Momentary Lapse of Reason: Memoires of a Lebanese

By Bassam Loucas

August 31st, 2008. I was alone, celebrating my twenty seventh birthday in my parents bedroom, high on a couple of Tramal sachets and a dozen Rivotril pills, looking at some old photos, photos of when I was a child, and thats when I initiated the most intriguing conversation, with myself, my miniature, barely two year-old self, in the picture I was holding, that led me, for the first time, to be truly convinced that I am sick, that I need to change if I want to continue living...

A complex kid, an addicted man, a beautifully dreadful journeyI decided to write.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467889308

Bassam Loucas

Bassam J. Loucas Born August 31st, 1981 in Beirut - Lebanon Raised in a big family, Bassam grew up during the Lebanese civil war. Holder of a bachelor degree in Marketing Management and a Masters degree in Mangement, yet, Bassam's true passion was always music. Composer of classical, opera and film music, he is still unpublished. Psychology and Photography are Bassam's main interests, but he will continually be portrayed as the man who wants to know "everything". His actual book is the result of his struggle with painkillers addiction, and it describes the journey he underwent.

Book preview

MOMENTARY

LAPSE OF REASON

Memoires of a Lebanese

True Events

Bassam Loucas

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2012 by Bassam Loucas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 02/15/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8929-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8930-8 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

to my family, friends and doctors…

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

• Genevieve Atallah (1st Edit)

• Dr. Nathalie Richa

• Dr. Pamela Chrabieh Badine

• Eliane Fersan

• Yara Loucas (Front cover sketch)

REFERENCES

God—Modified extract of an Ellen Degeneres scene from the play The Beginning—Chapter 11

CHAPTER 1

There is no elevator;

I don’t want to take the steps.

THE DAY OF February 18th, 2008 started like any other day. I woke up to the sound of my mother chatting with our neighbor at the door. It was that same neighbor whose voice I woke up to every day… that neighbor who, when whispering, sounds somewhere between a crazy lady yelling, a woman in labor, or a prostitute screaming during some hardcore sex act. So, with this as my wake-up call, I couldn’t help but swing my feet off the sofa and try my best to commence my ‘beautiful’ day. It was around eight o’clock, I usually had nothing to do, no job or responsibility of any kind, but today, the idea of the one commitment I did have got me somewhat concerned; not anxious but rather slightly in wonder. You see, at noon, I had to be someplace that would determine the sanity of my future, so everybody said. I couldn’t care less, I was about to do it as a favor or some act of kindness.

As usual the first thing I did was have my morning coffee and light up a cigarette. My mother noticed me awake and wrapped up her summit by the door. She joined me, sat by me closer than where she normally sits, and also grabbed a cigarette. You could see on her face signs of compassion, worry. There was an uncommon softness in her voice, and her eyes were pale with sharp, wincing lines around them, as if on the verge of exploding. But she hasn’t cried; she wanted to, yet she couldn’t show weakness. She was acting so blissful, as if the prayers she had said every night for the last few years were finally about to be answered.

After a few minutes of vigilant silence, a couple of cigarettes, and a chat that lasted no longer than a minute or two—where I wasn’t even listening, yet I’m sure that the words proud and confident came up—I laid back on to the sofa, with hope of dozing off for an hour or so, but I couldn’t get myself to fall asleep. I was either listening to my mother, escaping from the place where I could become emotional, or having simple ideas, imaginative premonitions of where I’m about to go, floating through my mind.

The neighbor returned. She buzzed three times, that’s her pass-code, I couldn’t bear listening to that voice of hers again, so I jumped into the shower before my mother even reached the door, and within minutes my head was clear again. It’s ironic how the things that most bother me manage to save me from myself.

At eleven o’clock, bags packed, taxi waiting, my mother and I set off like two strangers, not saying a word to each other, merely eye contact. Still, the same look was showing on her face, yet with stronger expression than before. She still hasn’t cried. I greeted the driver as I sat up front and told him our destination. I don’t know if he was trying to make conversation or if it was his sense of curiosity that made him ask if we are visiting someone there. I said, with a petty head-tilt gesture: Yea, my wacky aunt. The twenty-minute drive was soundless, with the exception of the unpleasant mutter of some oriental song on the radio.

We arrived at Saint Jacobs hospital (Deir El Salib), seeking to begin treatment. Seconds ago, I wasn’t even thinking whether I’d survive it or not, the only thoughts that were cooperating in my mind were merely an explanation to what was happening or what was going to ensue; it was like I was going to Burger King; yet suddenly I was grasped by the importance of the decision that I’m about to make, or by other alteration, have already made. The situation began crafting a sense of doubt and fear, and the stories I’ve heard about this place made me shaky and insecure. I took my bags out of the trunk, stared at the building, and for just a few seconds, the world stopped; total silence… stillness… nothing… then returned the normal sounds of passing cars, people blabbering, and the lithe, gusty wind, rumoring in harmony with the tree leaves.

My mother and I headed to the administration. I glanced around, trying to come across something bizarre, something to use a reason to bail out, but everything was normal. Thirty minutes later, routine procedure, a couple of forms and a nonsense interview, then, I ended up where I began, waiting, still looking for an excuse to flee. When I noticed a nun coming towards us, I knew it was too late. I felt beat, and in that same moment, a rush of thoughts conquered my mind; paranoiac ideas, and the most agonizing realization—which deep inside I knew about but still came out as a shock or surprise—was that I was going to be deprived, for I don’t know how many days, of getting my daily poison.

After a brief introduction, the nun led us to the main building. We took the elevator to the third floor. I noticed the entrance didn’t look like a regular hospital door, but more like a prison door, consisting of very heavy, thick, grey steel. The nun, noticing my gaze, explained that they had to take drastic security measures to prevent patients from escaping. A nurse came to take my bags, and the nun took my mother aside, one hand on her shoulder, as a sign of reassurance, and clarified that she is forbidden to call or visit for the next seventy two hours, the detoxification period. My mother, unable to say goodbye, standing there with watery-eyes, signs of a more expressive attitude, still did not surrender to her tears. Instead she smiled shyly and timidly waved to me. I replied with a grin.

The nun and a male nurse showed me to my room. It was the first room to the left across the entrance, close to the nurses’ station, the T.V. room, and the ping pong table. While waiting for them to get the key, I looked down the long, white corridor full of doors on both sides. There were patients popping out of nowhere, heads nodding with eerie smiles, all curious to see what the new inmate looks like. I felt like I was in an Alfred Hitchcock horror movie. I kept my cool, trying to ignore the numerous, concurrent mutters, and those distinctive, annoying hums, in which I couldn’t distinguish what they were or where they came from.

The room was nice; I’ve stayed in cheap motels before, it wasn’t much different, except for the steel bar windows that made me feel I was in a prison cell. The act that completed the ‘terrorist’ scene was the nurse conducting a detailed search through my bags, haphazardly throwing my stuff on the bed and inspecting them carefully. I cynically smiled at him signaling that he won’t find anything illegal; still he continued. Let’s go, he said after completing his mission, We will have the tour. He showed me around, there was not much to see, the dining room and the day room where the patients gathered; it was a big salon, plastic chairs all around and a small television hung on the wall. He led me back to my room, told me to get some rest, closed the door and left.

I couldn’t decide what to think of, or what to do, or what I’m allowed to do, so I arranged my closet, and, a few cigarettes later, someone knocked on my door. Coffee? she asked. I thought it was room service. I opened the door and said Yes to the three hundred year old nurse who was standing before me. Day room in five minutes she said, while leaving and knocking on the next door asking the exact same question. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be there, meeting the patients and having small talk, but my curiosity pushed me to go see who they were. I just couldn’t leave it neither to my imagination nor to the stories I’ve been told, and considering I might be in here a while, it may get depressing trying to survive in my room, alone all the time. I headed down the hall bearing in mind that I will have a quick coffee and then return.

No one was there. I chose the chair by the corner, sat down, lit up a cigarette, and kept looking at the corridor waiting for someone to show up. Twenty patients, several hi’s and hello’s, and a few fake smiles and weird looks later, the room was full. They sat, segregating themselves by age: elderly together, the younger in a separate set, and the very oldest, debilitated ones that couldn’t move or speak, were thrown in the farthest corner, alone, hands and body shaking, illustrating weird facial expressions, saliva drizzling out their mouths. Like waste bags that have been put aside and forgotten, no one was taking care of them, whereas, they were the ideal comedy show for the patients and the nurses, an ultimate target to criticize when anyone needed to feel superior, or simply, when feeling bored.

A slim, fashionably grungy guy came and sat by me, followed by a plump, frizzy-haired girl. Tony. And this is Sarah he said. It was impossible not to notice his two thousand dollar watch and her Chanel necklace. They were quite young, and seemed accustomed to this place. Loucas, right? he said. Uh-huh I questioned, upping an eyebrow. I saw your band playing a few years ago. Zgharta? he explained. A few years ago? I haven’t played for eight maybe nine years… how old were you? Fifteen, he replied. I understood. It’s nice when people remember something you’ve done ten years ago, without even knowing or talking to you. To be honest, it was a very awful experience, that concert, I wasn’t even proud of it. But still, it was nice. While Sarah was busy biting her nails, looking distracted, and I was about to light a cigarette, he asked me the definitive question. What are you in for? I looked him in the eye, Sarah moved her body forward, and stared at me waiting for the answer, I blanked. See, I’ve always imagined myself answering that question like in a movie scene; Murder or Grand theft auto, but the script failed me. Pills I mumbled. They both smiled as if I was an amateur compared to them. I didn’t need to ask what their poison was. Their forearms were of a bluish color with pinches of dark red and indigo, indicating it hasn’t been long since their last shoot. They moved at a slow pace, their speech was slurred, stuffed with high doses of Valium, and god knows what else. We chatted for about an hour before going back to our rooms. I felt a bit relieved. Even though they were younger, hipper, and crazier than me, I was content that there would be someone to converse with during my stay.

While in my room, listening to jazz music and ignoring the humming sounds I was still hearing, I felt my head was about to burst; my body stiff, irritated, I longed for my pills. I tried to stay calm and surrender to the music, for the nun told me earlier that my treatment, that the psychiatrist prescribed, will begin at night. Aziza Mustafa kept me company; I used jazz as self-therapy. Dissimilar from the exact description of the word, therapy for me was an escape strategy; a remedy where problems, senses, and people do not exist, shrinking to simply me, myself, a couple of emotions, and my imagination, tied by the harmony of a few instruments, beautifully breaking every possible rule that music theory crafted.

It was somewhere around eight o’clock when they brought us dinner. The nurse asked me if I wanted to eat with the others, but I preferred to stay in my room. The meal consisted of nothing I could eat, not that there weren’t many choices, but everything was too healthy, undercooked and unlike what I’m used to. For a hundred dollars a day, they could do a lot better than a couple kinds of steamed vegetables and one piece of white cheese. I didn’t eat. A bit later, the nurse came back to take the tray. Dinner was O.K.? she asked, not noticing or caring about the completely untouched meal. Mmmm! It was delicious! You have to teach me how to cook the carrots. I replied. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time she’d heard a sarcastic comment about the subject. She gave a tired, phony half-smile and left.

Nine o’clock was time for medicine distribution; the same nurse came back to my room, holding a tray of tiny cups. She gave me the one with my name on it. Four different pills I’ve never seen before, yet I recognized the Valium. I didn’t even ask what they were, I just swallowed them. She instructed me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue—to make sure I wasn’t hiding anything—and left. Seconds later, unable to resist not knowing what I’ve taken, I went and asked her. Valium, a sleeping pill, an antidepressant and a mood stabilizer, and my doctor will explain everything when he comes in the morning, she said. I went to the day room, waiting for my body to ease.

Tony was there to help me pass the time, describing the days of his detoxification; the pain, the sweat, and the sleep deprivation. I had no reaction, thinking that everybody goes through some annoyances during that stage, and if they all survived, so can I. But the main point here was that I didn’t want to endure this, I didn’t want to be here in the first place. My coming here was similar to a blood donation, it wasn’t for me. I thought it would be a few days’ vacation before going back to ‘where’ I was. Then he spoke to me about relapse and how it is likely for me to come here more than one time, as did he. Whatever. I had no doubt this would be my only stay.

Eleven o’clock was lights out. I went to my room, contemplating what I was going to do all night. I don’t usually sleep till four or five o’clock. The night shift nurse entered the room, confiscated my pack of cigarettes and lighter, and left. I laid down on the cement bed, rested my head on the brick, and called upon Aziza to play the piano for me. She was the only thing capable of concealing the humming sounds that haunted me every time I stepped into the silence of my room.

Sounds echoing in my ears, blurred vision, headache, and dizziness, I managed to pull myself out of bed. Yes, I fell asleep, for just a couple of hours, while the music was still playing in my ears. I took out the earphones, and, again, the humming sounds that were getting stronger, accompanied by echoes from the window, noise like an owl hoot, reverberating in a steady rhythm. I went to the nurses’ station to beg for a cigarette. He was kind enough to bend the rules for me, probably because he was bored. We chatted a little. He was a nice guy, volunteering night shifts till he obtains his medical degree. He seemed pleased to have someone to talk to during the regularly dreary hours. I asked him about the humming sounds I’ve been hearing. Turned out that, in the room next to mine, there was a heroin addict going through an excruciating detox. Even when heavily medicated and asleep, his body could not resist but to translate that ache into an agony whine or hum. Under typical circumstances, he explained, this stage lasts about twenty four to forty eight hours, and the cravings and pains come and go, but this guy was an exceptionally heavy user. Lucky to be alive, he had to endure the worst. Focusing on the conversation, it slipped my mind to ask him about the other sounds. Was I caught up in feeling sympathetic? But I myself am an addict. Why should I feel this way? I was aware of the circumstances, maybe overlooked them, I knew people who have overdosed, and I haven’t even met this guy. Still, stories like this got to me. I knew I wasn’t cautious, but I was stubborn, ignoring what was happening before my eyes and disregarded reasoning it.

I went back to my room, still one mystery unsolved, sat by the window, and tried to surrender to my imagination. I could not. The idea of survival without my poison tickled me persistently. I couldn’t unwind, I didn’t dare try and go back to sleep. With the screaming sounds still howling through the window, my left foot that couldn’t stop bouncing, and the blackish room that is all I have to look at, I began to feel warm. The tenser I got, the more I couldn’t stay put; I was literally dancing on the chair. Then, the sky began turning a light blue. I was saved. The bluer it got, the more tranquil I felt. It was ironic. I’m a guy who lived half his awakened days at night. Shouldn’t early mornings bother me? Suddenly someone knocked on the door, shouting breakfast in thirty minutes. It was