Telling my story after hiding it away for so many years is uncomfortable and surreal. Every time I put the words into the universe, I sit in self-doubt, questioning if I have the right to take up someone else’s time with the things that I say. A battle ensues between my inner critic and something more existential; a feeling of necessity to do this, not for me, but for the one person who may relate to the experience. It is a lonely disease that lives deep in the shadows, and cuts its victims off from reality. It is possible that reading this will bring them into the light just enough to take the first steps toward their own recovery.

With that in mind, my dream is to write a book. So here is an exceprt of a chapter from that future memoir. Thank you for supporting me in this journey.  

Sequence of Events

The building sat up on a hill, facing a service road that ran parallel to a strip of highway lined with concrete buildings. It seemed as if the city planner cut and pasted the same cluster of establishments, one after another for miles; two fast food restaurants, one hardware store, a 24-hour gym, and a nail place with a pink neon sign. Every few miles was a stand-alone grocery store and a family-friendly, fast casual restaurant; Chilis, TGIFridays, Applebees. 

In any other location, surrounded by trees and farmland or acres of green grass, this place may have been charming.  A single level structure, made from white board and batten siding, it spanned over seven thousand square feet; multiple wings stretching out from its nucleus.  The front entrance, accented by a large porte-cochere over a circular driveway, was surrounded by a covered wrap-around porch, complete with hanging green ferns and rocking chairs grouped in twos.   Dormer windows and a cupola with glass panes on all sides finished off the architecture, giving it the same inviting appeal as a quaint country bed and breakfast.      

The website photos of the building, taken from an aerial view, gave no indication of the actual scene visible looking out from one of the front porch rocking chairs.  There was no way of knowing that the sound of rolling tires driving on pavement was ever-present, and that the curb appeal was diminished greatly by the aesthetic of the neighboring construction.  But, as I would soon learn, there was no need to be disappointed; patients never enjoyed leisure time in the front of the facility anyway.

They sent a car for me at the airport; an old Ford Taurus, driven by a woman with a thick accent derivative of the foothills of Tennessee from which she came.  The inside of the car reeked of cigarettes, and my chauffeur had just picked up a late breakfast from McDonalds which was equally pungent.  Between bites of her hashbrown, Sue insisted on making small talk.   I held my breath, watching intensely as she put the fried potato, covered in grease, into her mouth over and over again.  I waited for her to ask what brought me to town, but soon realized that she was talking mostly to herself and not expecting any response from the back seat.

“It’s usually not this rainy this time of year!  Cold and rainy…we barely ever get any snow here.  Rain and ice is all we get.”

She chattered on, filling the silence with a voice raspy from years of nicotine inhalation.  How many times had she made this drive from the airport to this address ?  Did she know what this place was? As we pulled up, the sign out front was unassuming; a white background with the name of the center (which was by no means descriptive of its purpose) in large, bold green letters. Underneath the company logo it read, “treatment center”  in a small print that could be easily missed from the road below. 

Sue parked in front of the doors leading into the building.  Without turning off the ignition or making any moves to get out of the car, she pulled the lever on the driver’s side door to open the trunk.  Taking that to mean that I would be responsible for getting my suitcases, I unbuckled and made my way to the rear of the car. Exhaust poured out of the back and into my face while Sue stared at me from the rear view mirror, now working her sausage, egg and cheese biscuit.  

“Thank you for the ride,” I said to her through her open window, struggling to locate my wallet among all of the bags. 

“No need for a tip honey, it’s taken care of!  I’ll see you later!” As she pulled away, Sue pulled a cigarette from a white and red pack and lit it to enjoy with her breakfast. 

I stood alone somewhere between the driveway and the front door, hands gripping the handles of two roller bags full of clothes meant to last an indeterminate amount of time. The day had progressed based on my ability to follow chronological steps; wake up; get dressed; say goodbye; drive to the airport; get on the plane; go to baggage claim; get into the car.  I completed each one as if automated; programmed only to move forward and tackle the next task.  

“Use your cell phone to call the front desk.  They will open the door from the inside and let you into the building.”

It was the last item before my list and my responsibilities were complete.  Beyond that step, I was reliant on the people inside to continue this process.  Touching the phone in my hand to wake it up, a picture of three smiling blondes stared back at me, and my heart ached as I entered the password. My finger hovered over the phone number that would connect me to someone inside, but instead of pressing it, I allowed myself to listen to the thoughts I'd been suppressing all day.    

My mind racing, I formulated a plan that would involve quickly reversing the sequence of events that brought me here.  John’s number was the last one I called after landing.  I would call him and after hearing the distress in my voice, he wouldn’t argue when I asked him to help me book a ticket back home. I would tell him that I would get help somewhere close by; an outpatient program where I could also be home with him and our children. It would make his life easier; he wasn’t ready to be a single parent.  The laundry, school lunches, sports and homework were not something he could handle with the same finesse as someone who had made it their life’s work for the last nine years. 

“Amy?”

More to come…