What? No Room Service in Rehab?

​(Please know this is tongue-in-cheek; I'm nothing is not self-aware at age 78.)


I live in Marin County, California, otherwise known as the place white privileged people go to flex, procreate and cultivate ostensibly perfect selves and families. It's a county shot-full with the promise of never having to do something for your actual, capital-S Self because others (sometimes related, most other times paid help) have taken care of it in advance, thank you. There was no getting around the fact that the road had been paved for most of us at birth.

So it was much to my surprise when I arrived at my first stint of rehab, at Olympia House, only to learn that room service was not a thing. What do you mean there's no room service? This is Marin County! Don’t you know who I am? In point of fact, I was the emerging Coloring Diva, my then-as-yet-launched identity of choice. Curated, Altruistic. Intentional. I aspired to help others help themselves while being calm, present and artistic. In the meantime, though, I was Charlene, the addict, and that part they knew.

Upon arrival, I also queried as to whether the amenities at the grossly-overpriced program included valet services and/or car rental. Mine were reasonable inquiries in my estimation given the price tag. I was new to this alt-reality. The intake coordinator was not amused. 

Nyet, nyet and nyet, Helga responded with her eyes. 

Helga turned out to be a ray of sunshine at the tragically mis-coined Olympia House. I somehow survived eight weeks of group, group meals, group circles, group activities, group reflections. I was removed from the human race, yet immersed with participants with whom I had nothing in common, other than our addiction. On Day 57, I was ushered out the door, thankfully.

Because I was riding high on being good, I rented a mid-sized car that took me directly to my next stop: an SLE called Full Circle. I had the same questions for the stoic, battle-tested customer host. Who was going to make my bed, make my meals and wash my clothes and otherwise handle the domestic drudgeries of life?

My host had no response behind her dead eyes.

This was a long time ago, so a couple hours later, having unpacked my one bag in my 10 x 12 room, I was able to page with purpose through the yellow pages directory that lived on a table in a common room. It was scored in Sharpie: "DO NOT TAKE". The only listing under "maid service" was Merry Maids. This would not do.

Then it struck me.  Maybe my Los Angeles housekeeper would be willing to move up north? She wasn’t merry, but she could fold clothes like no other. I called her that night from our shared phone.

"Hi Rosa, it's me Char. I've relocated to a place in Marin that doesn't offer amenities. Any chance you want to relocate for a few months? All expenses paid!"

She didn't miss a beat. "Of course, Miss Char." I was delighted. My dilemma was over, problem solved.  I was delighted.

She arrived the next day. We were two peas in a pod: one room for Rosa, one room for me. 

Dum de dum dum … drum roll.  The residents at Full Circle were taken aback that someone would hire a housekeeper. I avoided eye contact. Over time, they accepted my eccentricities and me. I’ve since checked around, and most SLE tenants don’t bring their own housekeepers.

Things went pretty well with Rosa and me, but a few cracks in the wall appeared. She was not quite as merry as I’d hoped and who could blame her? 

After three months of living in Full Circle, I itched to get out and away from such close quarters and decided to live in a 2700-square-foot, single-family dwelling on the water with adorable quacking ducks. This was truly a mini-mansion unlike any home the "Apartment Gal" had ever known. I was, in the blink of an eye, free at last.

Six months prior, I was checking into rehab. Could I handle freedom? A home? Would it swallow me up? Did I deserve it?  Would I fade into the background as I had done so many times before?

The answers soon became self-evident.