The Boy in the Basement

The bed count at our detox was 28. Out of these, we would usually keep four beds for ‘holding.’ A holding bed was one that a patient might get if he or she were accepted to an aftercare program but had to wait for an opening at that program.

These patients would help around the detox; assisting the weekday chef in preparing and cooking meals, helping those of us on staff with the laundry, and the general clean-up of the facility.

Tim was one of our “holding” patients. He usually could be found helping the chef with food prep and running across the street to get food supplies from the local deli. When one conversed with him, he always had a smile but would seldom answer in more than a couple of words. I use to wonder what was really going on in his head, or, was he really just that quiet.

With all of our patients, I would read their histories, talk with them, and try to see just when their addictions started them on the path of self-destruction. From this I would try to work with them on possible aftercare plans to assist them in keeping their addictions in remission.

Easier said than done.

Tim’s life story had major holes. A history is only as detailed as a patient will allow. A good counselor will try through compassion & empathy to build trust with a patient so they will fill-in the missing pieces. This can be critical to their sobriety. Does this person have another mental illness that may be preventing him or her from obtaining and/or continuing sobriety? Has the person been a victim of trauma, grief, abandonment; untreated affective disorders?

Tim never spoke of his father. He would speak affectionately of his mother. One time he briefly spoke of an older brother that left home at sixteen. When I tried to ask him a little more about his brother, he just smiled and walked away. At the time I really did not think too much of it. Many of our patients would say very little about their families. Either their addictions had burned-out their relationships with them, or, their own shame, remorse and guilt would not allow them to think of their families.

One Monday morning I came into work and Tim was already helping-out in the kitchen area. The first item on the staff agenda when we came into work was to hear the report from the previous two shifts. It gave us a “feel” for what had been going on. Had some patients been going through a hard time emotionally, physically? What had the general mood of the detox been?

While we were listening to report that morning Tim zoomed past us to go down into the basement to get some canned goods for that day’s food-prep.

It could not have been more than a couple of minutes when we heard this un-godly screaming and sounds of slamming and pounding from the basement. I jumped up and with another counselor and we raced to the basement. The door that led to the supply room was quirky and sometimes would latch behind one after entering through it. This was the reason we kept a key on the inside, pegged on the outer side of the door jamb. In addition, there was another passageway out. He was screaming too loud to even try to tell him about these possibilities.

He was screaming, hollering, and trying to kick the door down as if he were being chased by the devil himself. My partner and I soon realized that we had left our keys on the staff desk in our haste to get downstairs. I told my partner to go back up and grab his keys while I tried to keep him calm.

Tim kept screaming, “You’re just like my f*#@+g father! “Let me out you f*#@+g bastards, let me out! “I’ll f*#@+g kill everybody if you don’t let me out."

“Tim, take it easy, take it easy,” I told him. As my partner returned with the keys I could hear Tim slump to the floor. By this point in time, all the staff had raced to the basement.

When I opened the door, Tim was sobbing on the floor. The type of sobbing that comes from the bottom of a person’s soul. I waved everyone out and sat next to him on the floor.

The sobbing continued for quite a while. Slowly it began to dissipate and then, stopped. As he began to take long deep breaths, he stared straight ahead. I could tell he was no longer in the detox; his mind was far away, at a previous place in time. In a monotone voice he started to speak;

'When I realized that I was locked down here I freaked out. When I was really young my father was a heavy drinker and after dinner at night he would lock me in a basement closet until breakfast the next morning. He would tell me not to yell or scream or my mother would pay the price. One time I did start yelling until I heard my mother beg me to stop, for he was beating her because of my yelling.’

That’s why my brother left home at sixteen. He was the first one to get the “special” after dinner treatment. When he left, I guess I was naturally the next choice.

I have been in the field for over twenty years now and there are still stories like this one that rise to surface once in a while from my subconscious. Just when I think I have heard it all…another story presents itself…