A Survivor’s Guide to Rehab
The trick to enjoying yourself at rehab is changing your perspective. I looked at my intervention, for instance, as merely a surprise party where my friends and family roasted me and reminisced about the past in front of a perky stranger polite enough to slowly enunciate every word, making sure I didn’t miss anything. Instead of feeling patronized by the perky stranger, who appeared to be speaking to me as if I were standing on the ledge of the Empire State Building, I pretended I
was in an E.F. Hutton commercial, where everyone stopped just to listen to my every word.
I had suffered the effects of chronic back pain and prescription medications for years, but when I appeared less than euphoric over Neiman Marcus’ spring clearance sale--and I’m talking 40% to 60% off--escalating pain and depression were misdiagnosed as narcotics abuse. Those who loved me and were desperately concerned said I’d lost my spirit, and I knew they were right. It was only the cause where we differed.
The more I protested, the more luxurious they made rehab sound, with days spent in an exclusive enclave nestled in the hills above Malibu. When they threatened to cut off all contact unless I complied, I reluctantly acquiesced. While I’d never abused my medications and was terrified of losing what little relief they provided, I was more afraid of my life continuing as it had been. Here was an opportunity to look at the next 30 days as an all-expense-paid vacation at the beach. If I squinted, I could almost see the Italian Riviera. (My protestations of non-abuse were later validated by the pain management/addiction specialist affiliated with the rehab, who kept me on my medications, ordered tests and later prescribed a more effective protocol.)
Checking into rehab was an interesting experience. A lone staffer thoroughly searched and inspected my luggage, purse and all other personal property. This process was akin to getting out of the shower in front of a window that overlooked the Third Street Promenade, replete with sightseers. I needed to keep a sense of humor when my Lady Schick was taken away for fear it might be used as a weapon of mass destruction. (Hey, no one ever died from hairy legs. Here was an opportunity to use my imagination; I pretended I was in France.) When my perfume was confiscated out of fear that my alcoholic roommate would drink it, my roommate, indignant, managed to smuggle in her own perfume and told me I could borrow it any time.
After hibernating in my apartment for months, it took me a bit of adjusting to live harmoniously with 10 other people 24 hours a day. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults, where we bonded over interventions, illicit substances and families from Mars. Phone time did take a while to get used to (one pay phone, 10 people, restricted hours that no one could remember). I tried to think of this as a game show. When my friends and family actually got through and I had a conversation, I won. Well, what I actually won was having more to talk about in group therapy.
Opening up to a bunch of strangers about the intimacies of my life was kind of like sneezing in the middle of a crowded market without the benefit of a tissue. Everything hangs out. Plus, I was somewhat intimidated as I listened to stories of intrigue, abandonment and mayhem--an alcoholic actor who got thrown off a movie set in Brazil for being drunk, a network executive who, during a one-day jaunt from Los Angeles to New York and back, locked himself in the restroom while doing drugs and couldn’t get out. I listened in amazement, not at the tragedy of people trying to slowly kill themselves, but rather at how envious I was that they were able to travel and interact with people. I had trouble leaving my apartment to go to the 7-Eleven for a box of tampons, and the only new person with whom I’d developed a relationship in recent years was Shmuey Fung, the half-Jewish, half-Chinese pizza delivery man.
The height of rehab was Family Day, a kind of dysfunctional “Family Feud.” On one team, we had the addicts and alcoholics, who blamed their families for everything from puberty to their addictions. On the other team, we had the families, who looked and acted like deer caught in headlights. In truth, all I really learned was that the group of strangers with whom I was living sometimes understood me better than my own family.
Family Day was also a day of care packages. Unlike the rations I had received at summer camp, rehab care packages were treasured for their barter capabilities. A bag of candy corn, traded to the right person, could buy me extra phone time. More important, it could get me to the front of the line to use the bathroom, which I shared with four other people. A pack of cigarettes could get me out of kitchen-cleanup duty. And never underestimate what someone might be willing to trade for a fresh roll-on deodorant.
In rehab, everyone was assigned a weekly duty. Society women, television producers and mechanics were all required to clean the kitchen, scrub toilets and ashtrays, empty wastebaskets and vacuum. I remembered being told as a child that making my bed was a way to build self-esteem. So I bucked up and took pride in wearing Playtex gloves and using cleanser. When that failed to yield the desired effect, I pretended I was back in grade school and receiving an allowance, that, with today’s inflation, would enable me to buy me a pair of sling-back pumps at retail.
The first activity of the day at rehab was morning meditation, a time to adjust your attitude and start off on a positive note. I realized how desperate I’d become when, during morning meditation, I prayed for the staffers to take us on the weekly car ride to the local mini-mart, where I could stock up on shampoo, lip balm and Altoids.
In the evenings there were trips to parts of the city that I might not have visited on my own . . . or in the dark. These excursions always led to a church basement, where a room full of addicts and alcoholics drank coffee, smoked cigarettes and shared stories of pain and excess of days gone by. There I saw others who shared my innermost thoughts and fears. I took solace in realizing that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t always understand my family or was attracted to Geraldo Rivera.
Another activity at rehab was role playing, where another inmate pretends to be your mother, father, sister, brother, child, spouse or friend while you play yourself. In the more prestigious rehabs, like the one I was in, well-known actors, clinically depressed at having been overlooked by the Academy Awards and there for a little R & R and AA, offered to portray my Aunt Zelda. I thought of this as Hollywood showcase therapy, entertaining and enlightening. In some small way I felt a sense of pride when one of those actors was later nominated for a Golden Globe and another interviewed by Barbara Walters.
The one universal experience in rehab was the mandatory weekly urine specimen collection, where a staffer looked on as I tried to pee in a cup. Suffering from performance anxiety, I was once sentenced to an afternoon of drinking as much liquid as my body could hold until performance problems were no longer an issue. To make this awful task more enjoyable, I thought of having a friend smuggle in some food coloring. There would be no revenge sweeter than handing over a plastic cup of purple or green urine.
All in all, rehab is what you make of it. If you surrender to the experience, as I did, you’re more likely to have an enjoyable time. It was the best mistake my family and friends ever made. It’s a place where you truly can get a second chance. With a little hard work and spiritual growth, you can begin to reclaim your life and let go of the pain, while reaching for something greater to achieve. You might even make some wonderful friends, who teach you things, like how to use a blowtorch . . . and, of course, make your own glass-blown animals.