Enter the Broken Child Discarded Darkness.

When I was a little kid, we moved to a small southern town. The small town was typical in that there were bars, churches, and hawthorn on nearly every street corner. Frequent drinking parties were the norm, and getting wasted was totally in vogue. My hard partying started around the 5th grade.

My friends and I helped ourselves to the family intoxicants, and we developed a network of nasty dogs, who would purchase us booze for a small fee. In short order, my network of drinking associates expanded to people outside my contemporaries, with each drunken savant beguiling me with upgraded levels of debauchery. Getting toasted became a completely normal part of my life, and looking for the next buzz was just part of the deal.

My parents divorced and went their separate ways, and me being the minor son, I was given to my mother. My mother met a slick talking traveling salesman, who suddenly stopped traveling. Soon thereafter, I found myself in an ugly quagmire, like the 3rd wheel of a rusted tricycle. The rusted tricycle squeakily wheeled itself into what was left of a bankrupted resort. At one point, the resort was a beautiful oasis, but that all changed. By the time we arrived, the only thing really left standing was a rustic fourteen room lodge. After the owner supposedly burned it down about a week earlier, the once fine dining restaurant was still smoldering toxic blue smoke.

The slick talking traveling salesman's job was to run the lodge, and to perform routine maintenance. In exchange, we were provided free lodging, in which I was provided my very own room. It was far away from the slick talking traveling salesman, and my mother. My room was located at the extreme edge of the rustic lodge, entirely separated from the other spokes, and I was free to do my own thing all the time.

On most weekends, some of my other town friends would be carted in to stay for the weekend. I had my own fancy room, so, naturally, my pad at the lodge was a hot ticket item, and my friends competed to be the chosen ones. Of course, we partied, got wasted, and smoked some weed too.

Our booze of choice was Mad Dog 20/20, and lots of it, and that stuff plays rough. On top of that, huge lake parties, replete with kegs of beer, pig roasts, and half naked campers, were omnipresent in the fields and streams, and the parties were frequent, and enormous in both size, and scale.

At one point, the lodge was reported for not having any running water. The lodge was supplied water from the enormous lake. The lake water was pumped from the belly of the beast into a giant 20,000 gallon cauldron that was filled with sand to sort of filter it, and then a second pump sent the sand filtered water to the lodge.

For several months, the slick talking traveling salesman chose not to pay the electric bill, so the electricity got shut off, and the water pumps could not pump. For over 4 months, we were bathing in the lakes, and hauling five gallon buckets of water, with one bucket on each arm to balance the load, to fill the holding tanks of the toilets.

Ultimately, the slick talking traveling salesman was fired, and we were forcibly evicted from the lodge.

Under the pretense of a fleeting visit to my Grandparents, my mother made the sneaky gambit to express ship me to the great Midwest. At one point later in my life, I thought my mother was doing me a solid, but then, I discovered, it was strictly financial, as child support stopped paying their rent. The clandestine action was already in place for me to live with my Grandparents, and the plan was betrayed shortly after arriving and announced at dinner.

More or less, I settled in living with my Grandparents, and after living with them for a while, I secured a full time job at a fruit juice factory. There, I met a colorful bunch of tulips and roses, and just like that, I had joined a new group of troubled hard chargers. As a group, we would bar hop, and the fact that I was underage was no matter, as I spent a whole lot of money drinking like a wild buffalo, and my foolishness continued unabated.

The mastery of the drunken chicken dance was the zenith of my life at that stage. My drunken chicken dance was legendary and farm raised.

My suave and salty southern charm helped me make friends easily, and the dance gelled into a vortex of pirouettes, intensified by performances in unique occupational arenas. After work, flopping to the bars, closing them, and going to after bar parties, was the right thing to do for a party monkey.

My weekend friends and I had similar adventures, just the venues were different. The cast of characters were divergent in theaters of operation, and personalities. Nevertheless, the final mission of getting wasted was entirely the same.

The circus of traveling friends jumped from one tent to the next, distinguishing themselves with their flamboyant florets, caress of steel, and overstuffed couches, replete with invisible dried pee, and shattered chips and dreams.

Walking on my own power into the frigid passageway of the locked ward, I am unwell. After detox, my insides feel like a wet washcloth twisted into a contorted pretzel, with every sense elevated to red alert. The nurse escorts me into a windowless room that is painted with colorful creatures from the pond. The nurse is noticeably frenzied, and hastens me though the intake process, and admonishes that visitor’s need prior authorization.

Then, an expedited tour is arranged, revealing my stoic and secure surroundings. Finally, I am escorted to my stale and motionless room.

The room is a generic hospital room, devoid of any lifesaving equipment, televisions, or creature comforts. The room has a windowless bathroom, without a door, and a stand-up shower, with an unfettered view of the helpless aquanaut. Like most newcomers, I hide in my room for a couple of days, and, from time to time, the staff comes to check in on me, encouraging me to venture out of the stuffy room.

On the locked ward, vacant beds don't stay empty for very long, and I was gifted a roommate, a cheerless man, who fancied gloominess. To escape the pessimism of my roommate, I advance out into the opaque unknown.

The nurse’s station is located front and center, and is enclosed by thin security glass, with retracting sliding panels. Next to the nurse’s station, is a barren common area that has tables, chairs, board games, simple puzzles, playing cards, stuffed animals, educational pamphlets, sanitizer, and coloring books. The chief occupants of this sector are the emotionally exhausted newcomers. The newcomers feel more safe with the nurse’s station nearby. All newcomers quickly learn the chow schedule, but the programming regimen takes some learning. Participation in programming is voluntary, but not engaging in the program, however, protracts your stay in the locked inpatient.

Programming can best be described as going back to high school. Every morning, programming starts around nine, and you go from one class to another, every hour or so. Every class has a different teacher, and, in this case, different so-called professionals, in a wide variety of disciplines, like art therapy, substance abuse, psychology, counseling and life skills. Our handlers keep close tabs on us, and determine if and when we can leave locked-up mode, and upgrade to, come and go, outpatient mode.

After a period of time, I was offered outpatient mode, finished my assigned time, and completed the program.