65. More Journals From Rehab Pt. 2

During my time in rehab, I committed to keeping a daily journal—a space where I could pour out my thoughts, struggles, and reflections as I faced the challenges of recovery head-on.  Writing became a vital outlet for me, helping me process the rollercoaster of emotions that came with detox and healing.  These passages reflect the highs and lows of my journey, from the depths of withdrawal to moments of clarity and growth.  Each entry is a raw reflection of my battle with addiction and my determination to rebuild my life.  Please keep in mind that I was fresh off a relapse when these entries were written, so my thoughts may not be as clear or organized as usual.  What you’ll find here is raw, honest, and deeply personal—my unfiltered experience of trying to piece my life back together.

Day 3 – Detox (05/24/2024)

Last night was another rough one.  I managed to get a little more sleep than the previous nights, but still nowhere near enough to feel functional.  My body’s exhausted, yet my mind won’t stop racing. Today, I start tapering off both Methadone and Valium—Methadone to help ease the heroin and fentanyl withdrawals, and Valium to calm the alcohol and benzo cravings.  They help, but this detox is brutal.  My body feels like it’s fighting itself, and I just keep wondering how I ended up here again. It’s so hard, and I’m desperate for the moment when I can finally say, "I feel better."  I just want to breathe without this weight on my chest, without my limbs feeling like they’re filled with lead.

I’m supposed to "roll over" into rehab soon, meaning they’ll consider my detox finished, and I’ll officially be in the program.  I’ve decided I’m staying, no matter what.  I just hope my insurance covers the full 28 days.  That part makes me anxious because I know it's out of my control, but worrying about it doesn’t make it any easier to push away.  It feels like I’m holding my breath, waiting to see if I’m given enough time to actually start healing.  It’s exhausting to always feel like my future’s hanging by a thread I can’t control.

This morning, I was able to keep my breakfast down, which felt like a small victory.  I have a new roommate for the next few days, but we don’t talk much—we’re both going through our own hell.  I’m really hoping for a single room when I get to rehab.  It sounds like such a small thing, but those rooms have warm showers, and the communal ones barely get lukewarm.  Plus, my OCD kicks in hard if I end up with a roommate who’s messy.  Whether  I get a single or not, I’m going to make the most of this.  I have to.  I don’t have any other option anymore.

I spoke to my friend last night, and it helped, but I’m nervous to call my mom.  She’s so angry with me, and I understand why.  I’ve let her down time and time again.  I want so badly to make her proud, to prove I’m someone she can trust, but how can I ask for trust when I’ve shattered it so many times?  I don’t even know if I deserve it.  Maybe I never will.  But I’m trying—God, I’m trying.  I wish she could see that, but I also know that my trying doesn’t undo all the damage I’ve caused.

Weekends here are quiet, not as many groups, which leaves a lot of time to think.  Maybe too much time.  I watch TV, read, work on little crafts, and try to keep to myself.  The other patients seem nice enough, and for once, everyone here seems like they actually want to get better.  That’s not always the case.  I’m the youngest one here.  It feels surreal, looking at these older men and women, hearing their stories.  They’re some of the smartest people I’ve ever met, battling demons just like mine.  It makes me feel dumb sometimes, but I know that’s just the addiction talking.  That voice in my head that tells me I’m not enough, that I’m too broken. I’ve heard it so many times that it’s hard not to believe.

It’s sad, really, how comfortable I feel in rehab.  I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been through this program.  Fourth? Fifth?  It’s all a blur.  I was lying in bed last night, thinking about Chris, about the pain I felt after losing him, and how that pain nearly drove me to follow him.  I’m grateful I came here instead, that I chose life in the face of all that pain but it doesn’t make it easier.  The guilt eats at me.  There are so many people who love me, who would be devastated if they lost me.  When I’m using, I don’t think about any of that.  I don’t think about the consequences.  I’ve always been like that—impulsive, careless.  My mom tells me that all the time, and she’s right.  I don’t stop to consider the damage until it’s too late.  I wish I could change that part of me, and I hope rehab gives me the tools to finally break free of it.

I can’t believe I’m back here.  I had it all together—working out every day, picking up new hobbies, loving my job.  Now, I don’t even know if I’ll still have that job when I get out.  That thought crushes me.  I wasn’t perfect, but I was doing well and now, I’m right back at the bottom, wondering if I’ll ever really get better.  Wondering if I’ll ever feel normal again.  I just don’t want to disappoint everyone again.

I want to be okay.  I want to live a simple life.  To make the people I care about proud.  I wish I didn’t need drugs to feel “normal.”  I wish my mind didn’t default to escape every time life gets hard. Maybe tomorrow will be better.  I really hope so because I don’t know how many more “starting over” moments I have left in me.

Rehab is such a strange, surreal place.  It’s one of the only places where you can walk into a room full of complete strangers, lay bare your deepest, darkest secrets—the things that haunt you, that you’re terrified to say out loud—and no one judges you for it.  Instead of disgust or pity, you’re met with understanding, even empathy, because they’ve all been there, too.  It’s like this unspoken bond forms between everyone, no matter how different our lives outside may have been.  We’re all broken in our own ways, all here trying to piece ourselves back together.  That kind of vulnerability, shared openly, makes rehab feel like a refuge, even though the pain we carry with us is so heavy.

Even though I feel absolutely terrible, today wasn’t all that bad.  It had its rough moments, but I got through it, and that’s something.  I’m holding on to that small bit of progress, hoping that tomorrow brings more of the same, maybe even a little better.  It’s hard to stay optimistic when every part of me feels worn out, but I’m learning that even in the worst of times, there are these small victories.  I’ll take whatever I can get and just pray that tomorrow gives me a bit more strength.

And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.