Thirteen Rehabs and a Funeral
Thirteen Rehabs and a Funeral
When I was 18, the summer I graduated high school—2007, for those keeping score—my mom got sick. I’ll get into that mess later, but the short version is: I was raised by my grandparents because my mom was too busy surviving her own addiction. We’d made a deal—once I turned 18 and started college, I’d move in with her, and we’d try the whole mother-daughter thing. That lasted about as long as a carton of eggs. Less than two months after I moved in, she was gone.
Stage 1 lung cancer, they said. A stage that apparently meant absolutely nothing in her case. She said she’d fight. She lied. I was writing her eulogy before my bags were fully unpacked.
Fast forward five years: I’d survived college, graduated nursing school with honors, and started a promising career. Cue laugh track. I was also chewing through Vicodin like it was candy—10 to 20 pills a day depending on the strength and my ability to BS a pharmacy. Two herniated discs gave me the excuse; trauma gave me the reason. When the DEA started cracking down, I graduated to heroin. Fast track from white coat to white knuckles.
Rehab #1 was court-ordered. All-women’s facility. Pregnant women and moms with kids. I was both. That’s literally the only reason I didn’t bail in the first 48 hours. The women were feral—crude, vicious, expert manipulators. It was like someone dropped me in a bootcamp for sociopaths. I didn’t belong there yet. But give it time.
Rehab #2 was outpatient. I was homeless, with a newborn. But somehow, I stayed clean for almost 11 months. First real glimpse of light. Then came Rehab #3 when I relapsed just before hitting a year. Back to the snake pit. Lasted two weeks. Left AMA because I couldn’t stand the thought of my partner getting high without me. Priorities, right?
Rehabs 4, 5, and 6: outpatient, laughably ineffective. I needed structure, not freedom. Rehab #7 followed a jail stint. It actually worked—for a year. But life kept handing me eviction notices like party favors. Homelessness will make a monk crack.
Rehab #8 was part of a court-mandated program. Two treatment centers, weekly therapy, unhelpful probation officer, the works. I somehow held it together long enough to finish an eight-year sentence on a five-year plan. American efficiency.
Rehabs 9 and 10 were reruns. Minimal effort, minimal results. But I was technically clean by the time I got my freedom back. Until 2020.
That year, I was newly clean, newly postpartum (again), and living back with my grandparents, both kids in tow. Fights were daily. Resentment was thick. They were angry I’d brought another child into this mess. I was angry they still didn’t see me. Not really. I was tired of begging to be understood by people who only understood ultimatums.
So I ran.
Moved in with a man old enough to be my dad. Big shock—he bailed the second the rent hit-and he hadn’t. I spiraled. Lost the house. Lost everything. Gave my baby up for adoption. And finally, I lost the will to keep trying. I overdosed three times. Not on purpose. I just didn’t care anymore. But apparently, someone else did—someone always showed up.
The third time I came back, something cracked. I wasn’t scared of dying—I was scared of what I hadn’t done. Hadn’t said goodbye. Hadn’t shown my sons who I really was. So I got to a detox bed before I changed my mind.
Rehab #11 was a spa disguised as a detox. Flat screen TV, pillowtop bed, chef-prepared meals. I was puking the whole time, but honestly? Still better than jail. When they offered me a spot in a sober living house in Dayton, I said yes.
Rehab #12—well, “sober living.” I hated every second. Six hours of monitored programming every day, zero chill, and a doctor who cut off my meds because “they weren’t working.” Ma’am, I’m here. That is them working. My soon-to-be husband gave me the final excuse to leave. We met in that house, and they made it clear we couldn’t stay if we were going to, you know, talk. Like adults. So we walked—literally. Backpacks, four miles, and no plan.
Rehab #13 was the last one. Not because it was great. It wasn’t. But somehow, we made it work. I’d love to say love saved us, but that’s Hallmark bullshit. What saved us was having someone in our corner. Someone who’d walk through hell with us instead of giving directions from the exit.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t even particularly inspiring. But it was real. It gave me time to grieve—my mom, myself, the wreckage I’d crawled out of. It gave me time to create. To turn all that ruin into art. To turn survival into a weapon.
It took thirteen rehabs and a funeral, but I’m here. And I wouldn’t change a thing.