Disclaimer: All names have been changed to protect identities and my own safety.
A few years ago I went through the process of 'rehabilitation'. A quick google search for the definition of the word produces the following: "the action of restoring someone to health or normal life through training and therapy after imprisonment, addiction, or illness." To most people the word "rehab" automatically conjures up mental images of needles, crack-houses and sunken faces pleading for financial help towards whatever ridiculous sob-story.
It is important to note that a key part of the definition explains that a person needs to be 'restored to normal functioning level'. The latter inadvertently implies that most addicts are pretty fucked up.
_Note: the definition states that a person can exist within a 'normal' state. I believe, however, that a "normal" state is as fantastical as a mythical, three-toed androgynous unicorn who vapes it's own urine). We are all uniquely, fucked-up.
Some time has passed since I left rehab. Since then I've become a teacher (oh, sweet irony) and have remain sober. I go back to the centre when time and/or finances allow. It is very empowering: on the one hand I am reminded of how lucky I am to be alive and functioning. On the other, I am allowed an opportunity to pass on hope to 'the addict that still suffers'. Thus, this piece of writing is merely a textual account of things I've witnessed. It is not meant to insult anyone or to add further to the stigma of addiction and addicts (we do that well enough by ourselves). Let's continue.
Meet Turtle. Turle was an interesting character. He was roughly 1.67m tall (for those of you who use alternate methods of measurements, roughly the size of an adolescent Kangaroo wearing Air Jordan's). Turtle spoke very fast, sometimes unintelligibly fast. He wore thick glasses which emphasized the fact that he was cross-eyed; well, to some degree. One eye always looked at you, the other seemed to scan the horizon.
Turtle was an explosives engineer. Not only did he design and build bombs for the mining industry in his country, but also detonated them. He was highly qualified and even well-renowned for his expertise in the field. Long story short, Turtle, stole his own bombs to do ATM-bombings to financially fuel his addiction.
As is the nature of the beast, money inevitably becomes a problem and one starts to seek alternative funding. It just so happened that Turtle was capable of bombing cash tellers as a means to succeed in the latter. In the end he got caught and lost his license. He will never be able to practise in the field again. It is rather tragic that such genius is sacrificed for short term satisfaction (addiction: which is destructive in-of itself).
There was another fella. Let's call him Testicles (Tickles for short, this will come into play soon). Tickles was an interesting, aged man. He was always busy: raking the lawns, planting grass, connecting sprinklers, and denying his irrefutable problem with alcohol. As with many cases Tickles' problem (dependence) was the result of a very tragic experience.
Tickles, in his previous life, was a farmer in Zimbabwe. He owned thousands of hectares (if you're not familiar with this measuring unit, roughly the size of 10000000000062 blocks of white cheddar cheese laid side-by-side) of land.
Tickles farmed with tobacco. Without going into history and politics, many white farmers, including Tickles, were forced off their land in Zimbabwe. Thousands lost their belongings, property, livestock, equipment- their very livelihood. Err... and yes, in the case of Tickles, he also lost one of his testicles (now you know). And, uh yeah, he lost his dogs.
Tickles refused to abandon his farm. Not even armed, government-supported revolutionaries chanting tribal songs of slaughter and killing the white-man whilst displaying sharpened, albeit rusted, machetes, could displace him. In a desperate attempt to remove the white-man from their property, Tickles was dragged into the bush, tied to a tree and beat to a pulp. Oh, yeah, and in the process he was castrated and his dogs set alight. Savage.
One cannot fathom that type of torture. The distinction between physical and mental torture becomes obscured when examining Tickles' life. I personally love my dogs (two Great-Danes and a German Shepherd). In the same breath, I treasure my testicles. Even though I do not own property, I feel very attached to the house I am renting now along with my girlfriend and our pups. Losing all of this would be...
One day Tickles went missing. The event of someone going missing results in the rehab going into 'lockdown'. Some of the older, more trusted "residents" form search parties and scour the large property (which bordered a forest) for the missing person(s).
Tickles, who suffered from bad teeth as a result from his (lack of) hygiene and severe alcoholism, had wandered down to the workshop. Ignorant to all the commotion his disappearance had caused, he decided it was time for a routine dental examination, Zim-farmer style.
He continued to remove a few of his teeth with a pair of grease-covered plyers. Invigorated by a renewed sense of self-worth (from working the steps of Alcoholics Anonymous) and appreciation of personal well-being, Tickles continued to sterilize his bare and bleeding gums with petrol sucked straight from the rehab-tractor via a garden-hose. And this is how we found him; us, sweat-drenched, out of breath, lungs heaving / him, sucking on a hosepipe inserted into the petrol tank of a tractor.
"What the fuck are you doing mate? We've been looking all over for you, everyone is looking for you!".
Tickles, hunched over, thin lips wrapped around the hose inserted into the tractor, lifted his right hand to signal:
"Hold on a moment, I'll be with you now".
He continued sucking for a few moments. To those who had a history of mixing drugs and prostitutes, a few very long, awkward, moments. Tickles spat out a mouthful of petrol and blood. He continued to wipe his mouth on his sleeve expelled another mouthful of crimson-gold glob.
"Oh sorry guys, my teeth were really sore and how you know how expensive dentists are...".
These are only two of the many stories I have of my stay at rehab. Some of them are tragic, some are funny, but most make you feel better about yourself ("LOL I was never that fucked up"). Once again I feel the need to state that I am not trying to make fun of anyone and/or their circumstances. There are many tales from my own life in addiction which could fill a Steemit post, and possibly, I will get there. I have wanted to capture these stories onto paper not only to share, but to keep alive as old memories are replaced by new.
I sometimes wonder what happened to Turtle and Tickles (as I do with everyone I met). Did Turtle go back into the mining industry? Does he still build bombs? Has his wandering eye found the pot o' gold under the rainbow. Has he relapsed? Is he even still alive?
And the same with Tickles. Did he go back to Zim? Is he farming again? I wonder if he got his recovery right.
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In "Tales from Rehab," individuals share poignant narratives of struggle, recovery, and hope. One common thread is the transformative power of programs like alcohol rehab, where dedicated professionals guide individuals toward healing and sobriety. These tales inspire compassion, understanding, and the realization that seeking help is not a sign of weakness but of strength and courage.