The Struggles of Rehabilitation: A Closer Look
Chris Kuhn glanced over the fine print without really absorbing it. Back in 2015, he found himself in the intake office of the Senicol Baton Rouge Rehabilitation Center, sandwiched between his mother and grandmother.
As Shoshana Walter notes in her book “Rehabilitation: The American Scandal,” he perceived the documents as something legal, akin to those long agreements people scroll through before downloading an app—difficult to understand but seemingly innocuous. Kuhn considered himself fortunate; he had no intention of ending up in prison.
Just days prior, he’d been arrested for meth possession, facing either a brutal two-year inpatient program or five years in state prison. He opted to sign the contract.
In signing, he agreed that any work he did wouldn’t earn him wages—those would go straight to the foundation. He surrendered the right to compensation for any injuries and gave up food stamps and other government assistance. He also committed to “adopting the morals and values promoted by the program.”
Kuhn’s experience is reflective of a much larger issue in America, which Walter refers to as the “American drug crisis.” While opioid overdoses dominate the news cycle, the more insidious and profit-driven rehab industry often flies under the radar.
Across the nation, myriad treatment programs operate under federal guidelines, heavily influenced by a blend of punishment and personal responsibility.
People are lured into these facilities with promises of healing. However, the concept that hard work leads to recovery—well, it’s hardly new. After the Civil War, a loophole allowed forced labor to slip back into practice where many black individuals were redirected from slavery into new forms of punishment, masked as rehabilitation.
Walter argues that this historical legacy has merely been repackaged to address today’s drug crisis.
The Affordable Care Act aimed to increase access to treatment via Medicaid. In response, the rehab industry expanded rapidly, but with light regulation, it has become increasingly dangerous. Many individuals, like Chris Kuhn, find themselves coerced into these systems—often at the behest of courts or desperate family members. Sadly, it resembles punishment more than treatment.
Take April Lee, for instance. A Black woman from Philadelphia confronted her own long history of addiction, stemming partly from her mother’s struggles. After a challenging childhood, Lee’s own dependency began after being prescribed Percocet, leading her down a dark path.
She lost custody of her child and became known in her circles for her ease at finding veins, no matter how damaged. After a productive phase of recovery in 2016 that involved daily Bible readings with other women in a crowded living situation, she found it difficult to escape this cycle. Though she stayed on as a house monitor, her unpaid work left her in a financial bind.
Feeling trapped, Lee recorded in her diary, “I really don’t know how to feel right now.” The stress of her position weighed heavily on her, especially missing her children.
Her situation mirrors that of others caught in similar “healing house” cycles, limited to menial tasks with little freedom or support. Lee, who enjoyed cooking, prepared beloved meals for the house, yet still felt trapped—her culinary skills didn’t grant her any real escape.
Similarly, Kuhn experienced intense pressure during his first month at Cenikor. Residents were monitored closely, and violations resulted in harsh communal punishments. Unusual practices, such as “oral chairs” and “mirror therapy,” seemed like methods to dehumanize rather than rehabilitate.
Kuhn likened the environment to a cult. He was soon engrossed in a punishing routine, completing tasks like “pull-ups,” with potential consequences looming if he did not comply. Residents were publicly shamed, with the environment designed to elicit compliance through fear.
Many staff members at these facilities were former residents and perpetuated this cycle of trauma. Some, however, were content to be part of it. Judges like Larry Gist praised programs like Senicol as effective for those deemed “appropriately receptive to tough love.”
Despite its issues, Cenikor maintained strong ties with the judicial system, rewarding compliance with lavish dinners and recognition events for officials. Kuhn eventually left the program two years after entering, facing personal health issues but managing to find stability in his life, reconnecting with family and pursuing education.
Lee’s journey was longer. Her success came gradually as she overcame numerous barriers, including moving past past trauma and regaining custody of her child. By 2021, she’d even purchased her own home, although it was clear she remained on shaky ground.
As for Senicol, its time in the spotlight has been marked by scrutiny and fines for exploiting residents. They were accused of forcing individuals to work without compensation, leading to significant financial penalties.
Kuhn and Lee, while only a glimpse into a wider system, reflect the reality of rehabilitation in America. As Walter notes, while effective rehabilitation can transform lives, many find themselves trapped in cycles of hardship under systems that often do more harm than good, recycling individuals through shame and recurring struggles.
