Chloe Booker months before she went to a drug detox. Everyone else had gone to bed. It's too depressing, they said. I thought it was worse to sleep through it. "Next year is going to be your year," the nurse told me. "I hope so," I replied as I bundled up my books and pens and headed to my hard, narrow, single bed for another sweaty, sleepless night. To stare at the stained white walls. To toss and to turn and to think. What parties were my friends at? Where was my boyfriend? Was he still my boyfriend? What fun was I missing out on? What self-destruction would I be inflicting? It's better I'm in here, I decided.

I opened the Smiggle diary I got for Christmas and read through the resolutions I'd written in coloured pen the hours before the clock struck midnight. To look back now, the list looks simple: Be kind to myself and others, Go back to study, Work towards a career,

Find a stable place to live, Stop abusing substances. These things I wanted so badly – which seemed to come easily to everyone else – had been out of reach in recent times. But this was going to be my year. No one arrives at a detox sober. It's a well-known rite of passage among those who frequent them to show up as wasted as one can possibly afford to be. The tall tales of excessive consumption then provide fodder for bonding when talking to your fellow patients over instant coffee and cigarettes.

I was no exception. I walked in feeling wonderful. It was easy to imagine all the possibilities. Next year was going to be my year! But as the hours passed, slowly, the future seemed less bright and more uncertain. Until it felt unbearable. Get. Me. Out. Of. Here. Depleted of the necessary chemicals to provide rational thought, my mind raced: "It's not right I'm in here over New Year's. I'll leave and come back at a more suitable time. Maybe I could trick them into using the telephone and get someone to throw something over the fence. Just. One. Last. Time." By this New Year's Eve, alone in bed cradling my resolutions, a drop of hope had crept back in. Maybe I could go back to uni and work towards a career. Perhaps I could help society instead of being a drain on it.

Maybe my mum could sleep again. But in the following days, the internal battle waged on: "You're too stupid, too hopeless, too pathetic for anything good to come of you. It's useless. Nobody loves you. F---. Them. Anyway." Nothing could stop the stream of negative thoughts. Words floated on the pages of my books, my mind unable to absorb them. It felt like the weathered couch and all the weathered bodies that had ever sat on it had climbed on to my back and pinned me down. Within an hour of leaving detox a few days after New Year's Eve, I was at my dealer's house. I was booked to go straight into a long-term rehabilitation facility later that day, with a condition of entry being that I was clean.

I got away with it. That evening, as I spent my first night in rehab, my mind was quiet. There were about 12 of us in this place – a sprawling, rundown farm a few hours from Melbourne. It reminded me of a school camp crossed with a mental asylum. Andy* was experiencing such bad psychosis he tried to get on the outings bus wearing nothing but a bath mat as a skirt. Oh, how we howled with laugher. Dan*, the fat ice addict. "Aren't you meant to be skinny?" We all asked him over and over, slapping our thighs on our prescriptive morning walks. And lovely Annie*, the older woman who was coming off so much medication – prescribed by her country doctor – she could barely hold her head up weeks into the program. Hilarious, we thought.

We spent long, hot days painting walls, cleaning and recleaning cupboards, piling leaves only for them to be blown away again. Complaining, laughing, crying, singing, fighting, scheming, praying. Despite our vast differences in personalities, backgrounds and substance preferences, we became close. A camaraderie built on our shared despair over where our lives were. But also on hope that we were on the path to somewhere better. We dreamt together about our futures. We believed in one another. One day, the staff told us some of us would die. They showed us a pile of old files belonging to people who didn't make it. This wasn't so funny. But this wouldn't happen to any of us. Four of my friends are now dead. Handsome John*, always in trouble for telling us about his military exploits in Afghanistan, spent his post-traumatic stress disorder compensation on drugs and overdosed alone in a hotel room. We all went on an outing to his funeral later that summer.

Emily*, from the posh, uptight family, who drank and starved herself to death later that year. Then went big Ben*, the one with the sad eyes who gave the best bear hugs. And a few years later, the vivacious and elegant Penny*, found rotting in her apartment. As I look back, the hardness I'd developed to get through those years faded, tears roll down my face. "They died," my mind says over and over. Through writing it down, I'm finally able to comprehend it. I think of them, of all the people struggling with addiction and how fortunate I am to still be here. I think of my fellow patients' life stories – the sexual abuse, the beatings, the dead children, the loss or lack of love. Not one hadn't gone through some kind of trauma or mental illness. I shake my head at the people who want to cut off our welfare. Sterilise us. Shoot us.

But I also I think about the ones who survived. Who flourished despite their difficulties because they were given a chance – often more than once. A chance that many aren't given. Especially if they are poor. Andy is a successful chef. Dan lost weight and is still making people laugh, but as a comedian. Annie is a drug and alcohol worker, who holds her head up high helping others to turn their lives around. I wonder what could have become of the heroin users dying in Richmond's alleyways if they had a safe place to inject. Of the ice users if they could afford rehab. Or of the alcoholics if they weren't, because of stigma, too proud to get help. And me? Well that summer wasn't the start of my year. I, once again, couldn't resist the voice of just one more. The voice that says we're worthless. That kills. That needs support and treatment to be overcome.

But a few summers and chances later I did. My mother sleeps again. And all my resolutions came true. Chloe Booker is an Credit:Matthew Furneaux * Names have been changed Family Drug Help: 1300 660 068 DirectLine: 1800 888 236