A New World (Part 2 of a Series)

And then I opened the door. A new world appeared before me. A world of mundane bliss. A world of peace, where obnoxious creditors could not find me. A world without inane wastes of time such as Twitter and Facebook. A world where cell phones and blogs did not exist. A world that had a ready supply of toilet paper. And food. A world where I would never experience hunger. A world where I would never experience solitude. A world where I would never experience the sensation of high or stoned; I felt ambivalent about these last two, yet welcomed them nonetheless. I welcomed the alien freedom from the obsessive need to fill my self with things and substances from outside myself.

This world looked as though I walked into a time machine. The winter white Queen Anne sofa drew my eye immediately. If I still had grandparents, this tiny sitting room would belong to them. The place smelled of fresh bleach. A girl ~ one of the residents ~ came into the room to vacuum, while I waited to get processed. The vacuum smelled like a combination of burnt rubber and doggie, though no dog lived there.

I had not signed my name so many times on so many different pieces of paper since my RN days. I looked at my bags, and tried to hide how shell-shocked and ashamed I felt at having reduced my entire existence to the things held in those 3 suitcases. The staff member rifled through my things, confiscating my notebook computer, my cell phone, my camera and my wallet. And, of course, looking for anything with which I could harm myself. She had me place all of my clothing and my pillow in the dryer on high heat, just in case I had bed bugs.

I felt that uncomfortable uneasiness known as humility. I felt especially wretched for having skipped out on my landlord. I simply walked away from it all, leaving the mess of my former existence for him to remove. Did that make me a bad person? Yes, yes it did.

Ten girls lived in the house; I would make it eleven. The girls whirred about, like automatons in a giant machine. Each, a cog that knows her part, knows what to do and when to do it. I felt blinded by my new surroundings, needing someone to lead me around and tell me where to find everything. I wondered how long it would take to feel like I lived here. Because, right then, in that moment, I felt like a guest.

My Saving Grace, (Part 1 of a Series)

A using friend of mine thought I should hide my plan to enter drug rehab, implying that I should feel ashamed about reaching out for help to kick my addiction. Why, I wonder? He failed to understand. Failed to understand my desperation, and my utter indifference at the opinions of others. I had left myself no choice, painted myself into a corner. I faced homelessness because I spent all of my rent money on drugs. This time, no one but me could or would rescue me from myself. I have to become my own saving grace. I had finally met my rock bottom. As I wallowed in it, I felt both fright and relief at the same time. You mean I have to leave Vancouver? You mean I will have to move to Abbotsford? 

Going to rehab embodied one of the most difficult choices I've made. I felt uneasy leaving Vancouver, my stomping ground. I had to give up all my belongings (except what I could pack in three suitcases), basically just walk away from it all. After putting the keys in the mailbox, I turned around and walked away from my life. Suddenly I had reduced myself to 3 suitcases. A Vancouver outreach worker drove me from Vancouver to Abbotsford. She could scarcely believe how quickly after first speaking with her I decided to go to rehab. Perhaps she did not understand that I had little choice ~ rehab in Abbotsford or homelessness in Vancouver. 

As we entered the rehab house, I tried hard to hide my fear and apprehension. I told myself that after the program's 12 weeks, I could and would return to my former life in Vancouver. I really had no idea that going to rehab meant giving up doing drugs forever, including weed. I didn't have a problem with weed. Nope. Not at all. Not me. I came to this house, to LIFE Recovery, for cocaine, in particular crack cocaine. 

For the first few days I felt strangely emotional, almost contrite for letting myself get to this point. Also, I had not prepared myself for 21 days without contacting the outside world. 21 days without calling my mum? No internet? No laptop? No more dysfunctional text messaging to and from dysfunctional people? No daytime television? No more late, late night soirees with myself, Sir David Attenborough and The Life of Birds on Knowledge Network? No more sleeping in 'til noon? What do you mean, a wake up time of 7 am? AYFKM? What do you mean I have to share a room? I'd never shared a room with anyone in my entire life, except for the man I married! What do you mean I have to live in this house, with 10 to 15 other addicted women? 

Looking back, it all seems like a monumental adjustment to make, moving into such a house. Strangely, at the time it did not feel that way. I felt grateful, so grateful, to have found a clean place to live, in a town where I had no idea how to get drugs. 

I tried telling myself, it's only just begun. 
Indeed, it had, though I don't know that I really realized that in the moment.