Episode 112: How to Go to Rehab

OK, so rehab is funny. I don't mean "oh, that's weird" funny. I mean "uh-oh I am going to puke in a minute because I am laughing so hard" funny. In a lot of cases, that latter type is wildly inappropriate because it always happens like right in the middle of someone spilling their guts in a very intimate way and they say something like "oh, I was very upset because when I was one my kitty-cat died because she had been sleeping in the washing machine and one day my mother turned it on and drowned her and to this day, clean clothes upset me." I made that one up because I believe in other peoples' anonymity, but I am not disguising many of those facts too closely. Rehab is exactly like sitting on the porch of a country store where that porch is filled with old, crazy people telling stories that don't make any sense, only instead of a country store and old crazy people, it's a flourescently-lit room and a bunch of twenty-two year olds. And you.

One of the things that stressed me myself and I out the most was the part where I had to sit in front of everyone in my group ("group" is the word that they use in rehab for a group) and share (rehab for "talk") all of the consequences and repercussions of my substance abuse. I was nervous because I was in a large-ish group of what I can only call over-achievers when it came to the consequences department. I listened to everyone's awesome, dramatic stories about DUIs and car wrecks and houses burning down and whatnot - all of which I wrote down for my upcoming class in screenwriting - and kept thinking, gosh! They are so lucky to have all these stories to share! It makes sharing so easy! And then it was my turn and all I could think of was stuff like "oh, I was once so drunk I made a friend cry when I served Earl Grey as a morning tea at a bridal shower." Or "I was epically fucked-up when I didn't tip the mailman last year, so now he throws my mail on the ground." It was quite a quandary to be in to have all those eyes on me, waiting for the good stuff, and coming up blank. After some really hard thinking (read: when the detox meds wore off), I did manage to remember a whole bunch of terrible stuff, but there was a moment there when I thought I might get kicked out of this very exclusive club for not being thug enough. But I rebounded with my terrifying rock-bottom tale of drinking a glass of Corbett Canyon wine. That was well and truly too much for anyone to believe, and all of my group members shook their heads in disgust and admitted me to their ranks and, newly-forever-bonded, our eyes turned to the new fella, who was going on about something over there in the corner, something about being so drunk that he accidentally took all of his vintage Charlie's Angels dolls out of their original packaging and you could see it on our faces: some people are just beyond help.