Everybody says it's clear when you've hit rock bottom. That the world just seems stop and you have some epiphany that life must change from here on out. That's not always the case. It had taken James about three months to realize that's where he was. He had never once thought about getting help with addiction. His life was his, and his mistakes were his own, even if he didn't view them as mistakes. His drinking, to him, was personal. Rehab was essentially a non-option, as it was entirely impersonal. But three months ago, rehab wasn't even a thought in his mind. The only thought in his mind was to keep drinking. He would go to bars, to friends' houses, but no matter where he went he always ended up getting kicked out. Month two was drinking alone. Every night, after work. He would go in the next day with a migraine that would've killed a lesser man, but he rarely paid them much mind. He was occupied with the thought of what waited for him at home. It was a mixture of feelings. It felt like the anticipation of Christmas without any of the excitement. Something waited for him, but it lacked any wrapping paper or bows, and brought him none of the long term happiness the bike he had gotten for his ninth Christmas did. But he still went home and he still kept drinking. The third month had a strong start when James was let go. The supervisor said he smelled like beer. That his work performance had plummeted, that he had received so many complaints. So he drank and drank, and month three ended abruptly with a head-on collision with a parked car. The doctor sounded just like his boss. He smelled like alcohol, he almost died, lucky to be alive, what have you. The doctor went on about addiction centers in California, and how help was available locally, but it fell on almost entirely deaf ears. This crash had been coming, literally and figuratively. Giving up was easier than rehab. He was sure of it. The doctor left the room with a heavy sigh, and the nurse pushed a small computer over towards him. The white light hummed from the screen, and the cursor in the search engine blinked back at him. I probably couldn't afford it, he thought. “D”. It takes too much time. “Drug addiction” It's not like I'd lose my job, I guess. “Drug addiction help” It's probably too far away, though. “Drug addiction help in CA.” What he had typed stared back at him. The “enter” key beckoned him. With a strain, he reached. Click.
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