I am depressed, worried, and angst ridden. I am also pathetic, aging, sagging, washed-out and energy bereft. Every cell in my body has been pickled in caffeine; if not for the artificial stimulation, I probably would have died months ago. Needy and infantile, I am a ten year old who happens to be forty-three, with no idea of who I am supposed to be now.
The flow has reversed. Once, I benefitted from the kindnesses of those who saw me as young and innocent—a babe inspiring the care and concern of strangers. Now, I am the one who is concerned and caring for the rare babe who appears, needful. in my vicinity—and I have precious few resources to draw upon for the benefit of a needful one, even if he is me.
A twenty year old called detox last night. He'd been in only one other detox before, and he'd never been to the one where I work, unlike most of the people who call me. His voice was soft, almost sleepy. His drugs were heroin and OxyContin, and he'd just had a few OC's. With an incongruously gentle voice he was trying to express a desperate need. Here still were the old life-fears which we all encounter, fears that made the escape look so good to him a couple years before, magnified now to a nightmarish scale. Added to that are new annoyances like, where will I sleep tonight? and where will I get some stuff when I get deathly ill? and who will I get it from? and will it be safe, because I know I will do anything for it. In the background a woman's voice, his mother, screams obscenities at him. It can be difficult to hear, but between his softly spoken words is a real fear, and a question, sometimes asked half-hearted; I can't do it any more—can you help?
No, actually, I can't. But I happen to work at a place that will take him out of there for a few days, and provide a brief interlude of structure while postponing the dope-sickness. We don't really eliminate withdrawal symptoms, we just soften the blow with methadone, and two days after he leaves us he'll be sick, but not as sick as he would have been without us. That's not helping much, I know, but that's not what we really do at a detox. We don't cure the agony of withdrawal, nor the agony of life. We simply show people that there is another way of dealing with it.
We try and make them see.
"I got a car, I can get there," he says unconvincingly, after I tell him he has a bed. "Don't do a thing," I say. "Just stay where you are. I'll get a driver to pick you up and bring you in.". That's one of the best things about my job; somebody calls needing to be rescued, and most of the time I can send them a real human being, anyplace in Massachusetts, and that alone probably saves a lot of lives.
I see him just before I leave for the night. The driver has just brought him in. "You're the one I talked to on the phone?" he asks. He thanks me. He's young, cute, and despite everything, sweet and innocent. We are all sweet innocents, whether we're young and cute, or not.
We just don't see.
What am I, fuckin' nuts!?! Well, yes. I am.
This, dearies, is the ugly side of a DSL addiction. There is no treatment. If there were, I would not want it since I already know what the treatment is for most addictions—I work at a detox. Besides, it is easier to keep using the twisted pair, especially now, since cancelling my pending DSL install now will cost almost as much as going through with it. (Now fade-in Meatloaf's Paradise by the Dashboard Light.).
I looked at 2 apartments yesterday, one too big, and the other just about right. $1050 and $975 respectively. Are landlords in this dumpy city fuckin' nuts too? Well, yes. They are. Only they also own the property. They are salivatingly unaware that Worcester rental prices are not supposed to be as high as rents in Boston or New York. However, no penalty will be exacted for their blithe gouging, for I have not the means to penalize them, and I have no faith that the open market will be Robin Hood for me.
If I don't eat for six weeks, I'll maybe have enough for shelter and DSL. Maybe.
So, does anybody want to buy my teeth?
I'm fixing a candle, cultivating the stillest, most smokeless flame that can be obtained through a control of ambient air flow, and not breathing. It is a beautiful, tall, slender thing hovering in the dark, floating upon the wick like the aura of a soul; unstirred, it looks inert. My thoughtless movement, not even close-by, becomes a riot to the flame. I learn to still and gentle the sphere of my gross influence in this tiny world, as I find this little touchless one more sensitive and sincere than many I have touched too much. Indeed the flame loves me most intensely of all; it counts magnificent the mere movement of my breath.
This single flame will have to go before I sleep. Another may come another time, but this one's brief life will have been spent before bedtime comes, and spent entirely with me. Its excitement at my approach, its twinning with my soul in stillness when I stay, our entrancement together—his light, my energy—will have to end. And for one like me, who tabulates love only between the sheets, his extinguishment just as I go there will leave me sweetly sad, and though he could not stay, I will keep his light—like thousands before him, and thousands more to come—in my flickering heart.
I actually did a couple of the things that have been on my To Do list for about the last year. Here's the latest:.
My insurance, which resumed six months ago, requires me to pick a PCP right away. I want to avoid the status quo and the powers that be as much as possible, so I didn't want an MD. The only variation offered by my insurance is a few DO's (Doctors of Osteopathy), so I picked the one closest to my house. Already I'm thinking that I should have picked the woman DO, not the man. We'll see...
Now, this might have been a disaster for a paranoid person, and I am a paranoid person, but I also know more about DSL than most people. So I figured that they weren't just blacklisting me because they found out I suck dick, I concluded (rightly, I might add) that they encountered a silly stupid little problem with my particular phone line, which is not uncommon in the DSL provisioning process. Covad then decided, to their detriment, to end our relationship. Silly Covad.
Since Covad had not answered my question about what the obstacle was, I decided to ask, not a DSL sales person, but a tech support person at some other DSL provider. The tech support people are not being told what to say and what not to say; and they usually know what they are saying when they say it, unlike the sales people. So, at 12:30 AM Wednesday morning, I e-mailed tech support at MegaPath.net, explaining the issue in detail, and I actually got an intelligent response. In less than an hour. From Jeff Rohrich, the VP of Service Delivery and Support. What counts is not the 'VP' title, what counts is his willingness to be identified to me, by name and by whatever title he has—'maintenance engineer' would have been fine. But what counts most is that he explained what options there were for getting around my particular obstacle. The option I chose—from Megapath—is a separate, dedicated SDSL line, which Covad could have provided, and it will cost roughly three times more than the line Covad could not install, but I will be paying MegaPath, not Covad. In a deliciously ironic twist, MegaPath will be hiring Covad field technicians to do the install.
This is admittedly an unfair comparison, comparing Covad's sales people to MegaPath's tech support people. But I don't care. Hopefully, deities willing, I will have an excellent DSL connection soon, which is a hell of a lot more than Covad offered. And MegaPath will even move the line once free during the first twelve months, so I can apartment shop angst-free.