My Experience at RCA Danvers -- A Review of Care, Compassion, and Dignity…read more
I have spent a lot of time thinking about whether I should write this review because I know that recovery is different for everyone, and I also understand that treatment facilities have rules, policies, and limitations. However, I feel strongly that people considering treatment deserve to hear from someone who experienced this facility firsthand.
I was at RCA Danvers in Danvers, Massachusetts, through Section 35, during a period of my life when I was extremely vulnerable. I entered treatment because I needed help, structure, compassion, and an environment where I could begin rebuilding my life. Unfortunately, much of my experience left me feeling like I was being treated more like a number or a paycheck than an actual human being.
One of the most difficult parts of my experience was having to repeatedly beg for basic personal belongings and necessities. I had to continually chase my team and caseworkers just to get access to my own clothes, personal hygiene items, and personal belongings. Even letters from my child, my family, and someone very important to me were things I had to repeatedly ask about and follow up on.
For someone in recovery, those things are not insignificant.
A letter from your child can be the thing that gets you through an incredibly difficult day. A letter from your family can remind you why you're fighting. Having your own hygiene products, clean clothes, and personal belongings can help you maintain a sense of dignity and normalcy when almost everything else about your life has been taken out of your control.
I also had an experience where I requested certain spiritual/religious materials that were meaningful to me. I am a Christian, and I specifically wanted something as simple as a Christian/spiritual hoodie. Instead of feeling like my beliefs were respected as part of my recovery journey, I felt like making that request became unnecessarily difficult.
Recovery is not one-size-fits-all. People come from different religious backgrounds, cultures, families, and life experiences. Spirituality can be an important part of someone's recovery, and I believe those differences should be respected rather than made to feel like an inconvenience.
The phone situation was another major source of frustration.
When I initially entered treatment, I understood that phone access would be limited. However, as I progressed and phased up and met the criteria for increased phone access, I expected the privileges I had earned to actually be accessible. Instead, I repeatedly found myself having to chase down caseworkers just to get the phone calls I was supposed to have.
I shouldn't have had to repeatedly advocate for myself just to communicate with my child and my family.
For someone who is already emotionally vulnerable, isolated from their support system, and trying to maintain motivation in recovery, those connections matter tremendously.
The housekeeping was another area where I was disappointed. There were times when I had to personally request that the bathroom be cleaned and that my bedsheets be changed. I understand that facilities get busy, but cleanliness and basic hygiene should not feel like something a patient has to fight for.
There were things I felt I shouldn't have had to personally manage or repeatedly request while I was there.
What bothered me most wasn't one individual incident. It was the pattern.
I constantly felt like I had to chase people down.
Chase my team.
Chase my caseworkers.
Ask again.
Ask again.
Explain again.
Advocate again.
And eventually, it became exhausting.
When you're in treatment, especially when you're there under circumstances where you may already feel like you've lost control over your life, the last thing you should feel is that you have to fight the system for basic dignity and care.
I want to be very clear: I am not saying every employee at RCA Danvers is a bad person, nor am I saying that treatment doesn't help anyone there. I'm speaking about my experience. I'm also grateful that I made it through that chapter of my life and that I continued moving forward in my recovery.
But I believe treatment facilities need to understand that the people walking through their doors are not just patients, beds, insurance claims, or numbers.
They are someone's mother.
Someone's daughter.
Someone's son.
Someone's partner.
Someone's sibling.
Someone's entire world.
And many of them are walking into treatment scared, ashamed, emotionally exhausted, and extremely vulnerable.
Cassandra Jules