Rehabilitation is not something that simply occurs to you; rather, it is an experience that you actively engage with. This thought echoed in my mind during the lonely nights I spent shedding tears in a well-furnished room where sharp objects were prohibited, and my door lacked a lock.
The realization struck me as soon as I entered the facility, where I was instructed to remove my fashionable Marni ankle boots due to their strict no-shoes policy. I hesitated, making excuses about my embarrassment over my feet—a complete fabrication. It became clear when they inquired about my food preferences, and without much thought, I responded with “goat yogurt,” as if it were the most ordinary answer. I recognized it again when the staff member tasked with monitoring me during a drug test appeared more anxious than I felt myself.
After an extended period filled with distress—days, weeks, even years—I found it difficult to comprehend the series of events that led me to this quaint stone manor hidden in the Berkshire woods of Massachusetts.
I had confided in only a small circle about my decision to enter treatment, telling them it was for a “trauma treatment program.” I was not deceiving anyone, but those who cared for me respected my choice to use euphemisms.
Upon arrival, my father provided the name I had chosen for my treatment records: Rose O’Neill, named after the pioneering female cartoonist known for creating Kewpie dolls. I felt a connection to her story; despite achieving great success, she suffered personal losses and ultimately struggled to replicate her initial triumph, which mirrored my own feelings of stagnation since completing the show “Girls.” For the duration of my stay, I was addressed as Rose, even though it took time for me to permit them to use my true name.
As we entered the facility, a sea of beige greeted us, featuring a grand staircase. A friendly staff member with an iPad checked my parents in, requiring them to retrieve their IDs from the car. I was then hurried upstairs for a urine analysis after complying with the shoe removal policy. My parents were eventually allowed into my room, which felt reminiscent of the first day at summer camp or college—except many of the residents were grappling with severe addiction issues, particularly to heroin. It was often challenging to distinguish between the patients and the staff, as uniforms were nonexistent.
Who would have thought the heavily tattooed man in a Harley-Davidson shirt was a sober companion, or that the elderly woman knitting in her slippers struggled with a serious Benadryl addiction that had caused her to disrupt her daughter’s wedding? This was my first lesson in rehabilitation: never judge a person struggling with addiction by their outward appearance.
This was also the moment I understood that the chaos I experienced was not external. I didn’t end up here due to some unforeseen calamity, despite the disorienting feelings it evoked. I had made choices that led to this point; I had accepted the consequences of my actions. I was the source of my own turmoil. After considerable resistance—initially requesting to avoid group therapy focused on drug cravings because I believed it did not pertain to me, and insisting my presence was due to medical trauma—I gradually learned that there is no hierarchy among addicts; we all faced our struggles in different yet equally impactful ways.
We had all inflicted pain on our loved ones, losing things we once deemed essential. In our unique ways and for our diverse reasons, we were all deeply attached to substances.
Among my fellow residents was Walter, a middle-aged father well-versed in the components of various antidepressants and their procurement from the dark web. There was Jackson, a shy and talented pianist who spoke poignantly about his immigrant experience but questioned his capacity for love. Gaylen, a formidable teenager, could have easily intimidated us all. Shirley, a grandmother and wife who knitted baby booties, was learning to live without her morning chardonnay and Benadryl. Then there was Livia, a 76-year-old whose necklaces jingled as she rode her mobility scooter to yoga sessions. Some of us sought social experiences, while others turned to cocaine for philosophical debates about capitalism; some even took Benadryl without any allergies to justify it.
Initially, I turned to drugs to fulfill my work obligations, believing I had to meet my responsibilities. My struggles did not make my issues any less significant than those of my peers; they merely rendered my situation less visible.
On my second day, I met with Dr. Mark, my new therapist—an amiable man in khakis who could have been anywhere from slightly older to much older than me. He had a demeanor reminiscent of a children’s performer, perhaps someone who played the banjo for young kids. Dr. Mark asked me to share my perspective on how I arrived at this point in my life.
I explained that it all began with being unwell, or perhaps it was rooted in stress. I was physically and mentally ill, overwhelmed by obligations that came with the realization of my dreams. I found myself supporting multiple families, and my failure would have repercussions for them. While I filled their pantries with gourmet bread, I often felt like I was disappointing them.
Simultaneously, I dealt with debilitating menstrual pain, and when my period was absent, the discomfort remained without a clear explanation.
