Inside was a bustling little organization of therapists, counselors, and various administrators who ruled the roost with kind hearts and iron fists.  Wallet and keys were locked away.  Cell phones were also locked away, given to us only for an hour at the end of the day, unless there were very extenuating circumstances.  A bad day does not qualify.  Neither does a wedding anniversary, PMS, or a moment of wrenching homesickness.  Medications were locked away, everything from our prescriptions (for obvious reasons) to Advil and Imodium and Polysporin.  To access any of these, we had to ask for them at the front desk.  If front desk staff were absent or occupied, we just had to wait.

Our days were full and structured.  Meditations, skill and theme groups, individual and group therapy, and exercise were all expected to be regularly attended.  Skipping out on any of these could result in the loss of cell phone privileges for the evening.  Random urine tests, pages-long questionnaires to ask for permission to leave the premises for a few hours on the weekend (always accompanied by a reliable friend or family member), and regulated hours for television were also a part of our routines.

Needless to say, I wasn’t amused by any of these restrictions on my freedom.  While I understood that many of these policies are in place to keep clients safe from themselves and each other, I resented the loss of control and contemplated leaving often.  I have never taken kindly to being told what to do, and at 37, fully used to being in charge of my own life, it was a tough thing to accept and obey the rules.

I stayed because I had to, because my husband wanted me to, and because somewhere underneath all my resistance, I knew I needed to.  I took notes in the skills groups and whenever videos were played, wrote pages and pages in my journal, and gave myself over to the regular group and individual therapy sessions.  I learned from the other clients in the house, laughed with them, cried with them, occasionally argued with them, but we all had stories to tell, and comfort to offer, and we took care of each other, in our own bumbling way.

Back home now, I don’t regret a minute of my Thirty days.  They were thirty of the most challenging days of my life, but they would have been worse if I had spent them drinking, getting pulled out farther and farther into the ocean of alcohol that I was going to drown in eventually.  I gave up thirty days of freedom to gain a lifetime of it back.  And I left my life for thirty days so I could learn how to really live.

Here’s to the future…one day at a time.