Diary of Jeff McMaster,
June 13th, 1975
I've been told by a select few that rehab is a place where you go to die. There, the team of specialists look you over, probe, and inspect everything. They want to find a root cause, which uncle molested you, or what television program told you to threaten your favorite celebrity. Most of the time, what they want to kill, they can't find. Rehab is a mortuary for the sin that can't die.
I first came to Harper Caverns when I was addicted to heroine. I couldn't stand. My stomach felt queezy and hollow, but I stayed. In an out after 6 months I came back, this time for a personality disorder. I kept seeing my self outside of my body; hallucinating myself into the world. They put me on prescription anti-psychotics and, ever since, I've had a nervous tick in my left eye.
This October I found myself back at Harper Caverns again. The staff greeted me warmly. All the old faces and patients came back to me. Their grief and petty victories warmed my heart. Susan "got saved," Patrice was clean, and Harry got a new job as a claims adjuster. Lauren didn't make it. She committed suicide a year ago, a few weeks after I got out.
Why I found myself at the clinic after all these years I couldn't understand. I was clean, I thought. There was nothing wrong with me. Every test on the face of the earth had been performed. What I had, though, was a spiritual sickness. I couldn't figure it out, neither could they. For twelve months I stayed, receiving meds, going to therapy. Still no help. The pain was there.
I realized though, at the end of it all that the pain is there for a reason. It reminds us that we are human, finite. I would be in no worse shape had I jumped off a building than if I lived to a hundred and twenty. Maybe that's for the best. After considering the truth, the pain left me. No more anxiety, no more stress, just release. The care of something greater enveloped me and said "It's going to be okay." That was enough for me.
And I've been better ever since.