That Place

Valley Hope... I suppose it's like all the other rehab centers.  For some, it's the last refuge before the peaceful sleep inside a body bag.  For others, it really is their only hope.


I'm not the addict.  He is.  I'm here for support.  Funny that I considered saying those words to everyone there.

Fuck ups, low lifes, losers.  But not him.  He just has a small problem.  Funny that I actually believed that.

It's not a disease.  It's a matter of faith.  He will overcome.  He's tough.  Funny that I minimized something I knew nothing about. 

Mr. Know it all.  Mr. Big Shot.

I remember that place all too well.  Cigarette smoke, tobacco spit, FUCK THIS DAMNED PLACE, oh and the shakes; everyone had the shakes.  But not me.  I was there for support.  What a good fucking friend I was.

Mr. Good Samaritan.


One would think that four to eight visits a year over a decade would make one realize the body bag is unzipped.

I think about that word HOPE; the word written on every piece of stationary in that damn place; the word hanging above the threshold of that building.  And I wonder if anyone there actually feels hope.  Maybe the first time they arrive.  But since everyone there has been there before or will be there again, it's feels as hopeful as a Motel Six. 

Oh, but they need to believe in hope.

And I say, "hallejuah, we all do.".

Mr. Holy Roller.

There's a basketball court and a ping pong table.  And a picture of Jesus Christ.  I could draw a picture of that place; inside and out.  But I can't describe the joyless ambiance that is thicker than the smoke filled air.

I don't laugh at the rehab is for quitters quips ladened on a bumper sticker.  Because I'm not sure anyone in rehab actually quit, they just try.  Because they want hope. 

Everyone has a sad tale.  No one is immune to the darkness.  We all know someone with a sad tale.  There are no victims.  Or martyrs.  Or Good Samaritans.  Or Holy Rolllers.  Or Know it Alls.  Or Big Shots.

It's me.  You.  Them.  And our lives.  No happy endings.  No tragic goodbyes.  It's just me.  You.  Them.  And us.  And our lives.

It's what I learned from that place.  That place of hope.


I swore I would never go back.  I made the promise on a Thursday.  After he was buried.  Because I thought the place was a fraud.  A business seeking repeat customers. 

I was as bitter as that taste in my mouth after suffocating on that smoke filled air from that place.  For years, I was angry.  Call it misdirected anger.  Or misguided hope.

I always wondered why such an expensive place to be cured of a disease resides in a low income neighborhood.  Surrounded by addicts selling the very things that are killing those inside that place of hope.  Those damned medicine men in that neighborhood and inside that place. 

I'm too old to be so precocious.
And cynical.
I'm too alive to be so damning.

As dark and as hopeless as it seemed there, love was abound.  Everywhere.  Families supporting their prodigal sons and daughters.  Husbands and wives through sickness and in health, right there attempting to salvage their marriages and their lives.  And friends, guilt ridden friends wearing courageous and phony smiles, saying, "I believe in you".

But it was all love. 

Oh and the faith of everyone.  I will get better.  As the Lord is my witness, I will overcome.  I will not be a statistic.  They all had faith.   The patients and the visitors.

The place is called Valley Hope Rehab.

It chokes of cigarette smoke.  And within that hazy dark filled building where the addict comes willingly or by edict lies something not found in normal places...

faith, hope and love.