Today was hard. I’m tired again. Last night I slept pretty well but I guess the previous nights are taking a toll on today’s energy. Either that or I’m just emotionally drained. I went to the Crown Plaza to speak at a support group for parents who have sent their kids to my old residential treatment center. I go to these things as often as I can but this time there was a completely different atmosphere… For the first time since my graduation from the program, my old therapist came to my hometown (haha- hometown) to lead the group. I was so psyched (haha -get it?) to see him. Why are things suddenly so different? It’s strange. Usually these groups are filled with know-it-all kids who have just graduated and distraught parents who have just sent their kids away. The parents ask insanely detailed questions about how to structure home-visits and the former residents brag about their new-found maturity and insight. And me… I am usually in the minority if not the only one who tactfully insists life after rehab is borderline miserable. The world of rehab is completely controlled, if you’re having a rough time there is more or less a formula to change that. Do what they say, follow there rules and you get to listen to some shitty Midwestern radio stations. If you’re really good you might even get to play bop-it. Sorry, I can’t help the sarcasm sometimes. But seriously, the suckiness of your surroundings is more or less in your control but in the real world; life can just suck and you have no idea when it’s going to get better. In this group, most of the former residents had been out for over two years and were very open and honest about their struggles. It was just a very low-bullshit kind of environment. Life is hard. And it seems to me there are no highs and lows. It’s just if you commit to a routine and keep going despite the obvious suckiness, you notice that you’re struggling less. Or you get used to that particular struggle and it becomes a kind of second-nature. It seems only natural that transitions are a lot to bear- anything you don’t already know how to do is hard. But you do it and you learn and then it’s less hard. As for my old therapist- seeing him was more nostalgic than I expected. Somehow, I comprehended for the first time how long it really been. I think up until recently my life felt like an extension of rehab. Believe it or not my conscience would sometimes say to me “You don’t want to do this or you’ll have to go back.” But I think today it sunk in that there is no going back.
It’s hard when it finally hits home that a once central figure in your life no longer inhabits that role. To me, my old therapist was the heart and soul of my recovery. He understood me, he knew me, and he taught me to understand myself. I confided in him and trusted him more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. In the unbeknownst processing of my thoughts, I would guess he is the symbol of truth.
But to him, I am so much more distant… To him, I was a person to be understood, to be examined, to be helped. Now, the details of my psychology melt and fade in the concoction of former-clients in his memory. Today I represent someone he once knew, still likes, but can no longer help… When I saw him watch the other former-residents speak, I watched his role diminish to that of polite encouragement and sincere hope. I think I felt him grieve a little that the success of these former clients were no longer at the mercy of his insight, creative consequence, or simple rewards. I think I saw something like paternal acknowledgement that we were not his children anymore- our lives are in our own hands. When I saw him sigh over this, I finally comprehended this truth. Rehab is not my home anymore- it is at most a distant resource. My old therapist is not my mentor anymore and I am not his apprentice. My life is not an extension of time spent in ______ _______ residential treatment center. My life is- mine. I am working toward a destination of my choosing and no one is going to know to kick my ass if I’m not on the path to getting there. G-d I wish this didn’t feel so somber. I wish he could still make the pain go away. I think he sometimes wishes he could to. But it’s over. It’s funny how right at the threshold of my 18th birthday I finally feel like I have graduated from the bitter entitlement of adolescence to the longing and ambiguity of young adulthood.