I received it on my thirty-first and final day of inpatient addiction treatment - my thirty-second day of sobriety - in early June 2006. I earned it, by taking the first real look at myself in years. I earned it, by becoming willing to evaluate another perspective on who I was, on the last eight years of my personal history - a perspective diametrically opposed to the one into which I'd invested each of those years. I earned it by taking the greatest risk, on nothing more than the advice - and the smiling warmth - of total strangers.
I earned it by staying in rehab, by doing what they told me, and by engaging with the people around me. I woke my ass up, in every way. I took a look at my life and the fears that had kept me fleeing down the path of ignominious death, and I made a conscious decision - perhaps my first in years - to change.
For that, they gave me this copper keychain. (I wasn't the first to convert it to a pendant on a necklace, but I'm one of the only possessors of this coin who still wears it so.)
There was a ceremony, of sorts: at the end of our last group counseling session, everyone I'd been in treatment with, one of the counselors, and my family gathered in a large circle. Each in turn took a firm grip on the coin; rubbing warmth into it, they gave a brief testimonial to me. Of all that was said that day, I remember this single sentence, spoken by my sister: "Our whole lives, you've always had to be the strong one, and you've always been strong; now it's time to let us be strong for you."
The coin is a touchstone; when I hold it, I remember the positive emotional and spiritual energy in the room that day and I tap into it. It's a bottomless reserve I can access in need, when I'm feeling low or tempted to renege on the promises I made to myself that day. My slightly superstitious side might even go so far as to claim that the energy is in the coin itself, transferred directly from the hearts and minds of those who held the coin through their hands and into the metal. Either way, it amounts to the same thing.
The name of my treatment facility, where I later worked, is written above the representation of an oak tree ("Encinas" is "oaks" in Spanish) that actually stands on the grounds, and has since the facility was an asylum 106-107 years ago. The Latin across the bottom translates (very roughly) as "Not just to live, but to live well." The first stanza of the Serenity Prayer, that famous spiritual anchor for recovering addicts everywhere, is on the back.
I had to think about this assignment for a second. I don't cherish items very often for their inherent value - mostly, it's either for the entertainment they provide (360, TV), basic utility (laptop, car), or the memories they evoke (photos and souvenirs). My coin from rehab stands apart from the last category; it has real intrinsic worth to me. It's irreplaceable - the hospital unit that treated me, that had these coins pressed, no longer exists as it did. Even though I don't wear it every day as I did in the early months of sobriety, I still wear it often, and proudly. Even though I haven't yet relapsed, I know there's the possibility that I will - and that now-small possibility would increase dramatically if I couldn't remember vividly what my treatment process felt like.
This coin is a touchstone to more than the day of my discharge. It connects me to every grueling, suffering day of treatment beforehand: the physical symptoms too gross to describe, the wracking sobs of long-suppressed tears, the desperate catch-22 of finally believing drugs were my problem and not being able to imagine a life without them.
It connects me to the long road I took to make it into treatment, as well; more on that road, I'm certain, another time.
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