THis tiMe can be diFfeRent
by Dana M. Brown
Recently, I walked into a North Carolina
detox unit, the same one a New York City judge
mandated me to attend 17 years ago. The facility
didn’t look at all as I remembered it, but the
people—the addicts—were the same. All were
hoping for the strength and motivation to get
through the next seven days. Internally, they were
beaten, bruised, and ashamed, but they all had a
tinge of hope that this time would be different.
Five or six people were gathered inside by the
front door. “Is this the back of the line?” I asked.
“Oh. Sorry, we aren’t in line,” a tired looking
woman answered, stepping aside so I could pass.
Funny how moments lost to time can come
rushing back. I immediately remembered how I
used to stand by that same door so many years
ago. It was as if there was a magnet drawing me
toward it.
On the other side of that door was what I’d
considered freedom. Freedom to numb the
emotions that were attacking my heart and
mind. Freedom from the memories of what
had happened to me, what I had done, and the
hopelessness I felt concerning my life and
future. Freedom from uninvited and
unwanted thoughts raping my mind,
forcing themselves on me every
minute of every day. Freedom
from the physical pain that was so
unbearable I would steal, attack,
and manipulate everyone, even
sleep with men for money, just to
avoid feeling the agony…just for
a moment.
Surely all of it would
vanish if I could just
walk through that
door and back
out into the
world. Then
maybe I’d
find some
peace.
Empty peace.
Dead peace.
I didn’t care. I’d take any peace as long as it took
me away from my pain, even if only for a moment.
I was dead inside, and I didn’t want to feel it or
accept it.
I shook my head and reminded myself that
that was 17 years ago, and I no longer need to run
from my pain or seek empty peace.
At the reception desk, I asked for Michelle.
Soon, I heard my name.
Years ago, hearing my name would have
created a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach,
as it meant it was my turn to be “processed.”
This time, however, it was different. Hearing my
name stirred excitement, not dread. I was there
to give back. To love those who feel unlovable. To
show them proof that the voices that say they’re
incapable of change are lying to them. My mission
was to shine a light in the lives of people who are
living in a place that’s black as night, to use my
past to help them in their present.
If you would have quoted Romans 8:28 to me
17 years ago, I would have been so angry. It says,
“We know that God causes everything to work
together for the good of those who love God and
are called according to his purpose for them.”
I would have wondered how in the world God
could use any of the hell I was going through
for my good. And I would have wondered how
a loving God could’ve allowed it to happen to
me in the first place. It just wasn’t logical, and I
was too logical to be smart back then. What that
verse said was 100 percent opposite to what I was
experiencing.
But now, years later, I know firsthand just how
God did work all things together for my good. I am
still amazed. He didn’t waste anything in my life.
I stood before Michelle, the director of the
facility, and introduced myself. “My name is Dana
Brown, and I have been free from addiction for 14
years. I am now a speaker and an author. I’m here
today to leave some copies of my book, Desperate
for a Fix, and issues of Victorious Living magazine.
I want to encourage others to believe that there is
hope.”
I began to tell her how I had run away from
that very detox 17 years ago, and then how I had
begged them to allow me back in. But I didn’t get
very far before Michelle interrupted me.
“Yep. And there goes another one doing just
that.” She nodded toward a young girl who
was heading out the front door, the same one I
had run through so many years earlier. She was
leaving treatment early.
“Can I—I mean, I’ll be right back!” And I ran out
that door once again. This time, however, I wasn’t
running away; I was running after a young girl I
knew so well. She was me.
I got to her before she drove off. I spoke to her
and gave her a copy of my book. I signed it “You
are valuable. Romans 8:28.” I tried to convince her
to come back in, using my own story.
“The policy is different now,” she rebutted. “It’ll
be 30 days before I can come back.”
Knowing the unlikelihood of her staying clean
for 30 more days out in the world, I challenged
her, “If I can convince them to take you back, will
you go back in?”
“Yeah,” she agreed.
I went inside and begged. It was reminiscent of
me begging for my own life years ago. It took no
more than three minutes for the director to agree
to let her back in, but during that time, the voice
in my new friend’s head went into overdrive and
convinced her to run.
I cried for her as she drove off. Did she know
she was heading toward death?
SatAn Is A
LiaR, And
BecAusE i
Am A cHilD
Of God, hE nO
LonGer geTs
To DefIne me.
I aM dEfiNed
OnlY bY mY
CreAtoR.
Dana’s relationship with Jesus
Christ has made her a new
creation. The old has passed
away. She now serves God by
helping others who are enslaved
to addictions and past hurts.
8 kojministries.org Issue 1 2018
/kojministries.org
