To Rehab We Go (Again and Again)

                                               Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash
 
​When the doors to the rehab center in Petaluma, California I knew I didn't belong.

For starters, everyone was younger than me. Much younger. A discrepancy in hygiene standards became evident early on. Showers eluded my co-junkies. So did flushing the toilets. Cleaning their hair out of the drains did not occur to them. I was not a neat-freak, but living there certainly pushed me in that direction. 

I missed my maid, Rosa. There I said it. If only I had Rosa, everything would be alright. I decided to make an appointment with the director.

"Thanks for making the time," I tried to tread lightly. "I appreciate everything you are doing here, but I'm afraid I'm not suitable. I am disoriented and unmoored without my support system." 

"There is always an adjustment period," she said, donning invisible kid gloves. "Why don't I make an appointment with your care-team therapist to discuss your concerns?" 

I agreed but was dubious. 

To my pleasant surprise, the therapist was gentle and competent. A winner in a long line of losers. I wanted to please him (having learned nothing over the years), so I agreed to stay. 

By the tenth grueling week, my blood pressure had shot up to 200/135, and I was being carted to and from the ER on the regular. 

One day, an ER doc stated bluntly that I had garden-variety anxiety and told me in no uncertain terms not to return.

Well, deja vu to you too, doc. 

Dejected and cast out, I turned to my kind therapist. He agreed it was time for me to leave, emphasizing I was not to go back to LA. He knew of a place. 

Upon arrival to the Full Circle SLE, I had a strategy. I refused to make my bed, fold my clothes or vacuum. A meeting with the admissions committee was in order.

My tactics were not sustainable, they told me.

I need my maid, I told them. I will pay double.

An exception was made. Rosa arrived the next day. I was on the road to paradise. 

Or so I thought.