“Seriously?!”….blurted the wide eyed newbie listening to the older man talk about the old days.

“You had Peanut Butter and Jelly Uncrustables?!”, was the hyper-excited question from this young man in his very early 20’s sitting next to me. He was one of the heroin kids…for sure…or maybe Oxys. Didn’t ask…Doesn’t matter….Not the point. Me, the rehab graduate, back for Alumni Day regaling a gaggle of newcomers about what snacks we had…back in my day…way back when…in the olden days…all of two years ago. It was my newly annual winter pilgrimage, last week, to Alumni Day at Seabrook House – a drug and alcohol residential treatment program tucked into the peach and cranberry orchards of very South New Jersey….almost as south as Baltimore is…on a map.

What great memories just the word “Uncrustables” would bring to my head. A slight dopamine flicker and a smile that breaks out on my face, remembering how we bartered, smuggled, stole and stashed PB and J’s in our early days of sobriety. It was a contest each night to see how many you could carry on your body without being caught. I always kept one in my sock drawer….literally hidden contraband inside a sock. They’ve now down sized the detox snacks to fruit…and loaves of bread with make your own sandwiches. Even funnier was that I was in my late 40’s and cared as much about peanut butter and jelly than the barely twenty-somethings.

The light hearted almost giddy chatter about the food, counselors, and the prison-like rules, that hummed at our lunch table….betrayed the awful truth of a terrifying elephant in the room…the serious epic human disaster blanketing communities and drug rehabs in South Jersey and all across the country. The epidemic of heroin.

Its astounding. When I returned after one year I discovered that at least 4…maybe 5 of our group of 98 had D I E D…..less than a year later. All beautiful, loving young people. Terrible loss of life. Erased from the Earth. Across the country heroin is leaving anguish and broken hearts strewn from city to farmland, no matter race, creed or income bracket. An equal opportunity killer.

The majority at Seabrook are there for heroin or his little brother Oxy. The pills become so expensive that heroin takes over and launches these kids into a helpless horror that seems impossible to climb out of. One girl described quitting to be like losing her boyfriend as her body wracked in sobs. The deaths continue and it doesn’t seem to end. But of course people make it. If they do exactly what treatment and counseling requires of them, they will likely make it.

Hence the reason for Alumni Day. So the patients can hear that addiction can be treated and you can live a life of long term recovery. White noise for these pale, sleepy broken-hearted faces. But they heard what we were there to say. Whats more is that these kids need to get sober- even before most of them have figured out what they want to be when they grow up, since their growing up took a detour to hell.

Another component is the desire to change your behavior and face down your addiction. The story of Peter, who was in my 2014 group, reminds me of the raw basic desire to get better. Homeless on the streets at 24 and shunned by loved ones sick and tired of his rehab-relapse tennis volley life, he would call the Admissions people looking for a scholarship or some aid to get in. He didn’t have a phone. He’d borrow or let people dial it for him. For months. And one day a spot opened up.

But Peter’s willingness to get better went further. Midway through our 28 days, they split the men into two separate groups. Under and over 26 years of age. The relapse rate of the under 26’s was astronomical. Unimaginably, graduates in that age bracket staying sober after they left was UNDER TEN PERCENT!

But Peter wanted to stay immersed with the over 26’s …as to perhaps increase his chance of success and to be surrounded by maturer people. We took him in of course. But it was a dramatic split of our gentlemen’s club. (Eventually he re-joined the young uns)

When Peter took me aside one morning and ordered me to stop worrying about him and to take care of myself…I knew he was strong for this. Despite his dire straits, he was already helping others, another component of recovery.

Alex, my 20 year old roommate for my entire 28 days, (see chapter “MY ROOMIE” last July on this blog), relapsed in a halfway house a few months back..CHOSE to finish out his jail time for old warrants and drug possession stuff…in a prison instead —to keep him away from the streets. Thats how much he wants to stay clean. And I know he knows what to do.

The men’s group “divorce” almost killed me. I become very attached to people…always have. I loved these kids as if they were my own….with that unique raw bond in early recovery. Us older boys weren’t allowed to mingle with them….eat with them…or anything. My Peanut Butter and Jelly Posse was taken from me. Big rehabs like Hazelden have similar tightly focused groups with more success. Drunks over 45 with drunks over 45. Cokeheads under 30 with cokeheads under 30…..and so on. Its all about focused treatment..in the midst of an acute human disaster. But I found ways to talk to the kids (boys and girls who were separated from us, mostly.) and still keep in touch with several to this day.

Its not just the kids I pray for. There’s a particular slightly older upperclassmen generation in these rehabs made of union tradesmen: machinists, steelworkers, electricians, etc. Many are repeat rehabbers. Last week, walking across campus, a man behind me in his 30’s said out loud: “I was here in 2013. I was here in 2014. Then in 2015. And now I’m back. (Don’t laugh…early in my journey I met a boy addicted to pain pills who had been in 20 rehabs. He was 19! More than the number of years he was alive.) This union guy has been there four times in four years. No judgement but somethings not right. Generally out there in rehab-land: The big union coffers and their big union contracts with treatment rehabs keep the beds full in a high profit business. While the homeless Peters —with zeroed out zilch- beg for a scholarship. Just sayin’. (Its a $28,000 a month price tag which my insurance refused to pay until a fourth and final appeal …and death threats to the insurer from my sisters…greenlit me.)

I love some of these guys…truly. But, I fear they will not get sober with this rinse, rehab, repeat cycle that the system nurtures. That’s relapse…not recovery. I say this with all due respect and affection since I want them to make it, too.

My yearly winter journey will always remind me to spread the word about recovery and that facing addiction must dissolve it’s accompanying shame. It is a one day at a time thing that adds up to an incredible fellowship, a healthier lifestyle with a loving group of survivors. I flew across the country in a 18 hour trip… to share my advice and warm wishes for recovery in the barren January Jersey Netherland where I once shared 28 days (and PB and J!) with the heroin kids… who saved my life.