On the cold tiles of my bathroom floor I lay covered in my own blood. My husband Charlie has just called 911. I am beyond intoxicated and have self mutilated every limb with hundreds of little cuts made from a slightly rusty razor blade I have saved and used over the years. I begin to mumble something to Charlie who’s waiting by the front door for the EMT’s. But with his bad hearing and my inability to form sentences, my words get lost in translation. I attempt to say something along the lines of not wanting to go to the hospital. Maybe I should have thought of that before I started drinking.
I hear some commotion by the entrance of my house. The ambulance has arrived. Charlie leads two very strong looking EMT’s into the bathroom. One of the men gets down to my level. “What seems to be going on tonight?” He asks me. With a very slurred spoken tongue I answer, “I think I drank too much” and admit, “I’m a stupid alcoholic too!”. The one thing I have learned: never admit anything to someone unless you are prepared for the consequences. From my experience, sometimes, but not all the time, telling someone you’re an alcoholic whose in the medical field will make them possibly assume you’re hard to handle and will treat you as such. Though, their judgment may be clear and sometimes a boozer does need a stern person to keep everyone safe. Without order chaos ensues.
Meanwhile, the EMT’s gather me up and put me on a stretcher. As I am wheeled out of the bathroom I look at Charlie and say tearfully, “I’m so sorry honey. I’m sorry.” Charlie, with his eyes slightly watering mouths quietly, “its okay. It’s okay.” I’m in the ambulance and the EMT’s are working hard to get things situated. As I’m getting my I.V. in my arm, the EMT named Mike starts talking to me. “Why did you do this to yourself?” He questions. I sobered up a little and respond, “I’m just so sad. My mind, it always thinks of the terrible things I’ve done in my life. I can’t shut it off…I can’t control my brain. So I cut because I’m bad, I cut because I want to feel something other than what my heads making me feel.” Mike nods, “you know what Kara? That makes complete sense. I never understood why people cut themselves. But …I wish you didn’t. You seem to be a very nice person. “I give a quick thank you and lay my head back down on the gurney.
I must’ve fallen asleep because I awake to find a nurse standing next to me. “Hi I’m Julie. I’ll be your nurse. We have to move you onto a different stretcher that’s padded. You told the EMT’s you have epilepsy so, we want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.” Great, instead of a padded room I get a padded stretcher. I am left in the hall because there are no rooms available. This does not make me happy.
Two hours go by and I’m still in the hallway of the hospital. I have not seen a doctor and just saw my nurse Julie once. The rage is filtering inside of me. “Hello! Anybody? I want to call my husband” I yell as it echoes down the hall. A security guard comes over, “you better settle down. I’ll find your nurse. Just be a good girl.” A good girl? You just sparked the bomb in me buddy. Instead of finding my nurse, the security guard goes and flirts with a different nurse by the front desk. The two look in my direction and laugh. Are they laughing at me? All hell then breaks loose. “Keep laughing motherfucker! Get my husband on the phone. I want my husband!” I scream. The security guard and nurse walk towards me. With unbounded rage I ask them “You want something to laugh at? I’ll give you something to laugh at” and without a second thought I rip my I.V straight out of my left arm. Bad move Kara.
Five nurses come charging at me. Two have needles in their hands. “Calm down Kara” they insist. I thrash around, fighting off their grasps. They finally get a hold of me, pull my pants down and give me shots in both my thighs. I feel like an animal that’s had a tranquilizer. I pass right out. And awake the next day. I’m in a room now alone with a security guard watching me sitting by the door. Out of my haze of being drugged up, I ask the guard, “Can I go home?” Reluctantly the guard confirms I have been certified to stay in the hospital involuntarily. Now I can’t leave. I just hope I can talk to Charlie…I need him now.
The Fall and Rise of an Alcoholic 