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When you fall… Failing at rehab and trying again

When my life started seriously veering off track, a few of my friends sat me down and told me that they want to help me. At the time, drugs were paying my rent, and they literally offered me their couch to help me lower my cost of living. They were good friends and they really meant it. I didn’t take them up on it; I thought I was fine.

My first try at rehab

Fast forward 4 years, and my first attempt at rehab. I still didn’t really think I needed help, but my lawyer insisted that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life behind state-sponsored bars, I should give this thing a try. I went in as a way out. I’d been living on drugs, mostly crystal meth, for the previous 5 years or so. I was a daily user, everyone I knew used, I was paying my rent with ounces of coke, but somehow, I thought everything was going well.

Two months or so after entering rehab, sitting at my recording studio pretending to work, I ran across a baggie that had apparently been left behind. It took me less than 15 minutes to find something to smoke it with.

I only used a little bit that day. I’d been off the stuff for almost 3 months, and I didn’t need a lot to get high. I also wanted to save enough for my next “workday.” I was back to using daily within 5 minutes. By New Year’s Eve that year, I was smoking with an ex-customer in the corner of her bedroom before her guests showed up for the yearly party. I ended the night bored at an ecstasy party with half-naked friends giving each other backrubs. This time, I knew something was wrong.

Another attempt at rehab

Needless to say, I got kicked out of that rehab facility. I spent the following two weeks sleeping on a friend’s couch looking for another treatment option. It was on my way to a meeting at noon on a sunny day in Santa Monica that I saw where I really was. Passing a homeless vagabond on the promenade, I did a double take. I knew the guy; we used to party together. I’m one misstep away from being homeless. I need help.

As I write this today, I am five years into a well-respected graduate program in psychology. I’m writing a book about my experiences, and by the time it comes out, I’ll have a Dr. posted in front of my name. But that wasn’t always my story, and as recently as 5 years ago, it was the unlikely ending to my tale.

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