Sorry You Made it Through Detox But There's No Rehab Bed For You in L.A.

This is the reality of living in the slum city of Los Angeles. Slum cities are urban areas that have high poverty, poor living conditions, and inadequate housing. Detroit and New Orleans are also slum cities.

My alcoholic son is far from alone. I'd just watched a video of the town hall meeting that was held across the street from us last month in the park where my son got assaulted last year. The small rehab that my son had attended in 2024 had gotten Prop 1 funding to expand and build a 100+ bed rehab down the street. The problem is that this new rehab will take at least a year or two to open.

Meanwhile, when my son had called the small rehab last Monday, they'd told him they'd put him on a waiting list, and then they'd hung up the phone. And when he'd called a second time, 2 days later, they'd told him he was on a waiting list, but then admitted that they couldn't see the waiting list. Then they'd hung up the phone again.

The rehab that my son had made it 7 1/2 months in wouldn't take him back yet, the new one wouldn't take anyone that had had DTs or a seizure, and the others had just left him endlessly on hold. Then they'd hung up. I know because I'd been there when he called.

I left church today and found my son passed out on the ground next to his car that he lives in in my parking lot, while a neighbor stared down from the third floor. I got him to get back into his car and then went and got groceries. When I returned, my son, who has BPD, managed to get inside the security gate when my mother's 94-year-old partner was exiting to help me with the groceries (I hadn't asked him to do that). My son then banged on my front door. My mother, who now has dementia and lives with me, opened the door and let my son in. She doesn't understand why her grandson can't visit her.

I brought the last of the groceries in and told my son that he had 30 seconds to leave my house or I was going to call the police. He immediately rose from the sofa, left the house, and put his hands on me. "Don't put your hands on me," I told my son as I exited the security gate. He then followed me to my car. I held up my hand and motioned for a passing car to stop in the parking lot while I got inside my car and locked the door. Then I drove away.

This is not how any of us wanted my son's 3-day stay in detox to end.