A distant hell

They paddled me back to shore in a dimly lit hospital room. Nurse Cat dressed in strawberry colored scrubs, she a perfect stranger yet my only friend. Her profession was her religion, and she held my hand as I rambled on in garbled intoxication. I sang to her the lyrics of an old Alice Cooper song of all things. "Sleeping don't come easy in a straight white vest." These words I sang over and over again. The Ballad of Dwight Frye.
I missed my wife. I missed her so much. I hated the dumpster full of pain I had heaped on her lap. The Nurse named Cat listened with patience to the circus that twirled in the pathetic stupor of my head. She even joined me quietly later when I whispered the Lord's Prayer for for the 8th or 9th time; her accent enriched the perfect words. I finally passed out; Cat's gently eyes the last vision I beheld. My wife's tears poured and drowned out my consciousness.
I woke in the back of an Ambulance climbing Chestnut Hill to a detox. The romantic death I longed for deprived me and replaced with humiliated disgust. I hated the putrid smell of my body. I tried to open the ambulance door with my mind so that I may ride out and rid myself of my filth. I fell off to sleep again.
At midnight I swallowed some pills offered to me by an agent of the detox. I noticed that the ceiling was moving. It reminded me of the painted ceiling of Saint Catherine's Church. Jesus and Moses and the Holy Throne all came to life in a dark crimson Cartoon above my bed. I watched them for a while and then started to fall off again. Some one said "You're in the wrong place my friend". And all the Saints on the ceiling nodded except Jim Morrison who laughed and told me,  "You are exactly where you belong."
On the 3rd day the floor still moved but I managed to stand. My blue hospital pants wafted of sanitized cleaner. I checked out against medical advisement. My temporary roommates wished me good luck as they smoked their cigarettes under the branches of a large oak that stood outside the home for journeying addicts. I caught the city bus at Forest Hills still dressed in my hospital blues. Anne Sexton.s grave just several ironic feet in a cemetery next to the Station from which my Bus departed. 
The door to my home was locked when I arrived. I no longer had a key. I crouched with my back against the glass of the back door. My two small dogs and my one fat cat took turns trying to kiss me through the glass. My wife agreed to let me in only if I promised to leave. And here I sit writing this 2 days removed.