we're all wandering.. but that doesn't mean we're lost.

rehab.

It’s Time

As I'm packing my belongings, my mind is racing with uncontrollable thoughts. I keep telling the voices to shut up but they just won't listen. I do the only thing I can think of and down the rest of the bottle of Tramadol that's hiding in my underwear drawer. Creative, I know. The voices are silenced, for now. I'm throwing together mostly comfortable clothes, but there is the occasional nice shirt and pair of jeans. Mostly I just have sweatpants and sweatshirts, t-shirts, yoga pants. I don't think I'm going to have to impress anyone where I'm going. Besides, I've pretty much given up on my appearance lately. I just don't give a shit; I have more important things to worry about, like where my next fix is coming from and how I'm going to afford it.

I finally broke down and told Suzanne everything. Well, not everything; not even close to everything. I told her that I'm a drug addict and an alcoholic. I told her that I've been using ever since I came to live here. I told her that I can't clean up on my own, that I've tried and failed. Though I loved the freeing feeling that came with telling her the truth, I didn't speak the truth very long. She asked if I was taking their booze; I denied it. She asked me if she should lock it up; I said no. She asked me if I had anything with me; I told her I was fresh out. I guess that last part is true now, since I just finished the pills and chased them with the last bit of vodka I'd had hidden under my bed in an iced tea bottle.

As I'm finishing getting my stuff together, she's on the computer, printing off directions to White Deer Run, the rehab that just called and said they had a bed open. She's hurrying, says we don't have a whole lot of time for me to get there and get checked in. I turn off my light and stand in the doorway to my room, take one final look around. I know that I won't be back here for quite awhile. I won't be sleeping in my bed, cuddling with Ruger. I won't be blaring music and drinking. I won't be smoking out the window or messing around on the computer. I take a mental note that when I get home I'm going to have to change some things around if I plan to stay sober. I want to cry but I'm numb. My tears are all dried up and there is nothing left to fall. I don't know if that's because of the concoction I just downed or the fact that I've been crying for the last two days. Either way, it's hard for me to feel anything right now.

The whole way to the rehab, Suzanne and Ginny talk about other things. I just sit in the back seat and listen to my music. I try not to think. Eventually, I fall asleep. Suzanne wakes me as we're pulling into the rehab and now I start to feel some anxiety welling up in my chest. She looks in the rear-view and our eyes meet. She looks worn, tired, and sympathetic. I wonder how she thinks I look. She reiterates that I've made an excellent decision. She tells me how proud she is and tries to convince me that everything is okay. She tells me that I'll be home in no time, and she makes sure I know that her and Dan will be waiting for me and supporting me every step of the way. I don't feel any better, but I pretend to for her sake.

She puts the car in park and we all three take a deep breath. The place looks beautiful, but I'm still terrified. Ginny decides to wait for Suzanne in the car. She pops the trunk and I grab my bag. We head into check-in.

A guy who must be about three years older than me gets the door for us. His head is shaved, he's wearing baggy clothes, and he looks sick. I watch him take a drag of his cigarette and wish I had one to smoke. Suzanne and I walk in and sit down against the wall. I still don't feel a thing. That boy walks through the door now and approaches me. I give Suzanne a look and she knows what I'm thinking; I really don't want him to talk to me. He walks over and asks me what my drug of choice is. I open my mouth to speak but I just freeze. Instead, tears form and the flood begins. He apologizes, explaining that he never meant to upset me. Suzanne speaks for me telling him that I'm just overwhelmed and that everything is new for me. He says he understands and that if I ever want to talk, he's there.

A lady approaches Suzanne with some paperwork. Basically, she just needs her to sign me in. She explains how the rehab runs and everything. I pretty much just blank the whole time. After about ten minutes, the lady tells Suzanne that it's time to say goodbye and that they'll take it from here. Suzanne and I stand up and hug each other. I don't want to let her go. I feel like a little kid; I want to throw a temper tantrum so bad. I want to run out and lock myself in the car. I want to refuse to stay. My heart aches and I'm so afraid. She tries to let go, telling me that she has to be on her way but I won't. I just keep crying and hugging her. Finally, when I do let go, she runs her hand through my hair, tells me she loves me, that I'm doing the right thing, and she walks out without looking back.

They lead me to a small room with a lady sitting in front of a computer. I'm in there for what seems like a long time. She just keeps typing. She's really nice. She has long acrylic nails that click against the keyboard. She keeps cracking jokes that I would normally laugh at. I feel bad because I'm in a bitchy mood. I express my fears to her and she explains to me that I'm just like every other addict that comes through the place. Something about her is calming. Still, I wish I were getting high right now.

After the nail lady is done typing in all my information, they lead me out of that building and across the drive to another building. This one smells like a hospital. I guess this is sort of the main building of the rehab. There are different places in here but there's detox, doctors, and the dining hall.

I'm lead into another very small room with nothing but a simple wooden desk and two small chairs. A big black lady follows me in and introduces herself. I don't say much; I hope she doesn't think I'm a bitch. She puts on latex gloves and grabs two white plastic bags. She starts going through my stuff, taking out things that I can't have, separating everything. Things I'm allowed to have go into one bag, things I'm not in the other. By the time she's done, I only have half of what I came with. She tells me that I'm not allowed to wear the jeans I have on because they have holes in them. She throws me a pair of my sweats to change into. I give her a look and wait for her to leave the room. Then I realize that she's not going anywhere. She informs me that they have to search me too so I might as well get used to it. You don't have much dignity as an addict, let alone an addict checking into rehab. If I had any left, it was about to dissipate. Ever heard of the term "squat and cough?" Turns out it's not just a figure of speech. As much as I wanted to care, I didn't. I'd done much more humiliating things for drugs. She made me strip down: underwear, bra, and all. I even had to take my hair out of my bun just in case I had something hidden in there. By the time this whole ordeal was over, I was starving.

The lady takes me into a big room with a bunch of detoxing people; I wonder if I look as bad as them. Judging by the looks of empathy on their faces, I do. One of the techs offers to get me some left over dinner. I accept. About five minutes later, they walk out with some fish and rice in a Styrofoam box. While I'm eating, they're having an NA meeting. I've never even heard of these before but they force me to participate. By the time I'm finished with my meal, the NA meeting is over and they're checking my vitals again. I think they have to check every half hour to make sure I'm not dying or whatever.

This place is like a mental hospital. There's some stupid movie on the TV, some adults acting like babies, some getting really pissed and screaming obscenities, some look terrified. I just put my head down and cry. If this is what rehab is like, I want to go home. A lady, probably early forties, comes over and sits at my table. She offers me a cigarette. Gratefully, I accept. This is the closest thing I've felt to sane since I got here. She starts talking about her son and the program and how she wants to go home. It's not reassuring at all, but I just let her talk. I figure she needs to vent and it gets my mind off me for awhile.

Finally, someone comes for me - a tech from the adolescent unit. I'm happy to get out of detox. They now believe I'm stable enough to go to the unit and, though I personally don't feel I am, I think I'll just trust the doctor's judgement. The tech introduces herself to me as Tabby; she's sweet and very pretty. On the walk up to the unit, she carries my bags and warns me about the other girls. She makes it a point to tell me that some of them are bitches and I'd probably be best just to steer clear, though she doesn't tell me who they are. I guess she figures I'll be able to tell on my own. She also warns me that they're most likely going to bombard me with questions. Getting a new girl in rehab is like getting a Christmas present. You never know if it's going to be amazing or just something to mess with. They like to test the waters. I didn't understand at first but later, when I moved past the ranks of newbie and into the position of experienced bitch, I understood perfectly. Rehab is a kill or be killed atmosphere.

When I get to the cabin, Tabby takes me to my room, and the girls swarm like bees. Everyone wants to know how old I am, where I'm from, and most importantly, what my drug of choice is. I have to admit, I'm flattered. I've always liked the attention. Once I answer all their questions, Tabby brings me a plastic bag with all the bedding in it. She tells me I can make my bed, sort my clothes in the dresser, and get my room set up quickly; it is almost lights out. I ask her if I can please take a shower because I feel so disgusting. She lets me and congratulates me on making it through the initial interrogation.

Once I get out of the shower, I make my bed and lay down. Devon, the girl I'm rooming with is leaving in two days. I try talking to her but she doesn't have much to say to me. I think she just wants to leave. The cot I'm sleeping on is so uncomfortable. I feel like I'm laying on a bed of nails. I don't get much sleep. All I can think about is Suzanne; I hope she's sleeping better than I am. This feels like prison. Before we went to bed all the girls yelled out their countdowns from "twenty days and a wake up" all the way down to "two days and a wake up." It's funny how at first all I want to do is cry. I can't imagine how these girls could get used to living like this. In no time at all, I become one of them and when it's my time to leave, I can't imagine living any other way.

Day One

I'm awakened early by the tech that came in to take Tabby's place during shift change. She tells me that I need to go get blood work. Honestly, I feel like I had just fallen asleep and now I get to get stuck with a needle. Great. I walk down to the main building and they draw blood, then send me back to the cabin. I feel like lying back down but she's already called the other girls for wake up. It feels like boot camp, though I know boot camp would be much more ruthless. I change my clothes and grab the things that I might want during the day, and we head out to the day room. The day room is smaller than a classroom at school with two tables, a TV, Amanda and Lindsay's offices, and some games. This is where we stay ninety percent of the day. You can imagine how I'd easily want to strangle someone, not being able to get away from them. I'm completely lost and have no idea what's going on because no one took the time to explain anything to me.

Turns out, we begin each day with check in. I think it's pretty stupid but whatever, everyone has to do it. The addict that's been here the longest is responsible so it's Devon. She grabs the clipboard and goes down through the list. Love and respect, how was your night, goals for the day - each person has to participate and their goal is recorded on the paper. After check in is done, we all head down to the dining hall for breakfast.

Going through the line, their food isn't too bad. We can get as much as we want but it's all carbs. I think they try to load us up because of the all addicts that come in skinnier than a twig. Carbs are good for that but not for diabetics like me. Oh, well. You eat what they have. I take my food and coffee back to the table. I'm pretty quiet. All the other girls are flirting with the guy's unit. We're not supposed to talk to them but they do anyway. They're passing notes, hoping the techs don't catch them. We got here by breaking the rules; some of us aren't here to change, but to appease family, friends, or the court.


...to be continued..

when my dreams take hold

I was safe in my comforter. Safe in my room, in our house, in the middle of the night. Safe in my dreams, safe with my mind. Or so I thought. Ironically, I was safe dreaming of a crisis. I was in Dawn's living room going through a bag of clothes that had been stuffed full, both randomly and carelessly. No matching outfits, not enough underclothes, no toothbrush, no hair products, barely enough medicine. I pull out some old clothes that could probably use a good washing, but they'll suffice in this situation. I graciously take the toothbrush I'm offered along with my dirty, stale clothes to the bathroom to change. I try desperately to find some state of peace for bed but it seems next to impossible.

I have to admit: it's nice to finally have someone take care of me - to have someone love me enough, to have someone drop what they're doing and think, "Wow, this girl needs me and I love her too much to let her go to waste." Not too many people have taken that opportunity in my past, though there were more than enough chances. Or, maybe that's just my perception. Maybe people have taken the opportunity and I'm just too blind to see it. Either way, this feels different. Regardless of the fact I know I can't stay here or that I'm awkwardly positioned on the couch beside Dawn or that I look like death, I'm as comforted and grateful as I could possibly be. My mind isn't working properly; whether it's from stress, the lack of sleep, or the drugs, I'm not sure and, to be brutally honest, I don't care. I feel as if I'll always be in debt to Dawn and her family, though I don't comprehend at the time that I'll never truly be able to return the favor. Instead, my frantic mind starts dreaming up possible gifts for them. Honestly, I think I'm just looking for a release - something new to crowd my head rather than the now prevalent thoughts of homelessness, drugs, and all my bridges burned.

Whoever that is in the mirror, it can't be me. She's tired and ugly, with circles under her eyes, skinny, broken, worthless. I don't want to look but, I can't bring myself to quit staring. Is this what I've become?

This is where the dream separates itself from the actual memory. In reality, this night was the beginning of a long road - one that eventually leads to where I am now: a good foster home, celebrating an entire year clean, getting ready to go off to college to become a substance abuse counselor. Don't get me wrong, the road was far from easy. It was full of fire, hell, and a ton more bad decisions that should have let me without Dawn but didn't. My dream, however, is a different story.

I reach into my bag and pull out a syringe just like the ones I use for my insulin. Instead of pulling up insulin, a sweet, thick , brown substance fills the syringe. I lay it down and pull my hair up in a loose bun. The next few steps are so routine that I don't even have to think about them. Reach over and lock the door, take off my sweatshirt, sit down on the hard toilet seat, make a fist, and watch the veins pop up and scream my name. The part of the ritual that's different tonight is the thoughts that flood my brain. When I'm not getting ready to shoot up, I'm thinking about heroin so when it's in a syringe right in front of me, I think of nothing but heroin. There's no room for second guesses or guilt, shame, or logic; just the thought of bringing it all home and flying. Tonight, however, Dawn crosses my mind. Guilt, shame, and logic enter my psyche. Here she is, letting me sleep on her couch, feeding me, taking me in while I'm homeless and here I am, shooting up in her bathroom. Her kids, both younger than me, are up in their rooms doing homework and I'm down here pulling up a good dose of H. I take a mental note, telling myself that I'm a selfish bitch, and continue with my actions. The addiction, the drugs, the darkness is stronger than my willpower to be good, clean, and altogether a decent human being. Though I long for the latter, it seems so far out of reach and I can't bring myself to waste the dope. I look at the prepared rig again, take a deep breath, insert the needle into my vein, pull up some blood to form a detrimental mixture, and slam it all home. 

she wants to go home, but nobody's home.