Last.Damn.Call

If you have checked out my book (wink, wink) then you know some of my stories from rehab. It is not what you see in the movies. Not really. There’s not a lot of fights followed by reconciliation accompanied by hugging and singing sappy songs together. That’s the Hollywood version. There are fights. Plenty of them, but no happy resolutions.

I am not writing this to deter anyone from seeking treatment. Ever. You come find me, look me straight in the eyes, and ask me if I would do it again in order to get my life back. To save myself. To be here to see my family another day. To find a kind of freedom some people never find. I would do it again without hesitation, knowing what I know now.

Rehab is sad. It is a place for broken people. It is a shelter from the cold for some. It is an escape from an abusive partner for another. It is a free meal for some. It is buying time in order to get prison time knocked off your sentence. It is mothers who have had their children placed in foster care. It is for people who have taken to selling their bodies in the street in order for their next fix. It is for educated people. Black people. White people. High school dropouts. Lawyers, schoolteachers, paramedics, stay at home parents, rich people, poor people…addiction doesn’t care where you come from or what color your skin is or what religion you choose or don’t choose. It doesn’t care if you know better than to be an addict. It doesn’t care about how this was never supposed to happen to you or someone you love.

I made myself small in rehab. Much like a kid on the playground that hides behind a tree, hoping a bully doesn’t catch them alone. I sat in this one cubby of the building by a single window with a tiny ledge. For one, I could see the entire hallway and communal living area. With my back to a wall. No one could approach me without me seeing them. No, I did not fear for my life. That’s not it. I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. And God forbid anyone read the things I wrote. Not because I was belittling people or being mean, but because it made me look weak. Sounds ridiculous if you haven’t been there. But, trust me, I lived there. Pretending to be dumb was a much safer move than letting anyone know you had a brain.

I was the only woman who was in this particular rehab “by choice” at the time I was there. By choice, I mean, I could legally walk free anytime I wanted. No court order. No parole officer. No legal consequences. But I knew that wasn’t true. Sure, legally it was true, but for my own recovery, I could not afford to walk away.

When I say the other women were brutal and hardened and bullies…I am not being dramatic. Again, I learned to make myself small. I learned quickly not to say anything that made me sound “too educated” because it backfired. Horribly. I would get teased for being educated. For being someone “who should know better” or I would get asked, “Smart girl, what is possibly so bad with your life that you ended up here? Your maid quit or your husband cut your allowance or something?” Followed by laughing.

While I was feeling like the lowest of the low, I had this other message being shoved in my face that I was too good to be in this place. “What kind of special hell is this,” I thought to myself often. I knew I needed help. I shouldn’t have to beg and plead for help. I felt like a complete loser walking into this place for a different reason. I was admitting defeat, surrendering to needing help. And how ashamed I was. And now, I am ashamed for a different reason. I am ashamed because some of these women had been living in cars and in alleys and with random men. Maybe I was a privileged brat like they said.

I remember overhearing one girl say, “Poor college girl is stuck in here with all us dumb misfits.” I wanted to jump on top of her and beat the living shit out of her if I am being honest. Instead, I cried. Not in front of anyone, but silently in my room. Was I supposed to get into a fight to prove my place in this place…this hellish place? That didn’t seem right. I got really good at being invisible. I can remember thinking that I wouldn’t wish this place and these feelings on my worst enemy.

Fights broke out often. And over the silliest things. You know when you get a bunch of women with baggage…with dark pasts, unknown futures…living in confinement…things get scary. A fight could break out over a bag of chips or over the bathroom or a friggin’ ink pen for crying out loud. When these episodes broke out, I walked away. Plain and simple. I would go as far away as possible (or was allowed) to avoid any participation. There was no way I was getting involved in such dumb shit and possibly get myself in trouble and prolong my stay in that place.

A counselor pulled me aside one day and asked me if I came from an abusive situation. I quickly said “No” because I hadn’t. The counselor then told me that she noticed how I ran from conflict whenever it popped up. Puzzled, I wasn’t sure what she was implying. She then asked me if I always ran from problems. Well, now, that was an entirely different question. Of course, I did. Addicts and alcoholics are all running from reality. Stupidly. But all the same. A little numbing here and a little running there and trying to not face anything real. Regardless, I told her, I am not borrowing trouble by involving myself in other people’s nonsense. That’s why I walk away. She seemed satisfied with that.

If I am being completely honest, I don’t see rehab as this magical place where dreams are born. Or people are reborn. For me, it was a place to remove myself from access to alcohol. That was the biggest factor in my first steps to sobriety. That may not be the case for everyone. Recovery lies so heavily on the individual. As much as families want to pray the obsession for drugs or alcohol away, it comes down to the individual.

Yes, I learned tools to stay sober. Yes, I learned patience. Yes, I delved into my childhood trauma. Yes, I respected some of the counselors I worked with. But rehab isn’t an instant solution. Not a quick fix remedy. The real work lies within you. For me, faith and prayer play a huge part in my recovery. But deep down, at its very core, rehabilitation depends heavily on the person. You cannot make a person want to be freed of the chains of addiction. You cannot want it for them. You cannot, with all your might, wish or will them to get well. You just can’t. I truly wish it was that easy. Wouldn’t that be a game changer for millions of worried parents, children, siblings, friends, etc?

I would be omitting a huge part of my story if I didn’t mention God. I was taught from an early age that there was no God. That ignorant people believed in some God that allowed all these terrible things to happen. I was taught to move on and that this is life, and no one nor some magically being in the heavens was coming to save me.

I can firmly say I do believe in a loving God, a forgiving one, a living one. Not everyone does. That is an individual decision. I can say that we live in a place and time where you can turn to God freely. If it doesn’t work out, what have you lost? If what you are doing isn’t working, and if you are anything like me, are you willing to go to the extreme to get your life back? Maybe believing in a Higher Power (even if that isn’t God for you) isn’t an option you have considered? If you try and fail, then you are exactly back where you started. But at least you tried something. Anything. Addicts and alcoholics are great at risking friendships, health, finances, jobs…you name it and we are willing to risk it to get what we think we want/need. So, why is giving faith a chance such a crazy, outlandish idea?

I would have not been able to endure rehab and lots of trials and tribulations in recovery had it not been for my daily conversations with God. For those who aren’t convinced, that doesn’t hurt my feelings. It doesn’t. I get it.

Let’s say, just for arguments sake, I was praying to a pretend friend in the sky. I got sober. Stayed sober. And am living an amazing life. Now, if you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, would you say it is at least worth a try? Give this God idea a chance? That’s not a decision I have to make. I know what my heart knows.

Please reach out to me or someone (anyone!) if you need help. One small conversation or text leads to another…and another…and then who knows? Recovery is possible. You just have to really, really want it. And do something about it.