The Withdrawal Roller-coaster

Detox is a straightforward process. Upon arrival, you give up your phone, sign in, and have your bags checked. You are welcomed by a diverse group of cheerful strangers. You’re given a bed and begin the withdrawal from your posion of choice.

The detox phase lasts a week. During this time, they provide medication if needed, conduct tests to establish a baseline, and closely monitor your progress. This ensures you are ready to transition smoothly into full-time rehabilitation.

I can still clearly remember my first evening at detox, stepping into the rehabilitation facility, surrounded by pristine white walls and steel beds separated by curtains beneath tall ceilings, I felt a strong sense of clinical enclosure. Other addicts roamed around—heroin addicts, alcoholics, and fellow meth users. The bathroom air carried a peculiar blend of disinfectant and human waste, a distinct smell amplified by an unexpected current from inside the toilets.

The first morning, a torch’s glare jolted me awake at 6 a.m. An elderly night nurse peered at me, ensuring I had neither my phone nor concealed drugs. I was not happy. I then shuffled into the common area, furnished with two couches, a large wooden coffee table, a TV, a side table with donated food, a fridge, and a large sliding door leading to the support workers’ office, the main corridor, and the elevator that would take you to the terrace, where you were allowed to smoke.

I requested my phone to check emails and contact my family. To my surprise, an unexpected notification lit up the screen. It was an email with an offer to edit a feature documentary about ‘Norita,’ a mother seeking justice during the dictatorship in Argentina. The project was to be edited in Sydney and produced in Hollywood by none other than Jane Fonda and Gustavo Santaolalla—two Academy Award winners. Essentially, a documentary editor’s dream.

The irony hit me like a punch to the gut—why now? But I knew already that without a life, no job would ever matter. So, I left the email unanswered. After all, I was detoxing—what could I possibly reply?

The loudspeaker crackled, “Lunch is ready, please make your way to the dining area.” I walked into the lunchroom, where my fellow patients were watching “Fight For Planet A” on ABC, a series I had worked on with my partner a couple of years ago. I couldn’t believe it—a reminder of good times within my lowest point. Craig Reucassel’s familiar voice blended with the agonized cries of heroin addicts tied to their beds, writhing in withdrawal. The harsh contrast of my past and present kept on hitting hard. Again, and again, and again. Ffs.

Later that day, I sat on one of the couches, feeling the rough fabric under my fingers. A fellow patient, Dave, plopped down beside me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, his voice rough from years of smoking.

“I just got an email about a dream job,” I replied, shaking my head. “But it feels like a cruel joke.”

Dave nodded, understanding. “Life has a twisted sense of humor, doesn’t it? One minute you’re on top, the next you’re here, fighting to survive.”

We sat in silence, the hum of the TV providing a constant background noise, occasionally interrupted by the distant cries of patients in withdrawal. All I could think of was my ex-partner and the life I once had.

Did these people know I had it all together not so long ago? Was I one of them now? Were we all the same, united by our struggles and our pain? I had so many questions.

In my previous post: The Myth of the Functional Addict: Breaking Down the Misconceptions, I talk about how my addiction appeared as a hidden advantage, and how, for a brief period of time it made my life so much better.

How could something that felt so right go so wrong? I asked myself that question over and over. Now, with the clarity that comes from sobriety, I’m beginning to uncover the answers.