Seven and in Rehab Evangelina Reyes

SEVEN AND IN REHAB

Nonfiction by Evangelina Reyes

Atypical seven-yearold girl would be playing with dolls, learning how to write in cursive at school; and stayed away from drugs. Did he stay away from trouble? Absolutely not. He had constant brush-ins with the law. When I was seven, he had solace in one little boy named Teddy. He and I became close friends and helped each other through a difficult time. I never realized how much we relied that was not the case for me. According to the Rehab Spot website, about 5 million Americans use cocaine regularly. Of those 5 million, only 10 percent receive any type of treatment. My mother fell into both of those statistics. She was a regular cocaine user but she also received help. Let us dive into the reason my life was turned upside down at a young age resulting in me never wanting to touch a single drug in my life. Growing up, I can distinctly remember my mother being a functioning addict. My siblings and I never went without. We always had food, clothes, and a roof over our head. We did not live a lavish lifestyle but to me, at that age, a comfortable one. My mom was caring and attentive, except on Fridays. She instilled in our head that Friday was her day. We were not to bother her unless we were bleeding, choking or dying. Saturday would come and we made sure to clean up the house before shewould wake up. I would find a glass plate and rolled-up dollar bills. I never had anything to compare my mother’s parenting to, so for me, all of this was okay.

My father, on the other hand, was in and out of prison. He and my mother were almost day and night. My dad never fell into that rabbit hole just finished serving a threeyear sentence for holding an entire family hostage. We were all excited to have him home. His excitement quickly diminished as he became aware of the severity of my mother’s addiction. He demanded she get help or he would leave and not come back. His exact words are still burned in my memory: “Either you get help, Cinnamon, or you will never see any of us again! What good are you to my kids if you can’t even take care of yourself?” She was backed into a corner, and thankfully chose to seek help. My mother had three kids from her previous marriage and I was the only child her and my father shared biologically. When she finally found a rehabilitation center that was to her liking, the three eldest children went to stay with their biological dad. My mother was so fearful of my father leaving her, she demanded that I go with her to rehab. Now the state of Washington is very different than Texas. They allowed her to withdraw me from school so I would be able to stay with her. The facility she chose just so happened to be one that allowed you to bring a child. Luckily for me, there were four children staying at the same time I did. I found on each other until I was much older. The first week or so I remember my mom always being gruesomely sick. I was so naive I just thought she had a regular cold or flu. The nurses would give her medicine and she would reassure me that she was going to be fine. The facility was not as scary as most people think. It was almost like a very structured camp. They had a play room for the kids for when the parents needed to attend a therapy or group session. Teddy and I would sneak into the cafeteria where the group sessions were held and listen. For what reason? I guess just pure curiosity because we didn’t fully understand any of it! I remember hearing things people lost due to their addiction. They talked about family members dying and losing their homes. The one conversation I remember the most was my own mother’s. Maybe it was because she was my mother that it resonated or maybe the value of what she was saying was burnt into my memory for me to access at a later age. She talked about how it was what her mother taught her. That was the only lifestyle she knew. It was her mother who gave her the first bump. She, herself, grew up thinking it was normal. She talked about how my