When I realized I was going to rehab and I had no other choice if I wanted to survive, it was a terrifying moment.  Most of us only know about rehabs from television or because we have responded to one for a disturbance.  The fear of rehab coupled with the longstanding fear of asking for help is a huge deterrent for us.  Fear of the unknown is normal and natural, so it is up to those of us who have been inside to shed a little light on the subject.

I had hit a near death rock-bottom and rehab was long overdue.

I woke up in a hospital bed not remembering much of the previous days.  My dad and brother were in the room along with a very hardnosed case manager.  I was handed a clipboard and told to sign my consent to be transported to a Psych Ward.  My mind started racing , “what, a psych ward, I’m a drunk who mixed too many prescription pills with alcohol on a bender, I’m not crazy, I’m not an alcoholic, I didn’t try to kill myself !”

Everything inside of me was yelling, this is your chance, help is right in front of you, stop lying to yourself.  So I told the case manager “Nope, I’m not going.” There it is, right there, the cop level stubbornness.  I was the proverbial horse led to water and my head was being shoved into the pool for survival and I wouldn’t even take a sip.  The only thing that made me give in, was the case manager informing me that if I did not go, he was going to petition me, and my job was probably not going to be happy about that.

So my journey began.

After a couple of days hanging out with some pretty cool psych patients (which I’ll talk about another time) it was time to face the music.  I was 36 years old and there was my Dad, waiting for me with my bags packed like I was a little kid about to go on vacation.  I did not feel the excitement, wonder and awe that I used to when my parents would take us on vacation.

I felt a sense of impending doom.

My younger brother visited me the day before with paperwork for a Rehab Facility in Palm Springs California.  I was told that my family found a place in Palm Springs that only took cops and military.  Even hearing that I still didn’t want to go.  If I could just get home I could fix all of it this time.  Even I knew it was a lie when the thought popped in my head.  The Sheriff and the Chief Deputy sent a message with my brother.  Rehab was the only way out of this mess if I wanted to salvage my career.  Fear had been keeping me out of rehab, now fear was pushing me into it.

The drive to Palm Springs felt like an eternity.  It sure didn’t help that I asked my dad to stop every thirty minutes so I could inhale two to three cigarettes in a feeble attempt to calm my anxiety.  We pulled up in front of the facility and stood by the truck talking.  A really nice gentlemen came out to help us. He took one look at me and told me he could tell I needed help. He was very kind and had a calming demeanor about him, even though I was completely obstinate and standoffish.

Even though I hadn’t drank in days, my appearance led him to believe my last drink had been in the truck about five minutes ago.  Within a quick 15 minutes, I was undergoing intake, and my Dad was back on his way to Arizona. It was around this time that I also realized that this facility was not just for cops and military.  My family knew I needed to hear certain things to make the decision.  I can tell you that being in rehab with every day people from all walks of life was just what I needed.  I know that the thought of being in rehab with civilians is part of our resistance to go, but it actually proved very helpful for me.

When you break down the literal journey it seems like a pretty simple process.

Get the address, drive to the location and check in.

It’s the emotional journey that begins long before the arrival that is the hardest to travel.

This is the 4th article in this series. You can read the previous articles here. 

Continue Reading