Let’s Try: That Time When I Went to Rehab

 Unlike Amy Winehouse, when they tried to make me go to rehab, I said  yes yes yes. Well, I must have, because I ended up there. I only had a budding problem with alcohol and marijuana (and my chicken shit ass didn’t dare use anything else); I liked it and I enjoyed it (is that a problem?), but when I got out of rehab I had a guilty complex about using it (thanks!).

It was 2021 and I was in the psych ward at Advent Deland, because of, long story short: the DMV, instant coffee, and baby spiders (yeah, weird). This was my second time there within a month, because I just loved that place (really I had a sick satisfaction with their religious program), but they clearly didn’t feel the same about me. I told them I couldn’t go home, as my dad kinda kicked me out, and I was kinda homeless (I kinda lied). So they kinda suggested, would you like to go to a nice rehab in Winter Park Florida?…(the place that shall not be named). I didn’t have a choice because they weren’t going to keep my ass there (I would have lived there if I could), and I didn’t have plans of going anywhere else. 

So I got a free cab ride to a place that I thought would cure me of all my mental illnesses (and multiple personalities. Jk). I had a couple cigs in my pack but the cab driver wouldn’t let me smoke them in the cab, but we talked and he was cool. I got dropped off at an office of “orientation,” where they make you fill out paperwork agreeing to all their rules, and tell them exactly what is wrong with you, and then a van ride to the actual place, enjoying my unbeknownst fading freedom and singing Great Is Thy Faithfulness (it kept me going). I was wearing hospital scrub pants that barely fit, again looking like a crazy skinny clown, and in fact all my stuff was in my car in the hospital parking lot. They wouldn’t let me drive myself there, cause they thought I’d bail, so now I didn’t have any shit except for a stupid purple shirt and a very tight sports bra and some hospital toiletries. Great. 

This place was in the middle of nowhere (so that you can’t run away). I didn’t know that once I went through those doors I was not coming out. Literally (for four more weeks). I thought that if I didn’t like it I could just have my dad, that kinda kicked me out, come pick me up. No sir. They thought I was a sick human being and a danger to myself and it was their job to protect me and others and heavily medicate me. I must have agreed to that in the paperwork, but I don’t remember. If you really want to leave you can sign yourself out but then you have to be evaluated by a psychiatrist first who deems you fit for the real world. And it was Friday, and the psych didn’t come in until Monday. Great. And yes, I tried. I told them I would walk out those doors, and they said a cop would pick me up and have me baker acted. Fugz (trying not to curse anymore). So over time I developed Stockholm syndrome for this sick institution that didn’t respect privacy, boundaries, or freedom. And at this point in the reminiscent writing I’m having emotional flashbacks, but I’ll keep going for your sake, and for my own therapy through “the alchemy of levity,” as Dave Chapelle says. 

It seemed like everybody there was already well adjusted, like they got Stockholms fast, like they were milling around during study hall in high school. Meanwhile I’m hiking up my pants every 30 seconds, wondering when I can go out and smoke yet running out of cigarettes, wanting to nap but the rooms are locked up until 4 pm, and using every chance I got to use the phone in the hallway where everyone could hear me, telling my dad I hate it here and get me the Fugz out of here. He told me to try to just hang in there because he couldn’t have me at his house right now because of the way I was acting (meanwhile digging myself a further hole on the phone (manic and rude and undisciplined)). Um okay, could you bring me my shit? I asked. And more embarrassing: “like some feminine products?” In a couple days he brought me specific things from my car and one pack of cigarettes, when I clearly asked for a carton. This was a joke. The “orderlies” made me go through all my things and hand over anything sharp or with strings and my slightly alcoholic body spray, which I was allowed to ask for at the desk every morning. So I couldn’t shave, which didn’t really bother me, but I could smell good at least, and wear my small assortment of makeup, but I still looked shitty because I had recently given myself a crappy cropped haircut (I tried to shave the back and do a bowl bob with bangs). One of the bitch girls commented in a whisper that I looked like a monkey. I was hurt and fuming. Yeah, fudging high school. But you could smoke, so like high school in the seventies (I’m trying to be romantic). 

The first night there I couldn’t sleep, so I went into the common area and walked laps with a blankie over me. Another guy couldn’t sleep too; he was Hispanic, and we played cards. He was very good at shuffling, which impressed me (I am also that good now, btw). They let me make a sandwich in the kitchen, a peanut butter and honey with some hot tea. I started writing in my new marble notebook, a letter to my dear old dad. Not sure if I ripped it out and mailed it (I still have the notebook). Laid on the floor scribbling, meanwhile orderlies are checking on you with a clipboard taking notes through a cracked door they will not let you close. Safety first! So by morning I was wrecked, if I did get any sleep, and you are not allowed to go back to bed. Nonetheless, like every morning, I went outside for a coffee and cigarette on a chilly October morning, and ate Raisin Bran for breakfast (because I was constipated. Sorry but I was. Mental illness really Fugz up your guts)). 

Every day was scheduled, and you are supposed to walk around with your binder going to classes and therapy. Sometimes I walked out, because I had seen other people  do it, but soon I learned that you needed to attend if you wanted to get out of rehab, by acting like you cared and wanted to get better. It was stupid shit classes, about getting good sleep, and communication, and coping skills, and how bad drugs and alcohol are for you. In the evening was NA and AA. Some free time, like to smoke and journal, and chores. I got put on sweeping the cafeteria duty and taking down the umbrellas on the outside tables. You had to do your own laundry. There was a pool and we all got to swim in a couple times, feeling like swanky 90210 depressed druggies. The only thing I will compliment is the spectacular food and getting cake for dessert. And some of the people were cool, and I wish I had stayed in touch afterwards, but I didn’t have a phone at that time. I would talk more about the people, ones I would actually call friends, but then this story would be way long. Let’s just say i owe a lot of people a lot of cigarettes. 

Okay, I will talk about some people: there was a girl who swore she talked to god (god only answered yes or no questions, oddly). She was okay; I ate meals with her and let her take a drag off a cigarette now and then (which is also odd, like how can you just puff and not become a full time smoker? Like I never have just taken a sip of beer…). She was stylish, and of course bold and confident (and the next step is: bitch. She qualified). Her psych swore her god conversations were bullshit, but I believed her, because, like Mulder, I wanted to, and god did answer some of my questions (correctly, idk. I wish I’d written it down). She didn’t like that I hung out with another dude, who nobody liked, but I did, because he gave me American Spirits, and he was interesting in a philosophical and poetic way (I’m a sucker for that). He believed in god, but he didn’t talk to him. He also believed in time travel and demons, and had some pretty cool stories (and now I have cool stories, too! Ugh). He checked himself out, the lucky B, and I never properly said goodbye. I hope he is okay. He definitely had a spiritual influence on me.

Another guy, another really cool dude, called me Virginia Slim (cause I’m from Va and I was slim). I like that, and I wish the name would stick.

I stayed the whole four weeks I was supposed to, after some embarrassing incidents and multiple times trying to check myself out. I don’t think I was any better, except for gaining weight, and was definitely on the wrong meds now (like depakote. Ew). That’s what you get when you act crazy and desperate. My brother says there are two types of people: ones that are pretending to be crazy, and ones that are pretending to be sane. “Seems to me, you don’t want to talk about it, seems to me you just turn your pretty head and walk away…” (can’t remember name of that song). Enough said. 

Ps. It’s not my best work, but I like to think this is beautiful writing from a beautiful mind. Lol. I’m being sentimental.