureMe, I just got out of Western Psych yesterday afternoon. Boy, was I ready to be out of there. That new patient, Sheila made me so uncomfortable that I would turn right around and go back into my room if I saw her in the hallway. Although I think she was legitimately crazy, some of what she did made me feel (guiltily) that she was faking being crazy. There was one time she tried to get behind the wheelie meal counter, to do what only God knows, but the nurses physically blocked her. Instead of giving up and walking away, she just stood practically nose to nose with the woman, staring blankly, as both nurses commanded her in increasingly firm terms to back up. I didn't make any friends this time around. I felt like a clique had already formed when I got there, and while that's no excuse for me to not be more socially proactive, I couldn't muster up the guts to try to slip into their conversations. Mostly, I read. I read a lot. I read The Goldfinch, I read two and a half David Sedaris books, I read both Augusten Burroughs memoirs my mom brought for me, and I read The Thursday ****** Club. I was averaging like 400-600 pages read per day. I know it made me seem unapproachable to carry a book around. When people ask "what are you reading," most often with The Goldfinch since it took the longest to read, I panic over how to answer without sounding dismissive or snobbish while also not going on too long. Usually I end up sounding snobbish. "It's about a boy whose mother dies, and he accidentally steals a painting, and, well, the rest of his life sort of orbits around this painting..." "...No, it's not really any particular genre. Literary fiction?" And then wishing the boy in front of you in the lunch line would just make a ******* decision about whether or not he wanted gravy on his mashed potatoes because he's been holding everyone up for like five minutes. Really, it wasn't that bad. I was on a nice floor, and with a couple of exceptions, everyone there was nice, calm, and welcoming. The floor was called Zoe Atrium, and while I'm not sure where Zoe came from, Atrium was an acronym for "Abuse & Trauma Recovery Something Something Something." The common area was atrium-like, with a sloping glass ceiling and big windows. I didn't spend much time there, but it was nice to have, since in my bedroom (private, thank God) they covered the bottom 7/8ths of the window with a frosted glass/plastic insert. All I could see, if I stood up on the chair and peeked up to the unfrosted portion, was the very top of Mercy. I'm still too ashamed to write Lizzy her letter. I know I should. I just don't know how to apologize without sounding too much like I'm writing from an internal script, and it still scares me to think of "writing from the heart" about it. I'm officially moving in with my parents. I've devised a schedule that keeps me downstairs and working the majority of the time. This morning I shoveled and salted the sidewalks; last afternoon/evening I sent off the three letters of recommendation I've been putting off for so **** long. Not without the help of some Ativan. I finished the bottle within a day. If I weren't on Antabuse, I would be absolutely champing at the bit to drink today. I would probably be drunk already, to tell you the truth. I have cash in my wallet and plenty of room in my coat. Antabuse takes like two weeks to wear off even if you stop taking it altogether, so any drinking would have to be planned two weeks in advance. Personally, when I want a drink, I want a drink. I am having pretty strong cravings right now, but they're not bothersome because I know I literally cannot fulfill them. However much I argue and hand-wring with myself it doesn't matter. It's excellent. Dr. H said that a lot of alcoholics don't get on Antabuse because they don't actually want to stop drinking. I can see that. I think if you'd offered if to me before the first time I went to rehab but well after recognizing I was an alcoholic, I would have said no. Now, though, I do want to be sober. I mean--a tiny part of me doesn't want to be. A tiny part of me tells me that as long as I can develop the self-control to rein myself in, I could hide it well enough and no one would be the wiser and I could sink back into that comfortable, hazy, half-remembered life. How are you? It's June 11, 2026 when you are. Early summer! I hope it's a nice sunny day out, though I have my doubts. Let me ask some questions for you: 1. How's your mental health? How's your sobriety? I really, sincerely deeply hope that my current 10 days sober have turned into (hang on, lemme check) 192 days. Coming up on 200! Whooo! And if you've relapsed, know that I am disappointed. Please take this as your message to start fresh. I know you know what I know, I know life can suck--but we need to do this. You need to do this for the guy who's 6 months from you, and the guy who's 6 months from the next guy.