They Said I Needed Treatment. I Thought They Were Crazy
About a year before I got sober, I had broken up with my long time girlfriend, I started doing Xanax again and was also doing whippets and some cocaine. This was after two years of not touching anything other than weed and alcohol. That semester was also the first semester when I noticed my grades beginning to drop. I was at the beginning of what I didn't know at the time would be a long spiral. This was weeks before I moved to Chicago to start my internship as a project manager. Weeks before I would go on a 3 month bender of taking Xanax every single night. I discussed this bender further in a different blog post.
While I didn't necessarily see that this was about to happen, my father did. He insisted we go get help and for whatever reason, I agreed, although I was definitely hesitant. My dad found a clinic in Houston, Texas that was basically a week long intensive program that would allow a professional to make a recommendation about the best course of action to move forward.
The night that I flew to Houston should've been telling enough for me that I had a problem. I was so oblivious to it though. Before I got on the plane, I took a Xanax. I was sitting business class on this flight and so I had access to unlimited drinks on the plane. I remember when I arrived at my first airport on the connection, I forgot my carry-on on the plane. I heard my name being called over the loudspeaker. Luckily, I made it back to the gate in time to get my bag before heading onto my next flight. I was bordering blackout drunk and I still had another flight to get to. You hear people who take Xanax on long flights to get through them, you don't often hear of people taking them on two hour flights. I think this is the reason for that.
When I arrived in Houston, I sat at a bar waiting for my dad to land at the airport. I drank more. When my dad finally arrived, I knew that he could see on my face how drunk I was. I felt it. But I didn't care. It was almost like subconscious payback for him making me come to Houston to do this intensive.
The only way I knew how to live at this point was to numb myself. I was either drunk or high at all times. Somehow, I didn't see this as a problem. I honestly thought it was a normal way of living. Not only that, but I remember thinking to myself that I couldn't imagine living any other way. In the culture of the school that I was at, it was so normalized. I
was miserable. The substances were helping me get by. Soon enough though, they were going to start to have the opposite effect.
After a full week spent at the clinic, the last day was reserved for talking with the specialists about their recommendations. I was sitting in the room that day nervous, sweating, uneasy in my own skin. When they handed us the document, they gave us some time to read it before talking with them about it. As I was reading it, I remember jotting down next to each thing that was written down saying "untrue", "this isn't true", "I never said this" etc... The document basically said that I had a substance use disorder and that they recommended I go to an inpatient treatment facility.
I was in complete denial. I had no clue how they came up with these recommendations. I stormed out. I didn't think I was that bad. I didn't think I needed all of that.
As I've written about, the way the next few months went, to anybody else, it would have been evident that this was exactly what I needed. To me though, I still didn't think I had a problem.
My illness progressed fast over the next year. I switched from one drug to the next and because of that, it was an illusion that I wasn't a drug addict. I thought I could stop whenever I wanted. It wasn't until I was introduced to cocaine that I could not replace it with anything else. It's hooks were so deep in me that I couldn't stop. That's when I started to realize I may have a problem.
Eventually, I was subtly crying out to my dad for help. I would disclose how much drugs I was using, that I wasn't sleeping and that I couldn't live this way anymore. That was when, by the grace of God, he introduced me to George, who I spoke about in the first ever blog that I posted .
About 3 months before I got sober, George introduced me to the idea of going to treatment. This was the second time in my life that someone suggest I go into rehab and while I was super hesitant, this time I at least opened my ears to listen. He framed it in the way that I can either go away for a month and deal with my problems head on, or I can continue to fight with this for the rest of my life. That was the first time that it actually made sense to me. I was so sick of living this way and the idea that I can go somewhere to finally deal with it once and for all was really appealing. While I was more willing than I ever was before, I told him that I wanted to first finish school before I went.
We had to get through the next 3 months, without dying, to make it to treatment. The goal was also to finish all of my courses but unfortunately, that didn't happen. As I also discuss in another blog post, I got caught cheating and failed one of my classes before I could make it to the end. But I was alive. I was not well, but I was alive.
Finally, as May 9 arrived, George and I got into a car and drove to the Chicago airport from Madison, Wi. We did not get in the car though before I waited a couple of hours for my dealer to answer to get my last bag of coke. But, we did get in the car eventually.
As soon as we got to the hotel at the airport, I left George and went into my room to finish the bag. It was nothing like what I wanted my last bag to be. It barely touched me. It did not give me anything of what I was looking for. They say as an addict that we are constantly chasing our first high. From experience, I know this to be true. This happens because one's tolerance continues to grow. None of my highs after my first few were anything like they were at first. I didn't want this to be my last bag, but I was getting on the plane tomorrow to go to treatment. The reality was, I didn't have the capacity to fight anymore and I didn't have the means to get more.
That night, I fell asleep right after finishing the 8 ball. I was at such a low state mentally that when I would do the coke, it would bring me back to baseline and allow me to fall asleep.
The next morning, we arrived in Orlando and my dad met us at the airport. Someone from the treatment centre came to pick us up and I slept the entire 2 hours in the car. My dad explained to me that he thought I was dying in the car. My sniffles, my drooling, my lack of consciousness. He explained to me that dropping me off at treatment as the second hardest day of his life after my mom dying.
When I got there, they checked me in and I had to say goodbye. I gave my dad and George a hug. They left. It was kind of anticlimactic. That was it, they were gone. I was stuck in this place now, no where to go.
They escorted me to my room and asked me for my phone. Immediately, I freaked out. One of the things I told George when he was finding me a place to go was that I wanted access to my phone at all times. Knowing what I know now, this would have been a horrible idea and I'm not even sure there are any treatment centres that let you do this. George must've known this at the time, but I didn't. If he had told me this then, I would have objected, so he decided not to and that was definitely the right move. When they asked for my phone, I called my dad right away. This was 10 minutes after he left. He was in a panic that I called him right after he dropped me off and I was already complaining about being there. I told him on that call that I wouldn't last more than a week.
I ended up sleeping for the next 5 days straight. I had to catch up on 6 months of sleepless, cocaine and psychosis filled nights. Finally, when I got out of med (the medical building in treatment), I met some of the most amazing people. My first night out, we played the game telestrations after dark. I was sitting at a table with 10 people that I had never met before, but it felt like I belonged. I was surrounded by people that weren't judging me, that were in my exact position not long before and who were also here to get help. It was an amazing feeling.
The next day I called my dad ecstatic after not talking to him since the day that I arrived. I told him that I was so happy to be there. He was confused and excited how it went from me threatening that I wouldn't last a week to me telling him how happy I am to be there. Crazy was detoxing off drugs and getting my mind right did for me. I wound up staying for 3 months. It was 3 of the best months of my life. I am so grateful that I made it there on May 10, 2024 because if not, I probably wouldn't have lasted much longer. I have been sober since.
