Thanks For Nothing
Well.
Thanks for nothing.
Not one of you sent help. Not even a card. The moment I got admitted, you all apparently decided your work here was done. Some "friends." You made a whole production out of saving me from myself, then immediately forgot I existed the second the doors closed behind me.
And the place you picked? Really?
If this is where you send someone you care about, I'd hate to see what you do to people you don't like.
Welcome to the Asylum in Missing Mile.
Let's just say it confirms every stereotype you've ever heard about rehab. Drugs are absolutely everywhere. The staff are corrupt beyond belief. Half of them seem more interested in running a side business than running a treatment facility, and if you're willing to provide... certain services... they'll happily make sure your supply never runs dry.
The food is terrible, the accommodations are depressing and the therapy sessions mostly consist of people loudly explaining why none of this is technically their fault.
I've learned a lot, though. For example, I learned that asking "Where exactly is the rehabilitation part?" is considered a disruptive attitude. I also learned that "strict supervision" is surprisingly flexible once the right people owe you a favor.
So, for everyone who was secretly hoping I'd emerge from this experience as a completely reformed Theresa, dressed in beige knitwear, drinking herbal tea, speaking in affirmations, and making sensible life choices... I'm sorry to disappoint.
I'm still me. Possibly with better connections.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have my last group therapy session to attend before I get discharged. I hear today's topic is accountability, which should be fascinating considering none of the staff seem to have any. Wish me luck. Actually... don't bother. You've all been remarkably consistent so far.
I'll see you all at the club the minute they discharge me. My doctors called it "relapsing." I prefer to think of it as returning to my support group.
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