Choose Life. Notes from Rehab:

When Fiona Russell Powell decided to kick heroin, she found that getting help is not as easy as it sounds.

Dazed and Confused March 1997

Thinking of becoming a junkie? Well, make sure you're put aside plenty of money for the day you decide to unbecome one. Believe me. it's more likely than not that day will come, even if you've been stuck in nihilistic, masochistic, suicidal mode for as long as I was. Sooner or later, usually in their early 30s, junkies (hardcore and part time) come to the end of the road, when it becomes more trouble and money than it's worth. When it stops being fun, stop it. When you need drugs to function, you've got an expensive problem. I am an inveterate addict: anything does me, but heroin was my drug of choice. My habit was costing me dear: work, money, friends and lovers. Unfortunately, the problem was two-fold: often I took drugs to alleviate my depression. Then, after brief release, the comedown would leave me feeling even more depressed. I became caught in a vicious circle from which there seemed no escape; one fuelled the other. Then, during one of my in-between periods, the unthinkable happened - I fell in love. After about a year of the usual destructive behaviour, I realised the time had come to stop throwing everything good, including my life, away.
I understood I had to get serious and get into rehab. Easier said than done. Even obtaining a methadone script was like battling through an obstacle course. Because I was not injecting, or mugging grannies to support my habit, or in debt to a violent dealer, my case was not considered important enough to merit being seen by some agencies. Other agencies had waiting lists of at least a month for an appointment and then they were more concerned about my depression than my drug problem. I was advised to see a psychiatrist and continue taking heroin as it "seemed to stabilise" me. Eventually, in sheer desperation, my boyfriend took me to my GP who asked if I was prepared to be admitted to hospital. I agreed, on the condition that I was given methadone. Later that afternoon, I was put into a wing of the Whittington Hospital in North London. Hardly the right place, but I was ready to try anything. I was put on 25mls of methadone immediately and. for the week I was there, my boyfriend and I got a much-needed rest. The hospital contacted CHADS, an outside drug agency, who visited me and arranged for my methadone script to be continued upon leaving the Whittington, and they also started the ball rolling in the search for a rehab.
Finally. I seemed to be receiving the help I had been franticly requesting for months. However, in November, four weeks after leaving hospital, Hampstead Road DDU (the agency which had previously suggested I carry on smoking gear while seeing a shrink) decided that they wanted to take me on after all, and, as they had dealt with me before CHADS, my case was duly referred back to them. All was well for a couple more months, until it dawned on me that they were not pursuing rehab for me. But I knew that unless I removed myself physically from London and my situation and spent some time looking seriously at my addiction, then my future and the prognosis for my relationship were very bleak indeed. That was when I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to The Angel Project in Islington to look at the SCODA (Standing Conference On Drug Abuse) Book which lists all drug and alcohol rehabilitation projects in the UK, both private and NHS. There, I signed on with a counsellor who became my key-worker, and together we worked towards my goal. After my first choice was vetoed, I went to look at Ascension House, the second rehab on my list. Near Hemel Hempstead in Hertfordshire, it is a very small project of seven beds for drug addicts and alcoholics (five men and two women). Ascension House appealed to me because a) I was desperate, b) it was 30 minutes by car from London, and c) it advertised itself as being a 'safe and supportive environment' using a number of different approaches. The fact that it was not run, like most rehabs, on AA/NA "Surrender to a Higher Power" principles, was particularly attractive to me. And, as the ratio of females to males seeking treatment in Britain is one to five, I didn't have to wait long -I moved in three weeks, and a rapid home detox, later.
Arrived at the dog-end of a late April Monday afternoon, greeted at the front door by a member of staff who looks like a middle-aged Big Bird with Big Hair. My boyfriend and I were only allowed a quick farewell - standard procedure - and I broke down as soon as he had gone: the thought of being separated for six months is unbearable. Big Bird came to my room to talk to me and calm me down. Within minutes, she was AA-ing me with the zeal of one of the 12 disciples. Apparently, she was an alcoholic for 16 years but has been .sober for 10, and it's all because she "accepted her helplessness in the face of her addiction and surrendered to a Higher Power". During Our conversation, in which I mentioned some personal details, I told her I was glad that the 12 Step method worked for some people but it wasn't for me. I couldn't buy the God angle and preferred the necessary strength within myself. "Well the-, you're in denial and you won't get well," Big Bird grimly informed me and flounced out. Went into the kitchen to mingle with and meet the others. Straight away one of the men (a Tom Bell lookalike with a bad squint) asked me if it's true that I'm adopted, and another guy nick-named Lurch (tall and built like a brick shithouse) asked if I was a journalist. How did they know? Oh, Big Bird told us, they said (adding that their nickname for her is Hitler). Not pleased about this immediate breach of confidentiality because I wanted to choose in my own time if and when to reveal certain information about myself.
When the next staff member came on duty. I began to wonder if Ascension House is run entirely by freaks. This one was a greasy-faced, ginger-haired Billy Bunter-type who was responsible for signing me in. It took most of the evening, due to his lack of writing skills and he even seemed to have a speech impediment, falling over his words and pausing interminably while he grope" for the right one. He did not inspire confidence, though I admonished myself for being an impatient, intellectual snob. Then he to : me he would probably be appointed as my key-worker, even though I and my Angel Project worker had requested a female key-worker and there was one available. Not happy about this either, but cepared to give it a go. Had noticed myself getting cold on the way to Ascension House, but put it down to nerves. During the evening, felt colder and put on several jumpers, but got worse. At bed: me (11.30pm) I kept on all my clothes and had two extra blankets and a hot water bottle. Made no difference, still felt frozen to the bone. The next eight days followed in a blur of cold, nausea, diarrhoea and sleeplessness. It was sheer hell, and I nearly gave up and went home. I thought I had flu and ME, but the staff and clients said I was withdrawing off the methadone. It was a shock as I'd only been on a small amount for a few months and I'd already done my detox. My habit was strictly Mickey Mouse compared to some of the other clients who had fixed up to two grammes a day and come off as much as 100mls of methadone daily. Anyway, have learnt my lesson. Will never touch the sugary green poison again; it is vile, insidious stuff which saturates the system and makes you pay threefold later for avoiding cold turkey.
Began to get over the worst and started to take more notice of my surroundings. The rehab is minute; we practically have to be squeezed in with a shoehorn, Everyone smokes incessantly: something to do with oral gratification I suspect, confirmed by the fact that most clients arrive looking like skeletal wrecks and leave sporting major love handles. There is a kitchen, eating area, lounge/TV room which is also used for the counselling key sessions, and the office where the staff sleep at night). The men are upstairs (which is supposed to be verboten to females) and there is a women-only section downstairs though, confusingly, I have a man opposite me and the other woman is upstairs. Outside is a tiny patch of lawn and a washing line with a net attached is strung across the staff car park to provide us with a badminton court for 'recreation', as advertised in the brochure. Spookily, the house backs onto a graveyard and fields while opposite are three superstores including a huge Sainsbury's - very New Town Rural - and down the road there's a one-horse town where the locals use the live maggot vending machine to supply them for fishing trips on the Grand Union Canal which runs through nearby.

I've begun to get to know my fellow inmates: apart from Tom Bell and Lurch who are junkies, the other clients are alcoholics: Bruiser (a former armed robber, bouncer and bar owner who is a 'cross addict'; he swapped heroin for booze); Mrs Steptoe (a 52 year old woman who looks 65. Her body is ruined by drink and she has 'rat pack syndrome' - compulsive hoarding); Jog ( a quiet, lonely little man who exercises all the time ) and Parkbench (another small man in his 40s who lived on the street). Every morning we are woken at 7.30am by the House Leader (we take turns each week) and have to give urine samples, with the staff actually present in the toilet. Then we have breakfast and two hours to do our daily cleaning job before group at 10am, unless you're on cooking duty that day. All this is a radical change for me - the self-discipline needed for such a routine, learning to piss in front of people, cleaning someone else's shit off the toilet bowl. I'm dreading my turn to cook, as I have only cooked two meals in my life, and those weren't for nine people including staff.
Have discovered why the residents call Big Bird 'Hitler'. It's because she patrols the house hoping to find fault with our daily jobs (even looking under the carpet for crumbs), and loves giving orders, dishing out punishments ('restrictions', when you're confined to quarters all day) and becomes furious if ever challenged on anything. Found out to my cost just what a control freak she can be on Sunday, my 13th day here. Having already annoyed her by my steadfast refusal to convert to the holy AA way, we now had a heated discussion over whether I should search for my real father while in rehab. She insisted on imposing her uninformed opinion on me when she doesn't know any-tning about my situation, I find her very strident and ignorant, alternately treating us like scum or naughty children. It grates to have someone like that lording it over us, as she does. Anyway, rang my boyfriend from the residents' phone (it's in the hallway and everyone listens, so there's no privacy and it's set at a premium rate, so it eats up money) and had a moan to him. Hitler kept walking past, shooting me looks that could kill and was obviously eavesdropping, so I told my partner I thought she was a complete moron, knowing she'd probably hear, When I got off the phone, Hitler ordered me to wash the kitchen floor even though it had been done only four hours earlier. I questioned her motives, but cleaned it anyway. She then demanded that I put the rings back on the cooker which is not in the cleaning duty remit and I hadn't moved them in the first place. I pointed this out and refused to do it, whereupon she slapped a restriction on me which makes no difference as, being a new resident, I'm on full restriction and can't leave the house for a fortnight. Why can't she be honest and admit she punished me for daring to answer back and question her authority?
Have been allowed out this week accompanied by senior residents Lurch and Bruiser. Sainsbury's cafe over the road is the only place I'm permitted to go, but it's the highlight of my day when the boys take me there and teach me card games while spinning jailhouse yarns. Sat in the sun and felt joy at being alive for the first time in years. Little things bring so much satisfaction: cooking my first meal without it being a disaster, winning at gin rummy, smelling the flowers or fresh rain, being woken by a beautiful sunrise. Before I lived the lifestyle of the vampire and had the pallor of a corpse, now there aren't enough hours in the day for me and I'm developing a bit of colour: the last time I had a tan I was 14.
Enjoy the groups where we read and discuss literature and discuss set topics every day: addiction, assertiveness, relationships, the relapse process. It's illuminating to hear the others' stories and I'm learning and thinking a lot. One thing I've even noticed is that junkies and alkies tend to be quite interesting people living life on the edge, doing stuff that 'normal' people would never do. Also, addicts are frequently sensitive, creative types - damaged goods, which I can identify with, though there doesn't seen to be many like that here. Most of the clients appear to come from emotionally deprived, underprivileged backgrounds or had a lot of sheer bad luck (i.e getting caught). I like all of the residents apart from Tom Bell who is a real pain. He keeps up a constant stream of sexist suggestions and smutty innuendoes to me all the time. It's very embarrassing and annoying because I can't say, "fuck off you cross-eyed cretin. I'd never look at you in a million years," as I'm stuck in this house with him. Have tried warning him that he goes too far, but he completely ignores me and carries on. I never thought of myself as a prude, or a feminist, but I find him really offensive: the way he refers to women is appalling. Billy Bunter was assigned to me last week as my key-worker (in spite of my reservations, which I expressed to the management), and I have complained to him about Tom's behaviour but so far, he has done nothing. In fact, I already irritated Billy by remarking about the state of the house, which is falling to pieces. The showerheads don't work, nor does the microwave: the oven door is about to fall off and crush someone's foot and we keep burning ourselves on it. There are no drinking glasses and never enough cleaning materials for our daily jobs even though we request them every Monday at the House Meeting. I would like a key to my bedroom and a no-smoking a-ea. or time, set aside each day. Have began to develop what sounds suspiciously like a smoker's wheeze. Billy has lived up to my low expectations even though I am making a big effort to make our therapeutic relationship work, after all, intensive one-to-one counselling was the main reason I came here, as I see my addiction as the symptom and not the cause. I want to tackle the root of my problems - cornily traceable back to childhood -but our key sessions are a fiasco: his rigid psycho-dynamic approach is simply not working, while the fact that I know quite a lot about psychotherapy seems to irk him hugely.
On Monday Gilbert arrived, replacing Parkbench, who was thrown out after five-and-half months for suspected drinking. Gilbert has been a heroin addict for 25 years and was "away on the island" for two years (the Isle of Wight, for cutting a man's throat). Sharp as a razor, with a high IQ and ready wit, he's the only person here who is my intellectual equal. We've quickly become friends and he keeps me entertained for hours with tales of life 'inside'. I'm also picking up the prison lingo which is quite extensive. Am presently compiling a glossary of terms! Gilbert says Ascension House is "just like an open nick, only with more rules."
Yes, there are many rules, some ridiculously petty, but I understand they provide a framework so I try to follow them even though I have an inbuilt instinct to kick against authority. However, the staff break rules too, which hardly sets a good example, especially when they are the rules of professional conduct. Take this Thursday, for instance, an awful day for me. During morning group, all the residents turned on me, particularly Lurch and Tom Bell. It turns out that Hitler went into the lounge on Sunday night and said to everyone, "Fiona thinks you're all complete morons". What an absolute bitch and totally out of order. The hostility emanating from some of them was tangible and I was incredibly upset, even thought of leaving, as I can't stay where I'm so resented. But the manageress heard about it, knew of the comment already, and called a house meeting to deal with the problem and it was resolved. Afterwards, Bruiser confirmed it was Hitler who was responsible, and I told the manageress I wanted to make a formal complaint. However, she and Billy talked me out of it, saying that "the staff are human too and are learning just like you". It was also pointed out that Hitler will be going soon, as she's joining the manageress, who is leaving next week to set up another rehab in Hertford. Fell into a deep depression as a result of this horrible episode, and found it very hard to raise a smile for Bruiser's leaving party on Friday. It was a strange, surreal affair where he was presented with a certificate, eulogies were heard and a large buffet was prepared. Bruiser hasn't gone yet because his flat isn't ready; one of the key-workers' jobs is to find permanent accommodation for the clients when they have finished the programme, and as most of them are homeless, it's a great incentive to stay the course for the whole six months.
Started well and ended horribly. My body and sleeping pattern are beginning to recover and get back into sync. Most afternoons, after group, I walk to the Sports Centre in Hemel with Jog to go swimming. Tom Bell has been a complete arsehole over the last few days: Jog is the only client here who gets on with Tom and he's given advice on how to deal With him, but Lurch and Bruiser say they're going to 'have a word ' with him. Bruiser is the 'Daddy' of Ascension House as well as in prison: when he speaks, the others sit up and take notice. So hopefully, my troubles with Tom should soon be over. If only the same were true with Billy my key-worker: he has joined Hitler by being on my case constantly. I have already received three restrictions, twice I didn't even realise I was doing anything wrong. He also keeps putting his hand on my knee, deliberately brushing his body against mine in confined spaces and patting whichever sofa he's sitting on in the lounge to get me to join him. It gives me the creeps and my skin crawls when he touches me. But, as he's my key-worker and the only person who is responsible for giving me punishments and rewards. I’m not sure what to do. Wednesday was a red letter day - I'm allowed to go to Sainsbury's on my own! Went over to the cafe with the boys to play cards but came back alone. It was a great feeling to be free (and trusted) as I walked across the car park. In the evening, I was allowed to go with Jog for my induction course at the gym. My muscles are aching a bit, but what can I expect when I've got ten years of inactivity to undo? Felt good about myself and much healthier. The weather's getting very hot, Bruiser (who is a great cook) organised a barbecue. A new boy, Darren, arrived straight from prison where he'd served two years for GBH: a baby-faced 22 year-old, whose downfall was booze mixed with Valium.
Friday began well. Received a parcel of books and tapes from Dazed & Confused. Unbelievably though, not only did I have to open it in front of Billy (which is standard procedure) but he flicked through all the books, opened up the cassettes, tried to read the letter they'd enclosed then looked under the stamps and pulled off the masking tape. None of the other staff are so stringent. I asked him what on earth he thought could be concealed and he said "LSD". The though of tripping in Ascension House is too horrible to contemplate - what a bummer that would be. After lunch, Lurch quickly took me to the post office to get my £27 fortnightly allowance. We warned Billy that I might be five minutes late for my key session: he said "OK" in front of Lurch, then had a go at me when I got back for my lack of commitment - yet I'm the only client here who's agreed to having two sessions per week. The others said "bollocks to that" when it was proposed. Went to Sainsbury's after our key session, but Billy came over and dragged me back, saying I was "shirking" my washing up duties -even though I wasn't cooking. We were having a big leaving party f( the manageress, Mrs Steptoe and Lurch at the local church hall ant. unbeknown to me. Tom Bell (who is doing a cookery course at college in Hemel Hempstead and was helping me to prepare the party food) had volunteered me to wash all the pots and pans, but neither of them apologised for their mistake. Felt thoroughly fed up by then, and when I reminded Billy that he had to phone Jane my Angel Projectworker to enquire about Islington providing the tenner a week sports allowance, he grumbled about that as well. He rang her from the office, where the manageress and someone from Druglink, the charity which owns Ascension House, were sat chatting. When Jane asked me how I was finding life at the rehab, at first I hesitated to tell her the truth when I had an audience, but decided to go ahead anyway as they'd heard it all before. I went through my list of grievances, an" Billy walked out without hearing me praise the programme itse Later on, after the party, when the manageress and Mrs Steptoe hau gone (Lurch is leaving tomorrow to move into his new flat), Billy took me to one side and said he wanted to have 'a word' with me. We went to my room where he said "you are obviously unhappy here. Perhaps it's time to think of moving on." That's what must happen at Ascension House if you dare to point out anything that's wrong or shouldn't be happening, they try to get rid of you. What really pisses them off though, is that, as my boyfriend is manager of a residential home and a lay inspector, I know exactly how this place should be run. I was angered and upset by his suggestion, and told him he'J have to throw me out as I have no intention of going, especially whc it was so difficult and took so long to get into rehab. Though I am prepared to put up with some things like the poor state of repair of the house and the domestic appliances, the staff should sort out other problems like Tom's continual harassment. Billy then tried to hug me but I fended him off. It's all very confusing and I don't understand what he's playing at - rejecting me one minute then trying to embrace me the next. He is either stupid, unprofessional, or sadistic: he's certainly a strange man.