The Only Way Out
Going in was the only way out. He
knew that now. In the past, every minute he was in there, the only thing he
wanted to do was get out. He didn’t want the kind of help it offered, even
more, he truly believed he didn't need it. When things got real bad, when he
lost all sense of reality, places like this helped… for awhile. No matter how
much he needed their help, every time he wound up there, as soon as his head
cleared, the urge to escape always got the best of him.
Once it served its purpose, giving
him a place to stay until his body healed from the abuse he subjected it to, he
was ready to leave; to get back to his friends. Back to the life he had lived
since he was a teenager. He was thirty years old now. Nothing had changed, no
matter how much therapy or counseling they threw at him.
Getting out was easy. He had
mastered the system; He knew all the right things to say to get out. The saddest
thing was that he never knew the right things to do to stay out. Every time he
got out he felt he was starting over; regrettably, every time, he wound up
right back where he started… nowhere.
Growing up, he blamed everyone but
himself for his troubles. He'd blamed his family for shutting him out, never
realizing the truth. In reality, he had walked away from them a long time ago. They
didn't understand what he wanted; they only seemed to focus on what they
thought he needed.
He craved their approval, but he
never approved of what they asked him to do. While he desperately wanted them
to be proud of him, he never tried or cared enough to give them anything to be
proud of. They just didn't understand him. It had finally come to the point
where he had lost them and, in the process, he had lost himself.
He finally realized that the clinic
wasn’t a place to escape from. It was a place to turn to. While it offered
nothing that he wanted, it was the only place to get what he needed. He had
spent long, desperate times in places just like it. Arrests, overdoses,
episodes of emotional conflicts; there were a lot of reasons why he wound up
there. Yet he had never walked in voluntarily. He wound up there because
it was where he was sent when they found him lying in the street or alley,
broken and suffering from his addictions. He never went in because he wanted to
be there.
He finally understood. His friends,
his family, they weren’t the problem. HE was the problem! He had tried
everything to improve his life and win back his family, everything besides
taking responsibility. Now, after waking up in his own vomit and with none of
his junkie friends around to help him get up, he had walked the 5 miles to the
clinic.
He stood outside the rehab clinic
because he realized that it was the only place he had left to go. If he went in
he would be taking the first step towards getting his life fixed. In his heart,
he still feared what they, what he, might find inside. He wouldn’t just be
opening a door to a building; he would be opening his life to the sort of
scrutiny that he feared most; the truth. It was a place that could only help if
he was willing to finally admit that he was helpless. And he was. If he wanted
to escape the path that would lead him into hell, it was the only way out.
He lingered with his hand on the
door; afraid of what he was about to do. All he had to do was go in. His hand
closed on the few crumpled bills in his pocket. What would he say to them when
they asked him why he had come? Maybe he should wait a bit. Sit in the park and
think about just what he would say.
After all, there was no rush. A
drink would help steady his nerves, give him the strength and courage he never
had when he was sober. It was still early and it was such a nice day.
"Later," he thought to himself. "I'll come back later… maybe tomorrow." He really needed to
think this through… again.
He turned and walked to the liquor
store just a few doors down. "Funny,"
he thought to himself again. "Why
does every clinic have a liquor store nearby?"
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