I wanted to go to a Celebrity Rehab but I didn't qualify for the financing. Rehabs suck, however, rehabs accomplish what they were meant to do: Rehabilitate. They're facilitators that are helping to find a lost soul. Some reclaim that soul and others fails. Nobody's perfect. The success percentages of these places are staggeringly low, but it's the people they do help that make it all worthwhile. I learned something each and every time I walked through one of their doors. All four times. Long story. So I'll break it down for you, one rehab at a time.
Rehab #1 - I was 18 years old and I had already discovered a taste for Valiums and alcohol. For a good 6-month stretch, I didn't go a day without one or the other in my system . I came from a broken home with a long line of alcoholism and drug addiction in my ancestral history, so why stop the streak at me?
I lived in a big house with my cousin and two other guys at the time. We all had regular jobs but we also sold drugs, (and consumed numerous others) so it always made for a good time at the 'White House', as we used to call it. I moved into the large, 13-room house the day after I graduated from high school. I was standing on the ceremony lawn in my cap and gown, having just received my diploma, when my sweet mother approached me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
"Congratulations Son, I never thought you'd do it. There's fifty bucks in the card, now please have your things out by tomorrow," she whispered with a curt smile.
"Thanks Mom, I already got Brian coming to help me move." I quickly responded.
I knew this blow was coming, so I had my counter-punch ready. Only a week prior, my step-dad found a cigarette pack in my sock drawer that contained about fifty weed roaches, and they weren't too pleased. They weren't pleased? How the fuck do they think I felt? Do they have any idea how many joints I had to smoke to accumulate that many roaches? (If you said 'about fifty' then you're right). It was a sweet ass collection and, unfortunately, they didn't give it back.
So in all of my mother's awesomeness she then picks up the phone and calls all my friends parents', and a few of my teachers, to tell them that she found marijuana in her sons possession. In hindsight, probably not the best parenting tactic used by her, but she did the best she could at the time. Whatever. I cussed her out and told her I was leaving. So, she kicked me out. A mutual agreement, of sorts.
The White House was exactly what I needed. Rent was only $200 a month and we partied daily. Girls, Drugs, Gambling, and Partying. My life consisted of those items with a little bit of work sprinkled in here and there and that was it. Six Months of Valium, Alcohol, and Weed isn't a good combo. Eventually, things are going to start going downhill.
The Blackouts were my first concern, but I still didn't want to stop taking the Valiums. I would wake up every morning and usually had no idea what I had done the night before. I knew I had a problem, but I ignored it. My new found infatuation with Valium was more important. They were the first thing I ever encountered that could alleviate my anxiety. The anxiety attacks and depression would all go away when I took Valium. I would not let my feet hit the floor in the morning, without popping two in my mouth. I had a good contact at work that bought them by the hundreds so I never went without. Lucky Me.
By the end of the six months, everybody had moved out and I was the only one living in the house. We got kicked out (by my Uncle) for throwing too many parties. Everybody had someplace to go but me. My addiction was overwhelming and I was tired of life. Dad was an addict so he didn't give a fuck and Mom had already kicked me out twice. I felt hopeless and alone.
I went into my cousin's room and looked around. He was still in the process of moving out and he had a few straggling items left behind. One of those items was a shotgun. I took the weapon off the gun rack on the wall and carried it back into my room. I dug through my personal items for several minutes attempting to locate the shotgun shells I had hidden somewhere, for no known purpose. I finally found the shells and called my best friend, Danny. If I was going to do this, it sure as fuck was not going to be sober.
I needed Danny to take me to the liquor store because I had no idea where my car was. I woke up and it wasn't there. I used to loan and/or rent it out to my friends at night whenever they wanted to go on a booty call and they needed transportation. I would never remember where it was until they called or returned the car the next day. I would sometimes write myself notes because I knew I wouldn't remember things the next morning. I showed up late to work 5 days in a row because the two alarm clocks I had, which stood only inches from my face, were unable to wake me. Shit was bad.
So Danny picked me up and had me back home within the hour, with three forty ounces of St Ides in tow. I drank the first one quickly and just sat back and waited for the alcohol to kick in. Once that cocktail of malt liquor and Valiums was fully flowing in my bloodstream, I felt much better. Now, it was time to do this thing the right way. Suicide note time.
You can't have a good suicide without a note. Everybody knows that. They're used primarily for dramatic purposes, of course. Plus, the author always loves to envision his loved ones mulling over it. Just reading it day after day, pouring over the contents for months.
The second forty ounce was polished off while writing the note, which I thought was a wonderful collection of verbiage that had the right amount of sarcasm and sorrow. With that task completed, next came the phone call. I wasn't going to off myself without at least one person desperately trying to talk me out of it. My call was to my former drug & alcohol counselor, Mrs B. She was a sweet, attractive lady that was a drug & alcohol counselor in my former high school. During my mischievous years at the learning institution aka high school, I was 'assigned' to speak to her once every two weeks during my sophomore year. Apparently, there are rules in place forbidding a fourteen year old from showing up to school drunk. For the following years leading up to my graduation, Mrs B would become a mentor, a voice of reason, but most importantly, a friend.
Mrs B picked up the phone on the second ring, "Hello."
With a quivering chin and eyes full of tears I was able to utter two words, "I'm Ready".
She immediately knew was on the other line and what those words meant. Over the years, she had asked me at least a dozen times to go away to a treatment facility, and my response was always the same, "I'm not ready, I'm not ready". Today, I was ready.
Mrs B made a call to my former guidance counselor, Mr M, and he was at my house thirty minutes later.
Mr M came to play an even more vital role in my recovery. He would scour the state for available funds that would pay for my stay at a rehab. He would be the lead negotiator in involving my father in this process (which turned out to be a terrible decision, but it was one made by me). Most importantly, Mr M was my only friend at the time. He was the closest thing I had to a father and I still keep in touch with him to this day.
Sitting on my floor, waiting for Mr M to arrive, was probably one of the longest thirty minutes of my life. I sobbed like a baby the entire time, clutching the loaded shotgun, just daring myself to do it. I think I knew I didn't have the balls, but I loved the thought of leaving the world. One of my favorite sayings was, "I'm just not cut out for this world." I meant it, and at times, I feel like that today.
However, today I feel like I'm beyond this world, but back then, I felt like I couldn't handle the pain of this world.
I toyed with the gun the entire time. Loading and reloading. Cocking it back, pointing it at my skull. I was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face, unable to find reasons to continue. Life seemed so bleak. I didn't want to continue, but somehow I just knew. I knew I couldn't do it. There were too many questions in my head that went unanswered. I would only put the gun away once i heard the knock at the door. Mr. M had made it.
Even though I had been out of school for over 7 months and was a legal adult at age 18, these two people helped to save my life. If there was a 'Great Humans Award Ceremony', those two would get the biggest trophies. They're amazing people that I will forever feel indebted to for helping me through the difficult times.
The next several hours were a blur. I was answering questions, giving my blood pressure, and next thing I know we're driving into Philly for a state-funded rehab and conditions there were, uh, less than favorable. But it was all they could get on such short notice for a grown man with no insurance.
It was a huge Victorian-style home right off the Delaware River. The staff was nice, but they didn't really give a shit. Most of the patients at this rehab were homeless people looking for 'three hots and a cot' (3 hot meals and a bed to sleep in). They were sneaking drugs in the place and getting high in the bathrooms at night. A majority of the patients were forty years and older, so they scowled at my youth. They would make jokes about how it was good I was getting my 'first' rehab out of the way early. Most of those older guys had been in a dozen or more rehab facilities. Ahh, the revolving door of rehab.
The year was 1993 and the Phillies were in the World Series at the time. The Toronto Blue Jays were up in the series 3-2 versus the Phils and Game 6 was being played that night. Hopefully, the raucous noise in the T.V. Room would be quiet enough to hear some of the game being played. Prior to the game coming on, one of my roommates asked me to borrow $2.00. I told him all I had on me was a ten dollar bill (Mr B, being the saint that he was, gave me plenty of cigarettes and spending money to make sure I didn't go without). The guy said he would get change from somebody and bring it right back.
When more than five minutes elapsed, I went looking for him. Nobody else could find him either until someone on the porch shouted, "Hey, there's Willie!"
Willie was about two blocks away carrying a bag on his back and my ten bucks in his pocket. A small crowd began to gather on the porch with a few people claiming he had just 'borrowed' money from them too.
"Fuck this, that dudes got my ten bucks", I said as I leaped off the front porch in a full sprint after him. Willie was watching closely and he slowly began to jog when he saw me coming. As I began to narrow the gap between the two of us, he picked up his pace, rounded the corner, and he was gone. By the time I came up to the corner, there were no traces of Willie and he would never be seen again.
I felt like a fool. I just gave a crackhead ten bucks and I really expected to get my change back? That was stupid. I was slipping. I underestimated them and they made me pay. Literally. It wasn't going to happen again.
I was sick and tired of all the attempts at intimidation, the lack of hope, and the inability of anyone to care. If I was going to get better, it wasn't going to be at this place. I had to leave. But not until after the game. I went inside and watched the Phils lose a heartbreaker to the Jays as Mean Joe Carter smashed the series winning homer off Mitch Williams. As soon as the game ended, I walked upstairs, packed my things, wrote a short note about how i felt about the place, and then I quietly left.
Big Mistake. It was ten thirty at night on a Saturday. How the hell was I going to get home? Fuck. Wait a second....I didn't have a home. Nobody even knew I was here except for Mr B and Mrs R, and what if I couldn't get ahold of them?
The next few hours would be my first night ever spent on the streets of Philly. These vicious streets wouldn't waste much time seducing me as they would introduce me to Angel Dust and Crack/Cocaine within the first few hours I spent with them.
I was about to have one of the craziest nights of my life.
I'd learn alot about myself tonight, living on the streets of Philadelphia. My 'survival skills' were about to get tested and I was about to pass with flying colors.
To be continued..... Rehab #1: The Sequel: A Dusted CrackHead is Born.
Rehab #1 - I was 18 years old and I had already discovered a taste for Valiums and alcohol. For a good 6-month stretch, I didn't go a day without one or the other in my system . I came from a broken home with a long line of alcoholism and drug addiction in my ancestral history, so why stop the streak at me?
I lived in a big house with my cousin and two other guys at the time. We all had regular jobs but we also sold drugs, (and consumed numerous others) so it always made for a good time at the 'White House', as we used to call it. I moved into the large, 13-room house the day after I graduated from high school. I was standing on the ceremony lawn in my cap and gown, having just received my diploma, when my sweet mother approached me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
"Congratulations Son, I never thought you'd do it. There's fifty bucks in the card, now please have your things out by tomorrow," she whispered with a curt smile.
"Thanks Mom, I already got Brian coming to help me move." I quickly responded.
I knew this blow was coming, so I had my counter-punch ready. Only a week prior, my step-dad found a cigarette pack in my sock drawer that contained about fifty weed roaches, and they weren't too pleased. They weren't pleased? How the fuck do they think I felt? Do they have any idea how many joints I had to smoke to accumulate that many roaches? (If you said 'about fifty' then you're right). It was a sweet ass collection and, unfortunately, they didn't give it back.
So in all of my mother's awesomeness she then picks up the phone and calls all my friends parents', and a few of my teachers, to tell them that she found marijuana in her sons possession. In hindsight, probably not the best parenting tactic used by her, but she did the best she could at the time. Whatever. I cussed her out and told her I was leaving. So, she kicked me out. A mutual agreement, of sorts.
The White House was exactly what I needed. Rent was only $200 a month and we partied daily. Girls, Drugs, Gambling, and Partying. My life consisted of those items with a little bit of work sprinkled in here and there and that was it. Six Months of Valium, Alcohol, and Weed isn't a good combo. Eventually, things are going to start going downhill.
The Blackouts were my first concern, but I still didn't want to stop taking the Valiums. I would wake up every morning and usually had no idea what I had done the night before. I knew I had a problem, but I ignored it. My new found infatuation with Valium was more important. They were the first thing I ever encountered that could alleviate my anxiety. The anxiety attacks and depression would all go away when I took Valium. I would not let my feet hit the floor in the morning, without popping two in my mouth. I had a good contact at work that bought them by the hundreds so I never went without. Lucky Me.
By the end of the six months, everybody had moved out and I was the only one living in the house. We got kicked out (by my Uncle) for throwing too many parties. Everybody had someplace to go but me. My addiction was overwhelming and I was tired of life. Dad was an addict so he didn't give a fuck and Mom had already kicked me out twice. I felt hopeless and alone.
I went into my cousin's room and looked around. He was still in the process of moving out and he had a few straggling items left behind. One of those items was a shotgun. I took the weapon off the gun rack on the wall and carried it back into my room. I dug through my personal items for several minutes attempting to locate the shotgun shells I had hidden somewhere, for no known purpose. I finally found the shells and called my best friend, Danny. If I was going to do this, it sure as fuck was not going to be sober.
I needed Danny to take me to the liquor store because I had no idea where my car was. I woke up and it wasn't there. I used to loan and/or rent it out to my friends at night whenever they wanted to go on a booty call and they needed transportation. I would never remember where it was until they called or returned the car the next day. I would sometimes write myself notes because I knew I wouldn't remember things the next morning. I showed up late to work 5 days in a row because the two alarm clocks I had, which stood only inches from my face, were unable to wake me. Shit was bad.
So Danny picked me up and had me back home within the hour, with three forty ounces of St Ides in tow. I drank the first one quickly and just sat back and waited for the alcohol to kick in. Once that cocktail of malt liquor and Valiums was fully flowing in my bloodstream, I felt much better. Now, it was time to do this thing the right way. Suicide note time.
You can't have a good suicide without a note. Everybody knows that. They're used primarily for dramatic purposes, of course. Plus, the author always loves to envision his loved ones mulling over it. Just reading it day after day, pouring over the contents for months.
The second forty ounce was polished off while writing the note, which I thought was a wonderful collection of verbiage that had the right amount of sarcasm and sorrow. With that task completed, next came the phone call. I wasn't going to off myself without at least one person desperately trying to talk me out of it. My call was to my former drug & alcohol counselor, Mrs B. She was a sweet, attractive lady that was a drug & alcohol counselor in my former high school. During my mischievous years at the learning institution aka high school, I was 'assigned' to speak to her once every two weeks during my sophomore year. Apparently, there are rules in place forbidding a fourteen year old from showing up to school drunk. For the following years leading up to my graduation, Mrs B would become a mentor, a voice of reason, but most importantly, a friend.
Mrs B picked up the phone on the second ring, "Hello."
With a quivering chin and eyes full of tears I was able to utter two words, "I'm Ready".
She immediately knew was on the other line and what those words meant. Over the years, she had asked me at least a dozen times to go away to a treatment facility, and my response was always the same, "I'm not ready, I'm not ready". Today, I was ready.
Mrs B made a call to my former guidance counselor, Mr M, and he was at my house thirty minutes later.
Mr M came to play an even more vital role in my recovery. He would scour the state for available funds that would pay for my stay at a rehab. He would be the lead negotiator in involving my father in this process (which turned out to be a terrible decision, but it was one made by me). Most importantly, Mr M was my only friend at the time. He was the closest thing I had to a father and I still keep in touch with him to this day.
Sitting on my floor, waiting for Mr M to arrive, was probably one of the longest thirty minutes of my life. I sobbed like a baby the entire time, clutching the loaded shotgun, just daring myself to do it. I think I knew I didn't have the balls, but I loved the thought of leaving the world. One of my favorite sayings was, "I'm just not cut out for this world." I meant it, and at times, I feel like that today.
However, today I feel like I'm beyond this world, but back then, I felt like I couldn't handle the pain of this world.
I toyed with the gun the entire time. Loading and reloading. Cocking it back, pointing it at my skull. I was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face, unable to find reasons to continue. Life seemed so bleak. I didn't want to continue, but somehow I just knew. I knew I couldn't do it. There were too many questions in my head that went unanswered. I would only put the gun away once i heard the knock at the door. Mr. M had made it.
Even though I had been out of school for over 7 months and was a legal adult at age 18, these two people helped to save my life. If there was a 'Great Humans Award Ceremony', those two would get the biggest trophies. They're amazing people that I will forever feel indebted to for helping me through the difficult times.
The next several hours were a blur. I was answering questions, giving my blood pressure, and next thing I know we're driving into Philly for a state-funded rehab and conditions there were, uh, less than favorable. But it was all they could get on such short notice for a grown man with no insurance.
It was a huge Victorian-style home right off the Delaware River. The staff was nice, but they didn't really give a shit. Most of the patients at this rehab were homeless people looking for 'three hots and a cot' (3 hot meals and a bed to sleep in). They were sneaking drugs in the place and getting high in the bathrooms at night. A majority of the patients were forty years and older, so they scowled at my youth. They would make jokes about how it was good I was getting my 'first' rehab out of the way early. Most of those older guys had been in a dozen or more rehab facilities. Ahh, the revolving door of rehab.
The year was 1993 and the Phillies were in the World Series at the time. The Toronto Blue Jays were up in the series 3-2 versus the Phils and Game 6 was being played that night. Hopefully, the raucous noise in the T.V. Room would be quiet enough to hear some of the game being played. Prior to the game coming on, one of my roommates asked me to borrow $2.00. I told him all I had on me was a ten dollar bill (Mr B, being the saint that he was, gave me plenty of cigarettes and spending money to make sure I didn't go without). The guy said he would get change from somebody and bring it right back.
When more than five minutes elapsed, I went looking for him. Nobody else could find him either until someone on the porch shouted, "Hey, there's Willie!"
Willie was about two blocks away carrying a bag on his back and my ten bucks in his pocket. A small crowd began to gather on the porch with a few people claiming he had just 'borrowed' money from them too.
"Fuck this, that dudes got my ten bucks", I said as I leaped off the front porch in a full sprint after him. Willie was watching closely and he slowly began to jog when he saw me coming. As I began to narrow the gap between the two of us, he picked up his pace, rounded the corner, and he was gone. By the time I came up to the corner, there were no traces of Willie and he would never be seen again.
I felt like a fool. I just gave a crackhead ten bucks and I really expected to get my change back? That was stupid. I was slipping. I underestimated them and they made me pay. Literally. It wasn't going to happen again.
I was sick and tired of all the attempts at intimidation, the lack of hope, and the inability of anyone to care. If I was going to get better, it wasn't going to be at this place. I had to leave. But not until after the game. I went inside and watched the Phils lose a heartbreaker to the Jays as Mean Joe Carter smashed the series winning homer off Mitch Williams. As soon as the game ended, I walked upstairs, packed my things, wrote a short note about how i felt about the place, and then I quietly left.
Big Mistake. It was ten thirty at night on a Saturday. How the hell was I going to get home? Fuck. Wait a second....I didn't have a home. Nobody even knew I was here except for Mr B and Mrs R, and what if I couldn't get ahold of them?
The next few hours would be my first night ever spent on the streets of Philly. These vicious streets wouldn't waste much time seducing me as they would introduce me to Angel Dust and Crack/Cocaine within the first few hours I spent with them.
I was about to have one of the craziest nights of my life.
I'd learn alot about myself tonight, living on the streets of Philadelphia. My 'survival skills' were about to get tested and I was about to pass with flying colors.
To be continued..... Rehab #1: The Sequel: A Dusted CrackHead is Born.
i just got your comment, thanks dood. I don't know how the hell you stumbled on a fashion blog...but i'm glad you got something, anything real out of it.
ReplyDeletegood things going on on yours too, by the way. I use netnewswire to follow all the blogs I want...by the by.
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