I’ve had an Amy Winehouse song stuck in my head the past few days. You remember
Amy Winehouse don’t you? Meteoric rise in the music industry because of a stunning contralto vocal repertoire, beautiful face and beehive hairdo? Oh, and a naughty personal life that put her in the headlines even after her multiple grammy award nominations? She slid into the black. Died of alcohol poisoning in July of last year, but she was a crack head in her heart of hearts. I cried when she died. She was only 28.
So, the song I’ve been singing is Winehouse’s Rehab. The lyrics are clearly autobiographical and talk about Winehouse’s refusal to enter a rehab clinic. Which is where the irony comes in. Because I’ve been researching rehab clinics. I pine for a rehab clinic to help me get off the drugs that were so willingly prescribed to me when I was wrecked from insomnia. Pills that have small warnings on them in the U.S. Not recommended for use for more than 7 – 10 days. But ho! They are such good candy, no? and the’re legal! and they work and many, many, many docs hand out script after script after script, without warning. Without even knowing themselves the havoc that these drugs wreck in the body. It should be known that there’s a hot debate in the medical establishment about whether any doc beyond a psychiatrist should be allowed to prescribe these drugs for anything but the most severe cases.
So, knowing that it was likely a futile task, I set about researching detox facilities for benzodiazepine addiction. This country has a rehab center for illegal drugs and alcohol abuse on nearly every corner. But for the legal drugs? The ones designed by Big Pharma? Uh, no. Too complicated. Too uncertain. Too deadly.
Now, there are a handful of centers that claim to detox benzo users in California. Mostly in Malibu and in places surrounding the Hollywood hills. These places are boutique resort detox centers. Big fountains as you drive up the circular driveway. A well-groomed, attractive personal assistant at your side every step of the way. Gogi berry cocktail, Ms. X? And remember, you have your acupuncture treatment at 4, facial at 5:30 and raw foods dinner in your room at 7. After that will be our group meeting where we’ll be discussing how to nourish your inner child during this difficult process. Ah, sounds lovely. Just the vacation I need. And apparently, they have world renowned doctors and nurses on staff to facilitate the detox.
Check this one out: www.laweekly.com/2008-06-26/news/buying-the-cure/
But they don’t quite say how they achieve the detox, beyond the yoga and the Gogi berry cocktails. They also don’t list the price. I happen to have read a review of one of these “detox” centers in the LA Weekly, so I know that a month stay runs around 70k. That’s right. Seventy thousand dollars for a month. More than my yearly mortgage several times over.
And to be completely fair, they’re not all boutique resorts. Some of them truly want to help. But the only treatment I’ve read about is simply a transference of addiction. You go from Benzos to Suboxone – an opoid.
So, invoking Amy Winehouse’s Rehab (I’d recommend that you YouTube it NOW – then come back): Mama wants to go to rehab, she wants to go, go, go. But there ain’t no good rehab, there ain’t, I say no, no, no. Big Pharma has got me by the Gaba receptors and they’re not going to let go. And they’re not going to research ways to help me let go. I’m in Dante’s dark woods, wandering, an unintended addict and furious at the gross negligence of the US medical system.
So, my glimmer of hope is a doctor that specializes in this kind of thing. It’s his passion. Lucky me. I’m seeing him today. Dr. Matt. I will prostrate myself at his feet. I don’t want this shit in my body any more. I don’t like having my brain hijacked. I’m sick of being in the underworld, scratching furiously, furiously, to get out.
Mama wanna go to rehab, she wanna go, go, go.
Baby ain’t got no rehab, they say no, no, no.