Remember that person who made the really brave step and entered rehab?  Whose friends and family have been struggling to be strong and hopeful for the past week while maintaining a certain amount of privacy for the person?

That person's insurance company has decided they only need out-patient treatment and have effectively ended their in-patient treatment program, sending them home yesterday after a whopping 7 days of a 28 day program completed.

I am so angry about this that I could explode.  Having spent nearly 10 years working in the benefits area of Human Resources, I have spent a lot of time arguing with talking to insurance companies, a lot of time seeing how their methodologies work behind the scenes, how their profit-driven business model makes decisions.

And, frankly, it disgusts me most of the time.  A drug and alcohol counselor confirmed for me that what usually happens is the insurance company waits for the person to relapse and will then cover in-patient treatment for a longer period of time.

In the meantime, however, there is no regard for the friends and family who are being torn apart by what's going on, by the worry that their loved one isn't ready to be home yet, and that a relapse is possible, or maybe even inevitable, nevermind the threat the addict poses to him or herself and their community should a relapse occur.  The policy is so irresponsible and selfish that it is literally making me sick to my stomach as I type this.

Why is it even feasible to start someone on a month-long program, with all the steps and stages built into that idea, and then remove them from it at day seven?  It's like handing someone a bowl of raw eggs and saying, "Here, I made you a cake."  Except raw eggs are only a component of a cake and when eaten on their own, dangerous.

None of us fully know where this person's head is at, which is the most frustrating and worrisome part.  They aren't happy to be home, which is a sign unto itself.  They wanted to complete treatment and their family was looking forward to being a part of the process.

But now, they all have to face this before they're ready.  They thought they had weeks to work through more of the ideas and issues.  Yes, there will be out-patient treatment, but it won't be the same.

I'm glad the person did at least get those seven days of treatment, though.  A medically supervised detox was possible and the groundwork was laid for truly successful treatment and rehabilitation.  Let's just hope that groundwork is enough to sustain the work ahead.

Thank you to everyone who commented or messaged me yesterday about my post.  The support and good thoughts really mean a lot.  There are only a few people in my life who I can speak to about this with all the details, so it's helpful to have an outlet where I can speak about it at least just a little more, even if it's without many of the main points.

But that's one of my biggest frustrations with this - the shame behind the process.  If this person had cancer, there'd be prayer request emails being sent, Facebook messages being posted, and open blog posts discussing diagnosis and treatment.  But because this is addiction, because this still holds the old remnants of the idea that "it's that person's personal weakness that did this," we're mute.  Not even mute, but muted.  Stifled.  Shushed.  And not necessarily because the family and closest friends to this person feel this way, but because others just outside the circle would use this information, this situation, to their own mean-spirited advantageous.

Which is beyond frustrating.  It's infuriating.  There is one person in particular to whom this information must never be given, and it's causing a whole trickle-out effect of people who can't know.  It feels so remarkably unfair.  I know there are meetings like Al-Anon, but I don't want to go to a meeting.  I just want to talk with the people I know.  I want to express the mix of relief and grief and anger I feel with people I know.

When someone has a disease, like cancer or ALS, people rally around them.  The troops are called in, so to speak; the wagons circle.  The person is told how strong they are, how brave they are, how they can fight this - and how they're not fighting it alone.

But addiction?  Shhhhhh.  I understand that part of the treatment involves the patient having no contact with loved ones for stretches of time (and it makes sense).  But where are the troops?  Where are the messages of support?  Yes, they're coming in droves from those of us allowed into the inner circle - but beyond that?  Shhhhh, what problem?

This wasn't this person's fault.  This wasn't their family's fault.  It doesn't make them less of a person, nor should it have any bearing on their future responsibilities as long as they have a positive recovery and stick to whatever plan they have in place to manage these issues for the rest of their life.

We should be able to be open about these things and I hate that we're not.  And I'm tired of using the plural "they" pronoun so as to avoid any "he/she" gender markers.  (I know, minor concern - but, hey, I'm a writing teacher and using "they" instead of a singular pronoun is one of my biggest pet peeves - and now I'm forced to do it continually.  And, sometimes, focusing on a small annoyance is a relief after dwelling on the big one.)

So I'm left with grammar concerns because I can't talk about my theories as to why this addiction happened or the ways it has specifically affected me because I am so close to this person.  And that's just purely frustrating.