Hopelessness, Despair and Rehab

Episode 12- Hopelessness, Despair and Rehab

It took both trust and desperation to get into a car that September afternoon, knowing I would be driven to a mental health facility in Naples, Florida, and left there. I didn’t see any government cars, but I was still convinced the FBI was following me.

I walked into the facility, and they asked me a few questions I can no longer remember. Then they took me to a room, removed my belt and shoes, and patted me down for weapons, drugs, or anything else they might be looking for. They told me to lie on the couch, which seemed to be made of rubber, and watch TV. I remember Friends was on.

I lay there for about an hour before a staff member came to take me to my room. To get there, we had to pass through the common area.

The common area looked exactly like the mental health centers I had seen portrayed on television and in movies. There was one TV covered by a clear plastic shield, along with a few couches that seemed to be made of rubber and were scattered throughout the room. Bright fluorescent lights filled the space, and that was about it. At first glance, there appeared to be about twenty-five people in the room. My room opened directly off the common area. It had two beds, one empty dresser, and pillows that were also made of rubber.

I sat on my bed, fighting back tears. Just over three months earlier, I had been a millionaire who had landed a deal that could have changed my life. Now I was sitting in a mental health facility without shoes, freezing, and unsure what would happen next. I was psychotic and terrified that when this period of “mental reflection” ended, I would be sent to jail for something I did not even know I had done.

After sitting on my bed for thirty minutes, a staff member came in and said it was time for dinner. I quickly understood it was not a request. Reluctantly, I walked through the common area into the dining room, got in line, and hoped no one would talk to me. I sat alone and ate, though I couldn’t help overhearing the people around me. One man was telling another that he was the real creator of Facebook. Nearby, a much younger man with a shaved head was explaining physics to the staff. He seemed intelligent and clearly knew the subject well. Another man ate as fast as he could so he could return to his “mission” of walking as many laps around the common area as possible. The whole scene felt like something out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but at least it seemed peaceful. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man staring at me in a way that made me deeply uncomfortable. I could not tell whether he wanted to fight me or get to know me in an unsettlingly intimate way. I finished eating quickly and went back to the common area to watch TV.

I had been sitting quietly for about five minutes when the “staring man” came over and sat beside me. I tried hard to ignore him, but he kept staring. Finally, I asked, “Can I help you with something?” He answered, “Nope,” and continued staring. I began to sense that he was trying to intimidate me. My mind started spinning, creating a story that the government had sent him to scare me. For some reason, that thought brought back an important memory: I had spent ten years fighting and training to fight. I stared back and moved closer, making it clear that I was willing to become the aggressor. He was not a large man; he was about my size, and at the time I was very thin. I studied his demeanor the way the Israelis had taught me during training. He did not really want to fight. I kept moving closer and staring back until, within a few minutes, he understood that I was ready to fight him. He made the right choice and excused himself. It was smart, because in that moment I believed I had to fight. I thought, “If I don’t, the staring and intimidation will never stop.” After he left, it took me about forty-five minutes to calm down.

Once I calmed down, two people sat with me to watch TV. One was a girl who looked very young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. The other was an older woman who sat right beside me. She seemed familiar, as if I had seen her somewhere before. She asked what I was watching, and I told her I wasn’t really paying attention. Then she noticed the book in my hand, Problem Solving, which I had taken from my work bag in case I wanted something to read. “Do you like solving problems?” she asked. “I used to,” I said, “but I don’t think I do anymore.” She could tell I was struggling. She put a hand on my shoulder and said, “That will probably change.” Her voice and manner were steady and calm, and I couldn’t imagine what had brought her to a mental health facility. I liked her immediately. She told me her name, though I’m sorry to say I no longer remember it. We talked until lights out. Before she left, I asked if we could keep talking in the morning. She said, “Of course.”

I had been lying in bed for about twenty minutes when a staff member opened my door. A new patient had arrived, and I was going to have a roommate. A bearded man with glasses and a medium build walked in, set down his things, and collapsed onto his bed. He seemed about fifteen years older than me.

Something happened to me that first night. I had a “flashback” of a conversation with my stepbrother. In the memory, he called me a few years earlier and screamed at me over the phone, saying I had done something that ruined our parents’ lives and that I should consider killing myself because of it. He also said I had gotten him into serious trouble, but he never explained how. The memory was hazy, and I could not tell whether it had really happened. Still, I was so upset by the thought that I had hurt my family that I did not sleep that night. I kept trying to figure out what I had done and when I had done it, but I could not even place the year of the conversation. I cried the entire night.

The next morning, the kind woman I had met the night before was waiting for me in the common area. Before I could speak with her, I needed to call my parents and find out whether the conversation with my stepbrother had actually happened. I used the phone in the common area and called them early that morning, crying and clearly shaken. My mother answered, and I asked her everything: Had I hurt them? Had I done something terribly wrong? Was my stepbrother okay? She kept interrupting me, saying, “Pat, none of that happened. It’s all in your head.” Then she asked when I was supposed to see the counselors. I told her later that afternoon, and she told me to calm down. I listened. A short time later, I was called away for breakfast.

I spent the rest of the morning talking with the woman I had met the night before. She told me a lot about herself, including that she feared she was in trouble with the government. She said she had once been an advocate for a cause and, during that time, had done things she worried were highly illegal. Then she asked whether I had ever been in a similar situation. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell her I believed the government was the real reason I was in the facility, but I stayed quiet and said no. As soon as I answered, she gave me a strange look, as if she were waiting for me to change my answer. Soon after, I was called to get my meds. She asked what I was taking, and I told her benzodiazepines twice a day. She gave me a small, sad smile.

When I returned from getting my meds, my roommate was sitting beside my new friend. They had been talking. I sat back down and introduced myself. He seemed deeply disturbed. Most of the time he said nothing, but when he did speak, his words were strange. As I shook his hand, he asked, “Can you hear the ringing in your ears?” The strange thing was that I had been hearing ringing, but for some reason I lied. “No, no ringing,” I said. He yelled across the room, “Good!” Then he turned back to me, locked eyes, and said, “You are my brother, Rob.” I told him my name was Patrick. He said, “You are in some trouble, Rob.” That got my attention. I asked, “What trouble am I in?” I hoped, somehow, that he had answers. He stared at me for a moment, then said, “It started with the separation of the colors.” I asked him to explain, but he stopped talking, stood up, and walked across the room. I sat speechless beside the older woman, who was now my only friend there. I told her he was my roommate and asked what they had talked about while I was getting my medicine. She said she had only introduced herself. Then I noticed the shower room door was open, so I excused myself and said I needed to shower.

When I came out of the shower, which was separated from the common area by a door, my friend was no longer in our spot. Instead, I saw the young girl from the night before sitting on a couch near the shower room. She was staring at me and smiling flirtatiously, which disturbed me deeply. She was young enough to be my daughter. In that moment, my mind created another story: I believed the government had planted her in the facility to lure me into making some kind of disgusting advance toward a young girl. I gathered my things from the shower and hurried back to my room, avoiding eye contact.

I finished getting ready in my room. My mother had told me on the phone that she would visit later that day, and I hoped she would say I did not have to stay much longer. I had been through a lot in forty-eight hours. I sat alone in the common area, waiting for the staff to tell me she had arrived. Before long, we were called to lunch. I barely ate.

As soon as lunch ended, everyone was sent outside for group. A staff member pulled me aside and said my mother had arrived, so I would spend time with her instead.

My mom looked deeply uncomfortable when she entered the common area. I immediately told her I wanted to leave. She said I would be leaving but not going home. My wife had been searching for a place that could provide longer-term care, with proper accommodations and medical staff to address what I was going through. My mother said my wife had found a suitable facility. The choice, she explained, was to stay where I was or go to this new place. I told her I wanted the new place. I did not believe the facility I was in was right for me. I asked what she knew about it, and she said it was near my home in Fort Lauderdale. It was a rehab center for substance abuse and mental health disorders. I told her I did not think I had a drug problem. She explained that the center did not allow benzodiazepines and would help get me off them. I said, “Fine.” Then she added, “You know, Pat, it’s not all bad news right now. You have a lot of stock, and it’s doing reasonably well.” She said I should be proud of how I had performed at work and that my father had told her my old job would be available after I finished treatment. I told her I could not imagine going back. Then I asked when I could leave. She said my wife had told her I could go to the new place as early as the next day. My mother planned to leave me where I was for one more night and pick me up the following afternoon. I said fine. She could see I was upset. I felt as if I were being dragged from one place to another, and in truth, I was. Once I agreed to go, she left. Afterward, I sat alone for a while, wondering how my life had come to this.

That night, my friend and I watched TV together. We talked a little about the rehab center I was going to, and she said getting off benzos would be good for me because I would see things more clearly once they were out of my system. She had a comforting presence. I went to bed feeling much better than I had that afternoon.

The next morning, I woke up ready to leave. I showered early and was dressed before anyone else was awake. Then I lay back down, fully dressed, until breakfast was called. My friend sat beside me during breakfast and asked whether I had taken the time to get to know anyone else in the facility. I told her I had not. “That’s a shame,” she said. “There are very interesting people here.” Then I made a snide comment about a man who claimed he had created Facebook. She looked down, disappointed by my tone, and said, “Well, Patrick, he might have. You don’t know.” I agreed, mostly because I realized I had been rude.

After breakfast, we were ushered back into the common area. About ten men and women in bright green uniforms were walking around the room. My friend looked at them and said something odd: “Well, I like their green outfits. We are lucky, Patrick; the government looks out for us!” I had no idea what she meant. I laughed and said, “I think they’re just trainees here to learn from the staff. I don’t think they’re government.” She answered, “That’s because you’re on benzos!” One of the men in green approached me and asked whether I had somewhere to go once I was released. I told him about the rehab center and explained that I would be treated for both mental health and substance abuse. I also told him I had been on benzos for eight years. He said, “Be careful, Patrick. Some people need their meds.” Just as he finished saying that, as if on cue, I was called to receive mine.

When I came back from getting my meds, I saw my friend and my roommate talking on the couch again. I walked over to join them, but as I approached, my roommate got up and went outside. My friend asked, “Do you know who your roommate is?” I said no. Then she gave me his first and last name. She said he was a “financial whiz” and that she had always wanted to meet him. “I know you don’t believe me,” she said, “but look him up when you get home.” I told her I would as soon as I got my phone back.

My mother arrived a few hours earlier than expected. She said I had been processed out and had enough time to see my daughter at home before leaving for rehab. I did not want to see my daughter because I did not want to face the pain of leaving her again. Still, I reluctantly agreed. My mom could tell the thought upset me and said, “You have to go home anyway because you’ll need to grab a few things for rehab.”

I gathered all my belongings from the Naples facility, including my phone, and my mother and I walked out of the common area toward the lobby. My friend stood near the door, and I could see she was worried. I said goodbye and thanked her for everything she had done for me. She had helped “steady me” during a time when I was psychotic. She hugged me and watched as I passed through the common area door.

My mother and I got into the car. I had plenty of questions about the rehab center, but before asking them, I looked up my roommate on my phone—or rather, the name my friend had claimed was his. I typed it into Google, and a man appeared immediately. He looked somewhat like my roommate, but there were major differences. The man online was balding, while my roommate had a full head of hair. He was clean-shaven, while my roommate had a beard that looked as if it had been growing for months. Still, the man online was clearly a financial titan. He had also done significant work with the government and was connected to several well-known people. I was surprised I had never heard of him. He was impressive, but I did not believe he was the same man from the facility. He simply did not look “enough” like my roommate. I cannot remember the name my friend gave me; it vanished from my memory shortly after I looked him up.

During the drive, I began asking questions about the rehab center. How long will I be there? Was it a decent place? Would insurance cover it? My mother answered what she could. She did not know exactly how long I would stay, but she said it would not be more than a month. She had been told the place was nice, much nicer than the Naples facility. She also told me not to worry about payment yet; we would deal with that after I got out. Then she said something strange: “Where you just came from was as low as it gets. This next part is as hard as it gets.” It was as if she already knew what I was about to face.

It took a little over an hour and a half to reach my house in Fort Lauderdale. My stepfather followed in a separate car in case we needed help gathering my things for rehab. When we arrived, I went inside and headed upstairs, where my daughter was playing in the hallway. I picked her up and hugged her, fighting back tears. My wife was in our room and appeared to have just finished packing a bag for me. She hugged me and said she had packed enough clothes, but I still needed toiletries and a pillow. My stepdad asked if he could help, but my wife told he and my mother they could go home. She said she would take me to rehab herself. Everyone asked if I wanted to eat before I left. I told them I just wanted to get there and “get it over with.”

I said goodbye to my mother, my stepdad, and my daughter, then asked my wife to take me wherever we were going. We carried everything to the car, loaded it, and left. I did not say a word during the drive. It took about fifteen minutes to get there.

I stepped into the rehab center’s lobby, which was about the size of a closet. There was one desk and a locked door leading into the center. We sat and waited until a large woman entered and took a seat behind the desk. She said my wife could stay while they processed me in, but afterward she would have to leave. The intake took about twenty minutes. They asked basic questions and had me fill out several forms. When it was finished, I hugged my wife and thanked her for packing my things and driving me there.

After she left, they opened the door into the center. Inside was a small TV room with one couch facing the television. The main feature was a large glass wall with an office behind it, like a pharmacy counter at CVS or Walgreens. The large woman led me into a small room tucked off to the side of the TV and medicine area, came in with me, and closed the door. She told me to strip down and wait for someone to bring clothes. Then she left. I stripped down to my underwear and waited. A man came in with scrubs and told me to take off my underwear too. Then he asked me to turn around and bend over so he could search me. Afterward, he told me to put on the scrubs. He said I would only have to wear them for the first night. Once my bags were checked for contraband, I could wear my regular clothes again.

I stepped out in my scrubs and looked around the TV room. It had the same fluorescent lighting I had seen at the Naples center. The man told me I would pick up my medicine at the window in the glass wall, once in the morning and once in the evening. I had to take it in front of the staff seated behind the glass. Then he led me down a hallway with the same fluorescent lighting. He pointed to a door and said, “This is your room, but you can’t go in yet.” I noticed no one else was around, so I asked where everyone was. He said they were all in evening group.

He took me into a small room stocked with snacks and drinks and explained that meals were served there, though most people took their food outside to eat. He asked if I was hungry and said they had an extra dinner if I wanted it. I told him I was not hungry. Then I asked whether vaping was allowed. He said it was, but everyone smoked and vaped outside in a gathering area. I asked if I could see where people gathered.

A door in the snack and meal room led to the outdoor gathering area behind the building. It looked like a paved parking lot with a few picnic tables scattered around. There was a basketball hoop, and that was about it. The man did not let me stay outside. He led me back in and said I could go out and vape once everyone was finished with group.

Back inside, I saw another person in scrubs sitting at one of the few tables in the snack room, staring at the television. I said hello and asked if it was his first day too. All he said was, “Yes.” I could tell he was not doing well mentally. He was shaking and sweating heavily. I thought, “this man is detoxing from alcohol.”  I had read enough to recognize what I was seeing. Only two types of withdrawal can kill you: alcohol and benzodiazepines, which was what I was taking. The staff member noticed I was not getting much conversation from the man at the table and suggested we see whether my room was ready.

As we walked down the hall, the staff member explained that the center had two floors. Downstairs was mainly for people detoxing from drugs and alcohol and included a large media room for watching television and movies. Upstairs was for people who had already detoxed and didn’t need as much supervision. Most of the group rooms were also upstairs. When we reached my room, he opened the door. It was nicer than I expected, dimmer than the hallways, and had its own TV. There were two single beds and two dressers. He told me I had a roommate, but the roommate was in evening group. My suitcase was already on my bed. I started putting my things into the dresser closest to me, but the staff member asked me to stop so he could explain my new schedule.

He explained that while I was downstairs, someone would come into my room at 6 a.m. to give me my morning meds, so I would not need to go to the medicine area. Wake-up was at 7, and breakfast was served from 7:45 to 8:15. The morning group session started at 8:45. He said there were three group sessions each day: one at 8:45 a.m., one after lunch at 1 p.m., and one at 8 p.m. Each group lasted two hours. “Group isn’t mandatory,” he said, “but this is what you’re here for, so I don’t see why you wouldn’t attend. During the first few days of detox, we expect you to stay in your room. But if you can attend group, you should. After detox, we push people to attend all their meetings.” I asked, “How long is detox for benzodiazepines?” He said he did not know, then added that the longest detox for any substance was eleven days. “We are very aggressive here with detox,” he said. “You’ll have a taper period, but we move people through it fast.” I thought, That’s fine. I take these as prescribed, for the most part, and only one milligram twice a day. It can’t be that bad. The staff member left, and I started unpacking.

It did not take long to unpack and get settled. I lay on the bed watching TV for about thirty minutes before I heard a rush of people coming down the stairs. I thought, Okay, I can go vape now. These scrubs are embarrassing, and I know I’ll stand out, but I don’t want to change. I got up and headed to the outdoor gathering area.

There were twenty to thirty people outside. I sat at the nearest picnic table and took out my vape. A few people joined me, introduced themselves, and then started talking among themselves. I tried not to listen. A woman a few years younger than me came over and introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Ally,” she said. “The first night kind of sucks, but it gets better.” She asked what room I was in. When I told her, she said she was in the room next to mine. “We’re all detoxing on our floor,” she said. “What are you detoxing from?” I told her benzos. She said she was detoxing from benzos too. I did not tell her that, aside from my benzo addiction, I was also there for behavioral issues and because I had been suicidal. I decided to keep that to myself. She began making small talk with some of the men at the table. We had not been outside long before we were called in for evening meds. Everyone hurried inside. I did not. Once I got in, I understood why they had moved so quickly: the line for the medicine room was already long. That first night, it took about twenty minutes to reach the counter and get my meds.

I could have gone back outside after taking my meds; there was still time. Instead, I wanted to return to my room and meet my roommate.

I walked back to my room and found my roommate sitting on his bed. He was tall and clean-cut. “Hey, I’m Jay,” he said. When I walked over to shake his hand, he added, “I’m checking out of here either tomorrow or the next day, so I won’t be getting to know you all that well. Please don’t be offended.” I told him I understood. Then he lay down and said I could watch whatever I wanted on TV because he was going to sleep. I grabbed the remote. As I walked back to my bed, I noticed a camera mounted in the corner of the wall with the TV, aimed at both beds. I asked Jay whether they watched us all the time. “Man, every room has cameras,” he said. “They watch everything here except the shower and the bathroom. Don’t try anything here.” I nodded to show I understood. I watched TV for twenty minutes, then turned it off and went to bed. My last thoughts were: This is much better than where I just came from. Maybe this won’t be so bad. I’m sure I can get through this and get back to my family.

The first week went smoothly. Staff woke me at 6 a.m. to give me my meds, and I felt well enough to attend group. I learned that the morning groups were smaller and included a lot of role-playing and other activities. The afternoon group included everyone staying at the center and seemed to be led only by senior staff. After that, we had about four hours of free time before dinner. In the evening, we attended another large group where speakers came in to talk about their recovery. On Fridays, instead of the large group, there were separate meetings for men and women. There were no meetings on weekends.

I made a few friends that first week. One was Ally. Another was Mike, who had been through rehab several times. There was also Thomas, who was especially interesting. He was extremely polished. I have never believed polish necessarily means someone has money, but Thomas seemed very well-off. He was in his fifties, about ten years older than me, and he was lovely to talk with—witty, thoughtful, and easy to be around.

I spoke with all of them every day during that first week and participated in every group. I enjoyed the theoretical conversations and felt comfortable sharing my opinions. Not everyone appreciated my perspective, though. A few people seemed to dislike me, and as I moved into the second week, one of them would make that very clear.

A young guy named Reese seemed to dislike everything about me. Before I arrived, he had been the most “vocal person” in group, and everyone seemed to think he was the smartest person there. He did not like anyone else offering thoughtful opinions on the topics we discussed. Reese began turning people against me, though I did not realize what he was saying until I showed weakness and he decided to let loose.

I did not have a roommate during that second week, and I only had about three people I considered friends. No one was openly cruel, but people had their cliques, and most of them stayed within their own circles.

One afternoon, I heard Ally might be leaving. She had been told she might move on to phase two of the program, which meant living in one of the center’s small apartments with a roommate. Phase two was meant to help patients ease back into the world by helping them find work, learn basic life skills, and prepare to live independently without substances. I heard about Ally’s possible move from the staff, and I was upset because she was one of the few friends I had.

I was outside vaping when I heard the news about Ally. I saw her across the yard and decided to wish her well and tell her I would miss her. She was sitting with Reese at one of the picnic tables. I walked over and said, “I heard you might be leaving. I’m happy for you, but I wish you were staying. I’m sure you’ll do well there.” I was visibly upset. Ally hugged me and said she was not sure yet whether they would move her. Just then, a staff member came outside and pulled her away. Reese, now standing right in front of me, gave me the dirtiest look I had ever seen one man give another. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” he said. I just looked at him, shocked. He continued, “Ally needs to worry about getting off drugs, something you know nothing about. I know you’re not an addict. Your wife said terrible things about you. You’re not a husband or a father. You’re a manipulator. You’re using this bullshit drug addiction to justify your actions. I am an addict. You aren’t. The way you speak in group is offensive. When I speak, I do my homework. You just say bullshit.”

On any other day, I might have hurt him badly. Reese was a twenty-six-year-old punk wrestling with his drug addiction and his sexuality. I knew I could not hit him because the center had a zero-tolerance policy for physical violence. I was also incredibly fragile that day. I thought I was losing Ally, one of my few friends. I walked away from Reese with tears in my eyes. I had already been through so much, and now I was dealing with someone who seemed determined to make my time in rehab as hard as possible. I went to my room so no one would see me upset.

Once I was alone in my room, my thoughts began to spin. I wondered what my wife had told the staff about me and how Reese had heard any of it. The confrontation also made me question my addiction. Was I really an addict? Was I using addiction as an excuse for some of my behavior at home? My wife and I certainly had terrible fights. I still wasn’t fully convinced I was a drug addict. After all, the withdrawal did not seem that bad, even though the staff had been tapering me off benzos very quickly. Between those thoughts, Ally possibly leaving, and Reese’s attack, I began slipping into a psychotic state. I believed him. I believed I was a terrible person. I believed I had done something awful and deserved whatever pain was coming. After that confrontation, I stopped speaking in group.

By week three, I was no longer doing well. Reese was talking about me to anyone who would listen. To make matters worse, a group of new patients arrived from Arkansas. I had a new roommate, a meth addict from Arkansas who was furious to be in rehab. He wanted nothing to do with me, and he made that clear. I could tell he was the violent type, but I was in such a bad place that I barely cared. In our first conversation, he made sure to tell me he had “done time.” Despite Reese’s campaign against me and the quiet, nasty comments from his friends whenever I entered a room, I still went to group. It was better than staying in my room with my new roommate.

The most important thing to understand about that period is that all my fears had returned. Once again, I believed I had committed a crime and that the FBI was after me. I thought they wanted me to be sober before they came to put me in cuffs. My mind began searching for possible crimes I might have committed. I remembered what our company marketing manager had said a few months earlier, in front of a room full of people—that I had bribed public officials. I kept wondering why he would say that. Had I? Had I bribed officials during my time as a lobbyist? Was that how I had hurt my family and my stepbrother? Those thoughts ran through my head every second of every day during week three. I could not even hear what people were saying in group. All I could think was that I was going to prison and deserved it. This was the beginning of my emotional breakdown. I knew that where I was, emotionally and physically, was awful, but I also believed things were only going to get worse. I thought I would never see my family again. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. This was as good as it would ever get. When it was over, the FBI would take me. I had entered true hopelessness.

By week four, I was told I had finished detoxing. The staff said they were moving my things to a room upstairs, which meant I would have a new roommate. I should have been relieved, but I was so trapped in my own head that I barely cared. I still had a few friends. Mike and Thomas continued to talk to me, and both could see I was struggling. They kept trying to pull me out of my thoughts and back into the moment. They were good people. Ally, however, had stopped talking to me and was spending a lot of time with Reese. My new roommate was Latino and spoke very little English, so when I was in my room, I was alone with my thoughts. That was dangerous because I was beginning to feel trapped.

Every time I left my room, people seemed to smirk and mutter about me as I passed. It was awful. I was surprised Mike and Thomas were still willing to talk to me. The best part of each day came early in the morning, when Thomas would come to get me and we would walk laps around the yard. He told me about his wife and his work. Thomas had told me he was a lawyer, though I had heard from staff that he was an author. I did not think much of it. During our walks, I barely spoke. I just listened, and Thomas seemed fine with that.

Mike was very different from Thomas. He had worked in rehab facilities before this stay. I was not sure what drug he had used, but it had taken his teeth, so I assumed it was meth. Mike desperately wanted me to get out of my head and kept trying to make me talk. I tried, but my thoughts were so intense that I could not hold a conversation. My mind was on my family. I was convinced I would never see my daughter again. I kept thinking about bath time with her. That had been my job and our bonding time. I would bathe her and dress her, and I loved every second of it. We made it a game, and she loved it as much as I did. In my mind, I was saying goodbye to my daughter. Mike seemed to sense how bad things had become and did everything he could to help. He was a good man.

By week five, I was like a ghost in that place. I barely spoke. Even during one-on-one sessions with my counselor, I said as little as possible. I became convinced people were recording me and that everything I said would be used against me by the FBI. I started to believe everyone in the facility was trying to make me say something incriminating. I thought they all wanted me in prison and believed I was a terrible person.

Nighttime was the worst. I had developed a ringing in my ears that seemed to move from one ear to the other depending on where I focused. Once again, I believed the government had planted something in my ears. I remembered the loud music I had heard at my father’s house, which had seemed to play only inside my head. That memory fueled my paranoia. Now, instead of music, I heard loud ringing. I also heard helicopter sounds and believed helicopters were flying over the facility as part of the FBI’s investigation into me.

By this point, I was still attending some groups, but I had started ignoring the staff and skipping a few morning sessions. I was a mess. Eventually, the staff grew concerned enough to ask one of the center’s psychiatrists to evaluate me.

I was pulled out of group to meet with him. We shook hands, and he introduced himself before asking questions that surprised me. He asked whether I thought my stepbrother was “out to get me.” I said no. Then I told him I believed I had done something to hurt my stepbrother. I said it was not physical, but I believed I was in trouble with the law and that it had affected both he and my parents. The psychiatrist listened, then said, “I’d like to give you something to help you sleep. You need good sleep.” I agreed and felt a little better after finally speaking about what had been happening in my head. He was the only person I had shared my thoughts with. Still, it seemed strange that he even knew I had a stepbrother. I let it go and was simply relieved they were giving me something to help me sleep.

That evening, I went to group and sat alone, as far from everyone else as possible. Ally had moved on to phase two. Mike and Thomas were still there, but I was such a mess that I did not want to deal with them either. I only wanted group to end so I could get my new medication and sleep.

When group ended, I hurried to be first in line for meds. I asked the staff at the counter whether my new sleep medication had arrived, and they said it had. I took everything right away, then went straight to my room to try to sleep.

It is hard to describe what happened that night. I did not fall asleep. Instead, the ringing in my ears and the helicopter sounds grew louder. Around 1 a.m., something started happening to my body. My heart began pounding the way it might after sprinting a hundred meters. Then it intensified until my whole body seemed to vibrate. I shook violently and thought the psychiatrist had given me something meant to kill me. I believed I was having a heart attack. By then, though, I wanted to die. I thought the doctor had taken mercy on me and that, instead of going to prison, I would die right there. I pulled the blanket over myself so the cameras would not see me shaking. I did not want anyone to stop it. I was ready to die. The pounding continued for hours, along with the ringing and helicopter sounds. Sometime in the early morning, I finally passed out.

When I woke up, I was furious. I could not believe I was still alive. Strangely, Mike had opened my door at 5 a.m., looked in, and said, “Oh, sorry. Wrong room.” It felt like more than a coincidence.

During breakfast, I thought, Either I had a stroke last night, or I had a seizure. They had been giving me anti-seizure medication along with my other meds. Then another thought came to me: What if I don’t take it? Maybe that would kill me. So, when I picked up my morning meds, I hid the anti-seizure pill under my tongue, kept it there until I returned to my room, and spit it out. I put it in the pocket of my jeans and went to group.

Morning group went the way it had all week: I stayed silent. Afterward, I returned to my room and decided to stay there until afternoon group. I did not want to vape, go outside, or deal with anyone. I just lay in bed and waited to be called.

Time passed quickly, and before I knew it, I was in afternoon group. I felt strange from the start, as if a psychedelic sensation was moving through my body. About twenty minutes, I began staring at people around the room and analyzing them. I started to see them as a team working against me, and then I said it out loud: “I know all of you are in on this. I figured it out.” Then I looked at the staff member leading the group and said, “I know you’re an actress. I’ve seen you in New York.” She told me I needed to see the doctor downstairs and excused me from group. In a moment of clarity, I agreed and started walking toward the door. Then my legs went limp, and I fell. I heard someone say, “He’s been fucked up since he got here.” Finally, someone helped me up, led me through the door, down the stairs, and into the medical office. They put me in the room with the glass wall and sat me on the couch. I lay down. Less than a minute later, my legs began shaking uncontrollably. A staff member stood over me and said, “If you can, try to pray, son.” Within minutes, I passed out.

When I woke up, my aunt, who was a nurse in the area, was standing over me. She explained that I was in a hospital and had just suffered a grand mal seizure. “I know you’ve been through hell, Patrick,” she said. “But all of us just want you to have your life back.” I could see I was lying in a hospital bed. I stayed conscious for about ten minutes before passing out again.

I woke up again that evening and heard a man’s voice on the other side of the curtain in our room. He asked me to help him. I noticed I had an IV, but I could move around by rolling the pole that held the bag. I walked over and asked how I could help. He was a very old man. He looked up at me and said, “Organized or unorganized?” I had no idea what he meant, but I blurted out, “Organized.” He said, “You’re missing the point,” then laughed until he coughed. I got the joke. It was a mob joke. I thought, this is all getting even stranger.

At 6 a.m., nurses came in and moved me to my own room. My roommate had been groaning all night, and they wanted me to get some sleep. They rolled me into the new room and asked if I wanted anything to eat. I told them I just wanted to sleep.

At 8 a.m., I woke to the sound of a loud helicopter. I looked out the window and saw a medical helicopter right outside. Apparently, the flight path to the landing pad ran past my room. How ironic, I thought. Then I pressed the call button because I wanted food. When the nurse came in, I asked if there was any chance I could still get breakfast. He said yes and told me he would be right back with it. I turned on the TV, and a Friends marathon was playing. I laughed and cried at the same time.

Lying in that hospital bed, unable to get up because of the IV, I reached a new low. That was where I truly understood despair. I thought, I can’t look back because the past led me here, and that hurts. I can’t focus on the present because I am miserable. And I can’t think about the future because I believe it will be even worse than this. Then the word came to me: despair. Despair is misery with no escape. The only refuge, I believed, was the small space between thoughts. But in that much pain, I could not reach it. I could not empty my mind. I was not only fighting life in rehab and the fear of spending the rest of my life in prison, I was also fighting withdrawal. That day, in the hospital, I could feel the benzodiazepines leaving my body.

A nurse came in and handed me my phone. I figured someone must have picked it up from rehab and driven it to the hospital, which meant the hospital had to be close to the center. I called my mom. We had spoken under supervision at the rehab center, and I had been careful not to complain while calling from there because I thought it would make my stay worse. But now there was no supervision, so I unloaded everything. The gist of the conversation was that the rehab center was not right for me. I told her I believed the seizure was not only from withdrawal, but also from the stress I had been under there. She listened. Then she told me there was nowhere else I could go. She said my wife and aunt would visit soon and told me to “try and relax.” I remembered her saying those exact words, then hung up.

My wife and aunt came to the hospital about three hours after my call with my mom. My wife sat beside me and did her best to comfort me. I told her, “I’m not going back. That center is bad for me. I’m a nervous wreck every day. All we do is talk about other people’s pain, and I have enough pain of my own. Please let me go home.” My aunt stepped in and said my only choice was to return to the center and finish my stay. I told them I would not do phase two. I was not going to live with a roommate for six months in some apartment. My aunt said phase two was not mandatory. Then she added, “However, you have to finish your stay at the center.” I asked her how much longer that would be, since she seemed to know something about rehab. She said it would not be much longer. “Fine,” I said. “Why not? Let’s just keep this going.” I was furious.

After I calmed down, I asked, “When do I go back? When do I leave the hospital?” My wife said I would stay until the next morning, and then she would pick me up and drive me back to the center. She also said that sometime during the week she would take me from the center to a neurologist for testing. That made me feel a little better. At least I would get a break. She said she would take me for a haircut before the appointment. I hugged my wife and thanked my aunt for coming to check on me.

The next morning, my wife drove me back to the center. It was only a seven- or eight-minute drive. I entered through the lobby and was told I would have to undress and put on scrubs again. Before changing, though, I had to be strip-searched again. By then, I was numb to all of it.

After the search, I changed into scrubs, and the staff led me to a new room upstairs. They said I would not have a roommate and that my things were already there. They also told me the psychiatrist would meet me in the room to discuss what had happened.

I walked in and collapsed onto the bed. I stared at the ceiling for about twenty minutes before I heard a knock. “Come in, I’m dressed,” I said. The psychiatrist entered, pulled up a chair, sat down, looked at me for a few seconds, and said, “Well, that was cool.” I could not believe it. “What was cool about this?” I asked, angrily. He said that during the seizure, a piece of my DNA had “come loose” and I had started speaking another language. When I asked which language, he said he had never heard it before. He said that when DNA reveals something like that, it is called a “Pro-drone.” To this day, I have never been able to find any information about it. He said it was very rare and that he thought it was the “coolest thing.” He also told me he had ridden with me in the ambulance during the seizure. I thanked him for that. Then he stood and said the center was moving me back downstairs so they could watch me more closely, but I would not have a roommate. I thought that was a good place to end the conversation.

A few minutes later, staff came upstairs to gather my things, and I followed them back down. They returned me to my old room and placed my belongings on the bed. I told them I would put everything away myself. Then I grabbed my vape and went outside.

Mike was the first person I saw outside. He had heard what happened and asked if I was okay. Then, oddly, he smiled and said, “This is exactly what you needed.” I did not understand what he meant, and at that point, I was not going to try. I sat outside and felt peaceful for the first time in weeks. From then on, I decided I would only attend the afternoon group.

Everything felt different when I returned. People seemed a little kinder, and no one commented when I entered a room or walked past. I also noticed fewer patients in the center. Apparently, many had moved on to phase two while I was in the hospital, including most of the group from Arkansas. Still, I spent most of my time in my room. I attended afternoon group, but I still did not speak much. Reese had left, but I was not comfortable speaking up about the topic we were discussing. I was excited that my wife would pick me up soon and grateful for the break.

Three days after I left the hospital, my wife picked me up for my neurology appointment. The appointment was at 5 p.m., but she arrived at 3 so I could get a haircut first.

It felt good to be out that day. Getting a haircut made me feel somewhat normal again. Then we arrived at the neurologist’s office. The doctor saw me right away and ran tests using a strobe light. I reacted strongly to it, but I explained that I had been under severe stress and was on edge. I also told him I had never reacted badly to strobe lights before. He said he would place a device on my head overnight to test for seizures. Then he pulled out something that looked like a helmet and set it on my head. Wires hung from it, and he spent the next twenty minutes connecting them to different parts of the helmet. I walked out looking like Frankenstein.

When I got back into my wife’s car, I broke down. Now I had to walk back into the center wearing that thing on my head. I was tired of the comments and snarky remarks every time I entered a room. I knew that if some of those people saw me like this, I would never hear the end of it. Under normal circumstances, I had never cared much about what people thought. But I had been through too much and was still withdrawing, so their cruelty affected me. My wife said she was hungry and stopped at McDonald’s. I told her I could not eat, and she understood. She said she would come back the next day to take me to the neurologist again. They only needed one night of data. I told myself I would stay in my room until she picked me up the following afternoon.

When I arrived back at the rehab center, I was strip-searched again. A staff member escorted me to my room, looked at the helmet, and said, “Don’t worry about anything. Just get some sleep.” That night, I heard nothing—no ringing, no helicopters, not a single sound. I slept.

My wife picked me up the next morning, earlier than expected. She said the doctor had called with an earlier opening. On the way there, she told me she was working on getting me out and that I would not have to stay in the center much longer. It was the best news I had heard in months.

The neurology visit was quick this time. The nurse removed the helmet and said they expected to have results that day. She explained that the equipment could detect signs of epilepsy. I smiled and thanked her. I was fairly sure I did not have epilepsy. I believed I had been taken off benzodiazepines too quickly and that the withdrawal had caused the seizure. Besides, my mind was focused on what my wife had said: I might be leaving rehab soon. That thought excited me.

My wife drove me back to the center, where I was strip-searched again. I went to my room, grabbed my vape, and headed outside. By then, I no longer cared what people thought. I had a feeling I was getting out. That evening, a staff member came into my room with good news: I would be leaving that week. He did not know the exact day, but I did not care. I was leaving that hellhole. I attended evening group that night and got through it just fine. The next day, I went to afternoon group and was later told I could call my wife.

I went into the office used for phone calls, got my phone, and FaceTimed home. My wife and daughter both answered. The first thing my wife told me was that I would be leaving the center the next day. She said she had promised our daughter a trip to the butterfly museum that morning, and if I felt up to it, they would pick me up and take me with them. I said I could handle it. My wife said they would arrive around 10 a.m. I was so happy. I thanked her before hanging up, then went back to my room smiling.

My suitcase was on my bed when I entered my room. I spent the evening packing carefully. When I finished, I lay in bed with a big smile. I would see my daughter tomorrow, I thought. That night, like the night before, I had no thoughts about the FBI. There were no unwanted sounds—only thoughts of seeing my family. I slept.

The next morning, I attended group for about thirty minutes before being called downstairs. I did not see any of my friends, but I figured they would understand that I could not walk around the place looking for them. I passed through the room where I picked up my meds each day, opened the lobby door, and stepped outside. A staff member was waiting there. He asked if I had everything and wished me luck. I thanked him, got into the car, and looked at my daughter. She began to cry. I walked around to the back seat, hugged and kissed her, and said, “Everything is okay, baby.” Then I told her Daddy was coming home for good.

On the way to the museum, we stopped at a park so my daughter could play on the playground for a while. I got out to play with her. For the first time in almost two months, I was a free man. As we started playing, I heard a helicopter overhead. As happy as I was, the sight and sound of it made me shake. Everything I had feared for months was no longer on the surface, but it would take a long time before that fear was truly gone.