A little over three years ago I found myself checking into a 28-day treatment facility for alcoholism, a couple hours away from my hometown in North Carolina. I called and had three days to get ready, until a bed was going to be available for me. The preparation was reminiscent of getting ready for summer camp when I was a little girl. My mom and I went to Wal-Mart with a checklist of approved and non-approved items, and filled our cart with the approved necessities.
It was a humbling experience—the first of many to come.
I had no idea what rehab was about, or what they did, or how they got people to stay sober. I just knew I needed help. I had proven to myself that I couldn’t do it own my own. I had tried many times unsuccessfully and was baffled as to why I couldn’t just stop. I had finally reached a point where I was willing to try; I would do anything they asked of me if I could just not want to take a drink. I remember thinking that it would be a miracle if my desire and obsession to drink could be removed. It seemed impossible.