The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 47

The light of the morning sun streamed through the bedroom window, bathing Frank’s face in its warmth. His mind rose to consciousness as he took a deep cleansing breath. Sitting up, Frank felt something he hadn’t experienced in weeks. He felt light as if something new had been discarded from his mind. Sliding out from between the sheets of his bed he wondered if fear, as a negative emotion, could prompt one’s mind to seek peace. It was certainly something he was in great need of, given the last few weeks of torment and as he stood in front of his bedroom mirror he saw himself for what he believed to be the first time. But something had begun crawling to the surface. It was an odd feeling at first. Yet, as it slithered into his conscious mind Frank finally recognized it – pain. Putting his hands on the top of his dresser Frank let his head down as tears welled up and poured down his face. “Dorothy!” he called out. “I’m sorry!” What this wasn’t was survivor’s guilt. Being alive is nothing to feel guilty about. We all have the right to live our lives regardless of those we lose. This was something deeper, expressing itself in Frank’s lack of responsibility and what his deceased wife may have thought should she know of his actions.

Assuming – should she be alive -- her reaction would likely be a mix of anger and shame, Frank continued in front of the mirror crying. He tried not to look at his face out of the shame of having to resort to drug use to mask something he would have to eventually deal with anyway. With this realization, he knew that now was the time. He was also convinced that if he failed, his life would be over, and he would likely continue using until his brain began to fail with the possibility of a stroke, a brain hemorrhage, or an aneurysm. Frank knew the risks, and each risk frightened him almost to the point of madness. Change had become a matter of urgency, and Frank was ready. Certainly, the outpouring of emotions helped steer him in the direction of necessity, showing him the painful future that lay ahead. But there was one thing he needed to get through, and he needed all his strength to accomplish it. Frank needed to wean himself off the cocaine. He needed to use less, not more, and if he could not accomplish this then his options for recovery would die and perhaps him as well.

After showering, Frank dressed in his business suit and walked downstairs. Breakfast was the usual, coffee and whatever was in his cupboard – cereal, a donut, whatever. Being a regular user of any street drug can quickly cost one their health, starting with their appetite. Since Frank began ‘medicating’ himself, he had dropped nearly twenty pounds – and it showed. Yet, he managed to hide it from Jonathan and Emily by maintaining a low profile, confining himself to his office. Frank took his time, knowing that when he when to his office he would be starting the first step in his recovery and leaving the kitchen, Frank walked down the hallway and through the open door of his office. He sat in front of his desk and with hands trembling unlocked and opened the drawer where he kept the vial of cocaine. When the need was great, he would use a four-inch line spread out on the mirror he kept with the vial. This time, he would use half that amount and would do so for the next week. After that, he planned on cutting that amount in half – using a one-inch line. From that point on, his intention was to use smaller and smaller amounts until there was little more than dust. If he stayed to his plan, Frank would be done with what had so far crippled his life, preventing him from feeling human and resolving the grief for his wife’s death. This was his only way out. There was no short-cut.