an Photo by Derek Story on Unsplash
We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. We will contemplate the word serenity and we will know peace. Alcoholics Anonymous, "The Big Book" A couple decades of my life, from age 17 to 37--you know, the years after high school but before landing myself in rehab--are a bit of a blur. Those formative years were promised to be a time of exploration and personal growth. My path was not exactly as advertised. I vividly recall sitting on the steps of the dorm at UC Berkeley at age 17 wondering what in the world I was doing there. I had just pulled out of my "First Great Depression," which started with the onset of adolescence at age 13. As a teen, I was trained not to eat, pout of take up space. I didn't have a fighting chance at being happy. Thanks, Mother! I somehow got through college and grad school, attending Berkeley and UCLA respectively, then found myself back with my parents in Culver City, CA. The only things I didn't bring with me when I returned was direction or a sense of agency. I sputtered, stalled and stayed stuck. The little train who couldn't. Numbing to not feel when I wasn't feeling like I wanted to numb to not feel. See what I did there? At 38, I reported to rehab for the first time. It was my first baby step on what would become the journey of my life—toward sobriety and Self. Not surprisingly, I dipped into my "Second Great Depression" five years later. By then, though, medications were readily available and I found meds that worked. Eureka! The med-trance that followed was 17 years of unproductive glee! It's good to be gone (but here). Until it isn't. I relapsed. Drugs, both pharmaceutical or psychedelic, failed me. And that was terrifying. I overdosed and returned to rehab (second stint). I failed faster the second time. I emerged from that blur back at square one with me, myself and I. Detoxing alone in Encino is not for the weak of heart. It naturally led to an SLE in Tiburon, which led to another (to my credit, world's shortest) relapse. The third time in rehab was at a place called Olympia House in Sonoma County. (Why not situate it in wine country—what could go wrong?) I learned there that you can't go home again. I'd come full circle and arrived back at myself. It was still a lower-case self, but I was learning to feel safe with me. That was no small feat. For what followed would test me in ways previously unimaginable ... .
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