Hello, The Dinning Room Has Foor to Ceiling Windows

As I drive up the long tree lined private drive to work, I come up behind a silver grey van. It is one of the company's generic looking vehicles sans any recognizable logo visible to protect the inhabitants identity. We are all about anonymity here, that is what set us apart from other rehabilitation centers. You never hear of media leeks when the rich and famous stay here. People come here for results, not for publicity. The patents want attention yes, but not publicity. But some don't want to be here. Their addiction is so strong they would rather be doing disgusting and despicable things to continue the slow poisoning of their lives. They are fast suicide failures. The person in the van ahead of me, doesn't want to be here. I can tell by the flailing of limbs and rocking of the vehicle ahead of me, he doesn't want to be here. Today, I don't want to be here.

Sometimes, they just plain run. Addicts have flown in from other countries and bolted at the airport, never to be seen again, and the van comes back empty. Sometimes, I long for empty.

When the patients are first admitted, they are a mess. Some do not even remember the first week here. At that point they are non-identities. I never see them at this point of their recovery. Their food trays of bland easy digestible food is sent straight to their rooms. Their appetite is for drugs not food. Often their trays come back untouched. Except sometimes, their plastic silverware comes back with traces of blood. Sometimes, when I am sweating blood back in my hot kitchen, I dream of a nice quiet room.

They shuffle into the dinning room, after a week in detox, with sour looks on their faces. They are not feeling well yet, their self steam low, and they are angry.
"Good morning. Are you ready for some breakfast?"
"Fuck you."
"You're welcome"
"No. Man. I didn't say thank you. I said fuck you."
"Eggs Florentine?"
"Shit, you dumb bitch, just give me some food."
"Fuck you."

We are supposed to be courteous at all times to our guests. They are sick and trying to get better. But out in the real world I would not put up to being talked to in that manner. That man was there only because he shot his crack dealer and missed. It was probley the first time someone told him to fuck off as she smiled. I think I meant it more than he did.

By week two the patients are on the upswing. Mostly. They are more clear in their thinking. They are faking illness to be taken to the local emergency room for prescription drugs, and rowing boats across the lake to the local bar. Some bribe the teenage servers for a fix. A few try eating paint chips. They have access to metal silverware now, too dull to cut themselves with, but they try anyway. When they whine for painkillers for their fresh scratches, it gives me the urge to jam a fork into a light socket just to show them how. But I don't. I feed them ice cream and wait for their brain freeze to quieten them.

His life was in the shitter, stuck here in rehab. After his thorthed attempt at hanging himself when his shower head broke, as it was designed to do, he took off bare assed naked across the frozen snow covered lake, hoping to let nature take her course and do his dirty work. I do not know who had the privilege of chasing the wet fool off the ice . But we the staff laugh at his folly. We have too. The last successful suicide was one of our own. A grad student who was smart enough to use a deer rifle.

When they reach me at my kitchen, they are through the program and are clean. They are full of gratitude and hope fullness. For them, I am their new mother. I cook for them what comfort foods they crave and listen and listen without bias to their storeys. Sometimes they spend their free time in my kitchen with me. They talk and I chop. I do not give advise unless it concerns nutrition. Often they are scared of live outside rehab. I bring in the want ads and help them find safe places to live. I write down recipes and slip to them when they hug me good bye. A lot of the time, I wish I was the one leaving.