Quitting drinking and going to rehab is like trying to climb your very first 4,000-foot New Hampshire mountain. With no preparation whatsoever.
Before you can even go to rehab, you have to stop drinking. And suffer the ramifications of an addiction that has strangled you for years. Your addiction stares you straight in the face, looming down on you like a towering mountain, taunting you, shaming you and threatening to squash you like an insignificant worm that is wiggling around in the mud trying to get away. But you can’t get away. No matter how hard you try, the mountain just seems too big, and you have no idea where to start.
Fear. What if I can’t stop? Or, more importantly, what if I try? There are reasons I drink. Do I really want to find out what those reasons are? Do I really want to face those reasons? Fear stops me every time.
I’ll skip through the part where I take my last drink. I’ll skip the struggles with medication assisted treatment. I’ll skip the part where I desperately try to get into a program. I’ll skip the efforts at ZOOM meetings and accountability and buying AA coins online. I’ll skip those parts. Because it was not successful.
Three months later, I get a bed. “This is it”, I think. It will be a relief to be in a place where I don’t have the option to drink. It will be easier than being at home and trying not to stop at the liquor store. And then two weeks later, I’ll have broken myself of the habit and be good to go. No problem. I’m ready to get in the car and drive the two hours to New Hampshire and start hiking. It can’t be that hard. I have no idea what I need to hike, no map and haven’t exercised in months, but I’ve got this. I’ll breeze through, hike up the mountain, see the sights, hike back down, and find myself safely back at home where I belong.
Right.
I drive my car to the trailhead. I try to find the start of the trail. I don’t have a map, or the right apps on my phone. I’m lost already and I haven’t even started. I put my meager backpack down, get back in the car, and try to figure out what to do. Where is everyone? Where are all the hikers? Where are their cars? My brain feels muddled and confused. I must be in the wrong spot. I have to find where I’m going. I’m supposed to be there by nine. If I’m not there by nine, the rehab might not let me in. I’m about to screw up my chance and I haven’t even stepped foot on the trail. I put the car in reverse. It moves about a foot and then stops. I put it in drive and try to move forward. It won’t budge.
I get out of the car.
I stare at my backpack which is now lodged up in the wheel well after I successfully ran over it in my rash attempt to get out of the parking lot. It’s wedged so tightly I can’t get it out. All my hiking gear is in there. How can I hike when I don’t have my backpack? How can I go to rehab when I don’t have my backpack? I need to jack up my car and get the damn backpack out. What’s the next right step? I need help.
No, I don’t. I’ve never changed a tire, but I’m sure I can figure it out. It can’t be that hard. But my head is swimming with fear and uncertainty about what comes once I get the backpack out. Am I seriously here at rehab? Am I seriously going to try hiking a mountain when I can’t even find the trail?
Then I look up.
Help is staring me right in the face. It has been there all along, waiting for me to ask. An outreached arm that I wasn’t sure I wanted. I was angry. I was frustrated. The day was not going as I had planned. Did I want the help? Or did I want to stay locked up in my own little world of anger, which was covering up my hatred of myself for getting into this predicament in the first place. Such an idiot. Who gets to a trailhead and can’t find the damn trail? Only an idiot. Who runs over their only source of comfort? Only an idiot. Who won’t ask for help? Only a stubborn idiot.
But the help is persistent. They try to help me free my backpack. I tell them I am going to jack up my car by myself. I have never done this before, but I’m sure I can figure it out. They tell me to call AAA. I breathe. I am thankful someone else has a voice of reason. Because right now, in this moment, I do not. I relent. Right then, in that moment, I take the next right step. This is what a hiker does, right? They take a step. I have never hiked before, but I am sure about this one thing. Hikers take a step. And when they take a step, it leads them somewhere. So, I take that step. I go inside. I call AAA. Something inside me lets loose a little. Just a little, but it is a start.