How rehab changed my life

Page 1

How Rehab Changed My Life I was 16 when I had my first drink. I was 18 when I had my first joint. I was 22 when I had my first ‘trip’ with psychedelics. I was 23 when I came to rehab. My quest for a connection My whole life was a series of mistakes and over-compensation. For as long as I could remember, I’d been uncomfortable in my skin. I could easily identify as a dramatic child, angry teen and a lost adult. I was always trying to find something to make me feel whole and I was under the assumption that it would be found it outside of myself. In this forlorn search, I found a means of escape and ‘connection’ in drugs. It didn’t really matter what drug, I wasn’t very picky. Anything that gave me a ‘high’ was enough for me. Let it be rollercoaster’s, speeding cars, delinquent behavior, destructive relationships or chemicals. I was hooked on that need to run from my life and my reality. I’m not really sure when I’d developed such an addictive personality or how and may never really be able to figure that out. All I know for sure was that I do have one. Everything in life was difficult to accept, I needed things to be how I envisioned them. Anything less was unbearable. Even accepting the fact that I am an addict was a herculean task for me - I resisted it strongly. I completely ignored the evidence of my self-destructive behaviour that was fluorescently visible throughout my life. I rolled my eyes at people who told me I had a problem. I mocked and made fun of anybody who lived differently than I did. Everyone was either ‘too boring’ or ‘too crazy’. My family was mostly oblivious to this darker shade of my personality. I had become quite good at the art of concealment. Lying and covering up became second nature. ‘Thrown’ into Rehab It was a culmination of all the bad decisions that I had made when I was ‘thrown’ into rehab. My family saw me as a potential threat to myself and felt they had no choice but to get me professional help. To say I was furious would be an understatement. I was livid, belligerent and completely offended. ‘I don’t need help. How dare they think they know what is better for me than I do? They don’t know me. These strangers can say they want to help but they can’t. Nobody can.’ I wanted to be better but didn’t know how. I wanted to live up to ANY moral standard. I had dreams, goals and aspirations. I wanted to reconnect with my family. I wanted that sense of fulfillment that I’d chased in chemicals for years (unsuccessfully). The most ridiculous part of this whole thing was that I didn’t even think I was deserving of any of it. I didn’t think I was worth having anything good happen to me. To me, I was worthless; my life had been a string of bad decisions and disappointment to both myself and those I loved. So, how could anything good come out of so much bad?


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