I don’t even know how to approach this part of my testimony because walking through those detox doors, I had absolutely no idea how much my life was about to change.
At the time, I thought I was just going to rehab.
That’s it. I didn’t know I was walking straight into the beginning of the rest of my life.

I went to treatment in New Orleans. Funny enough, I had gone there once before on an eighth grade field trip. I remember standing in the middle of that city as a kid, looking around at the buildings, the chaos, the music echoing through the streets, and thinking/feeling:

One day, I’m gonna live here.

It’s strange how life works sometimes. How the places that call to you the loudest end up becoming the places where you completely fall apart, or finally find yourself.

When I started looking for treatment centers, I had two choices. One was an all-women’s program. Long-term. Nine months to a year. Structured. Safe. The kind of place meant for women who were truly ready to heal.

The other?

Co-ed. Ninety-day residential treatment. And given everything you already know about me at that point in my life… I’m sure you can guess which one I chose.

Yep.The co-ed one.

Even in my addiction, even while my life was collapsing around me, I still wasn’t fully ready to let go of male validation. I wasn’t ready to sit alone with myself yet. I didn’t know how.

So that Monday, I made the call. And by Wednesday, they told me they had a bed waiting for me. Just like that.

I remember my brother driving me there with one of my friends. I remember staring out the window the whole ride, trying not to think too hard about what I was actually doing. Part of me felt terrified. Another part of me felt absolutely nothing at all.

We ended up running late, and I remember panicking that they weren’t going to let me in. But they did. Before I got out of the car, I took my last two Xanax bars and one Roxy. My goodbye kiss to the life that was killing me.

The detox unit was medical, and honestly, compared to some of the people there, my withdrawals didn’t seem that bad. Some days I wondered if I even had withdrawals at all, or if I was just so emotionally numb by then that I couldn’t tell the difference between sickness and survival anymore.

The place looked like a hospital. It smelled like one too. Bleach. Medicine. Stale air conditioning. That faint smell of sickness that clings to buildings where people come to fall apart. Some people looked miserable. Pale. Sweaty. Shaking.
Others looked angry at the world.
A few gave me that silent little nod addicts give each other, like: Yeah… I know why you’re here.

The staff were surprisingly kind, and for the first time in a long time, I had this tiny feeling deep in my chest that maybe… just maybe… this was something good.

Once they gave me my first round of withdrawal medicine and the drugs finally wore off, time started blurring together. Days and nights stopped meaning anything. People slept whenever they could. Sometimes all day. Sometimes not at all. The lights were always too bright. The hallways always too cold.

I’m pretty sure it was the next morning when it happened. I had just woken up.
And I can still see this moment so clearly it almost scares me.

The staircase sat directly across from the entrance doors. I remember staring toward them half asleep, my body heavy, my mind foggy from detox meds and exhaustion. And then he walked in. The second I saw him, something inside me stopped.

It’s hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it before, but I swear to God… it felt like the first time I had heard Gods voice in years. Not out loud. Not dramatic. Just deep in my spirit. Clear enough that I couldn’t ignore it. Three words.

“He is important.”

And at the time? I had absolutely no idea how right He was.