Rehab doesn’t happen to you. You happen to rehab. That thought stayed with me at night as I cried myself to sleep in the tastefully decorated room where I couldn’t keep any sharp objects, not even tweezers, and where my door had no lock.
I understood it the moment I walked in and they insisted I remove my Marni booties because of the no-shoes policy. I started to argue, mumbling something about being self-conscious of my feet—a lie. I understood it when they asked what kinds of food I liked, and after a brief pause, I answered “goat yogurt” as if that were perfectly normal. I understood it when the woman assigned to watch me pee into a cup through a cracked door looked far more anxious than I felt.
I was so dazed from the days, weeks, months—maybe even years—leading up to that point that I struggled to comprehend how I had ended up there, what twist of fate had brought me to this small stone manor house in the woods of the Berkshires in Massachusetts.
I didn’t tell many people I was going, but to the few who knew, I said I was attending a “trauma treatment program.” I wasn’t fooling anyone, but those who loved me allowed me the dignity of not calling a spade a spade.
When we arrived, my father gave them the name I was using on my files: Rose O’Neill, named after the inventor of Kewpie dolls, America’s first published female cartoonist. I felt a connection to the tragedy of her life—she had created something people didn’t know they needed, made a shocking fortune from her illustrations of impish Cupids, but stayed too long at the party. By her mid-40s, her wealth had been drained by hangers-on and her inability to replicate her early success. It seemed like where I was headed, considering I hadn’t had a coherent idea since we finished shooting Girls. So in rehab, they called me Rose until I finally gave them permission to use my real name—and even then, they did so with trepidation.
We walked through the doors into a sea of beige with a grand staircase. A kind guy with an iPad had my parents check in and show their ID, which they had to retrieve from the car. I was asked to take off my shoes and hurried upstairs for a urine test. Afterward, my parents were allowed to see my room. It felt a lot like the first day at camp or college, except many people here struggled with IV heroin. It was hard to tell the difference between the patients and the orderlies because no one wore uniforms.
Who would have guessed that the massive tattooed man in the Harley-Davidson shirt was a sober companion, or that the petite grandmother knitting in house slippers had a crippling Benadryl addiction that led her to destroy her own daughter’s wedding? This was the first lesson of rehab, and the simplest: never judge a drug addict by their Patagonia half-zip fleece.
This was also the moment I realized that chaos wasn’t happening to me. I hadn’t landed here because of some sudden natural disaster, no matter how mysteriously seismic and strange it all felt. I had responded to events. I had swallowed the medicine. I had made choices. And I was the chaos. After much resistance—after asking to skip group therapy sessions aimed at drug cravings because I didn’t think they applied to me, after telling anyone who would listen that I was there because of medical trauma, after retreating to my room night after night instead of socializing to “work”—I would come to realize there is no good addict, no right addict, no better addict than any other.
We had all tortured and terrified…Jackson said he would really miss Walter, but that he also liked me and was glad I was here. “Walter says Lena is a man-hater—he read her blog, and he doesn’t feel safe being in a group with a man-hater,” Gaylen told me. All I could stutter was, “I don’t have a blog.”
One day in group therapy, Dr. Mark asked us to fill out a “values spreadsheet.” We had to list our primary values, along with the primary values of the people we spent time with during active addiction. Then we were supposed to create a Venn diagram to see where they overlapped. Usually quick with therapy-speak, I raised my hand—this time, I was stuck. “What do you mean by values? Like… what we’re worth as people?” Values, he explained, are what you believe is important in life, what matters to you. I still didn’t get it.
It took me twenty minutes to fill in the three blanks:
ART
FAMILY
MAKING PEOPLE FEEL SEEN
Then I moved on to the values of the people I’d been hanging around. That was easier. I remembered my writing partner, Jenni, toasting a project: “Let’s get that private jet money, girl.” I remembered being pressured to go out even when I was sick—by so-called friends who wanted me at events where no one really cared about me or my work, just excited to be my plus-one. I remembered meeting someone at a party and asking about their kids. “They’re adorable,” they said. “Super fun.” Then they went right into pitching me a sitcom starring themselves.
I had a few scheduled passes to leave. On one, I went to the Met Gala. They’d let me go, though not without hesitation—there were long discussions about whether it would be “safe,” whether I could handle the chaos.
It was the first time I was seeing Jenni since I’d left, and my stomach knotted with fear. I didn’t know why I kept fearing the people I was supposed to love; I figured it could only be shame—fear of their rightful anger. Jenni had been managing our show alone when we were meant to do it together. It was always supposed to be the two of us. She hadn’t been communicating much, and when I wrote her a long apology letter, she only replied, “I appreciate this.”
We met at her hotel at 11 for breakfast. She didn’t ask much about where I’d been or want to hear rehab stories. “I’m sure it’s very funny, but you’re not supposed to be collecting funny stories from this.” We drank tea, and my hands shook under the table. I wanted us to say something that might put everything in perspective, but she just talked about her kids and her schedule.
She was texting a newer friend, and her eyes lit up with each message—the sparkling joy of a fun, uncomplicated connection. I didn’t feel I could say how scared I was. I also didn’t feel I could tell the makeup artist—who did me up like the original Queen Elizabeth, with a powdered face and heart-shaped burgundy lips—that I looked like I was trying to hide syphilitic sores; or tell the hairstylist I hated the crown; or tell the designer the dress was so stiff I could only shuffle.
On the red carpet, I looked pale and haunted. The whole event felt like a fever dream—cameras flashing, people shouting names that weren’t mine, champagne I couldn’t drink being passed around like a joke I wasn’t in on. I told Jenni I was probably the only person there who had come just for the night—straight from rehab. “You’re probably not,” she said.
At midnight, I climbed into a black SUV and drove back to Massachusetts—Cinderella in her pumpkin. They made me leave my dress at the door to my room so they could search it for contraband.
During the last week of treatment, I identified as a drug addict for the first time, and so it was the first time Dr. Mark asked me, “And do you want to be sober?”
The day before I left rehab…Gaylen and I sat outside on the steps for hours in the sun. I sketched her while she read her book about healing crystals. It was the first time in a long time I could remember noticing anything about the world around me. The sun was so bright. The sky was so vast. Later, on my way to therapy, I started running. I couldn’t believe it. All I could think was, And my legs run on their own.
When I got back, Gaylen shouted, “Lena! Lena!” She was pointing to a robin’s egg nestled in the grass, so blue it looked dyed. “Who put it there?” I asked. “Nobody put it there!” Gaylen said, laughing at me, her hair pink and blond and black in the sun. “It just is.”
Some names have been changed.
Famesick, by Lena Dunham, is published by Fourth Estate on 14 April. To support the Guardian, order your copy from guardianbookshop.com.
Frequently Asked Questions
FAQs Lena Dunhams Rehab College Comparison
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 What did Lena Dunham actually say about rehab
She described entering a trauma and addiction treatment facility and said the first day felt similar to the first day of college The key difference she noted was that many people there were struggling with heroin addiction
2 Why would she compare rehab to college
She was likely referring to the shared feelings of being a new studentnervousness entering an unfamiliar environment meeting new people and starting a structured program focused on personal growth and learning about oneself
3 What was the main point of her comparison
To highlight a stark contrast While both settings can induce similar initial anxieties the gravity and lifeanddeath nature of the struggles in rehab make the experience fundamentally different from the typical academic and social challenges of college
4 What kind of rehab was she in
She was in a treatment facility specifically for trauma and addiction Her public statements have focused on processing trauma and addressing prescription medication dependence not heroin use
Advanced Analytical Questions
5 Was her comparison seen as insensitive or trivializing addiction
Some critics and public reactions argued that comparing rehab to college could minimize the severe struggle of addiction especially heroin addiction Others saw it as an honest relatable attempt to describe the surreal and vulnerable feeling of entering treatment
6 What does this comparison reveal about public perceptions of addiction
It underscores a gap in understanding Dunham used a common relatable experience as a reference point for an experience many find hard to imagine This can spark conversation but also risks equating vastly different levels of crisis
7 How does her specific experience differ from heroin addiction she observed
While all addictions are serious heroin addiction often involves a more visible physically destabilizing and socially stigmatized struggle frequently tied to different socioeconomic factors Her observation acknowledged being in a community with people facing a particularly intense form of substance use disorder
8 What is a key takeaway from her statement for people considering rehab
That rehab while daunting is a place of communal healing You are not alone even if others struggles look different from your own The firstday anxiety is normal but the purpose is profound and lifechanging
