#alcohol rehab thousand oaks

[lotusrecoveryservices]

At Lotus Recovery Services, we provide top-notch alcohol rehab in Thousand Oaks to help individuals break free from the cycle of addiction. Our holistic approach addresses the physical, emotional, and psychological aspects of recovery, ensuring comprehensive support. With a focus on personalized treatment and a caring environment, we empower you to take control of your life.

Lotus Recovery Services 191 W Wilbur Rd. #102, Thousand Oaks, CA 91360 (818) 519–8334

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[wildwoodrecovery]

At Wildwood Recovery, we understand that taking the first step toward recovery can be challenging. That’s why our drug treatment center is designed to provide a welcoming and supportive environment where clients feel safe and encouraged. Our team of experts works closely with each client to develop a personalized treatment plan that addresses the root causes of addiction. With a focus on holistic healing, Wildwood Recovery offers a variety of therapies, including mindfulness, art therapy, and physical fitness, to support overall well-being.

Wildwood Recovery 360 Camino de Celeste, Thousand Oaks, CA 91360 (805) 493–5741

Official Website: http://www.wildwoodrecovery.com/ Google Plus Listing: https://maps.google.com/maps?cid=11114819034478404817

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Detox Center : https://wildwoodrecovery.com/treatment/detoxification/

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[gratahouse]

Welcome to Grata House, your trusted partner detox treatment in Thousand Oaks. Our experienced team of medical professionals, therapists, and support staff work together to create personalized treatment plans that prioritize safety, comfort, and long-term success.

Grata House 1696 La Jolla Dr, Thousand Oaks, CA 91362 (805) 764–4575

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[juanmillerr]

Thousand Oaks Alcohol Treatment - Personalized Recovery Paths

Transform your life at our Alcohol Rehab Centers in Thousand Oaks, CA. Monarch Recovery IOP offers personalized treatment for lasting recovery. Take the first step today. Contact them now! https://www.monarchrecoverygroup.com/addiction-treatment-center-in-thousand-oaks-ca

[fawnsflowerbed]

could i request for a one-shot with post-RE6/vendetta leon falling in love with his next-door neighbor, the reader? as much as i love young RE2 and RE4 leon, there’s something about him all grown up in the later installments that’s so 🫣

let’s face it, he’s been through a LOT. leon probably isn’t sure if his life has stayed the same (fighting bioterrorism day in and day out, his situationship with ada never becoming anything substantial even after so many years), or if it keeps changing too quickly and rapidly for him to handle (the enemies he deals with getting more and more formidable, and maybe the abrupt end of his situationship 💔). so when the reader comes into his life when they move in next door, they’re like a breath of fresh air to him.

they bake him cookies, don’t treat him any differently when they find out who he is and what he does for a living, and everything else they do just… makes him feel normal. he’s scared to admit his feelings (because he’s an emotionally constipated old fart boo 👎 /J), but when he and the reader start dating, for the first time, he feels like he has a home. it’s not his or the reader’s actual adjacent residences, but it’s the reader. they’re his home.

I adored this req so much I just HAD to make it a series!!

Series Masterlist here!!

Home is More Than Four Walls

Leon's life has been nothing short of hell. He thought he deserved nothing more than that after every mistake he'd made. Until someone new moved in.

Warnings/content: Fem reader, 2nd person (you/yours), Vendetta Leon, references to alcoholism, depression, addiction, and potential suicidal undertones so please read with care.

Word count: 2,225

════════ ∘◦❀◦∘ ════════

════════ ∘◦❀◦∘ ════════

Leon had gotten far too comfortable with change.

He’d found a melancholy bliss that left him always prepared for shit to go wrong. He’d been stuck like that ever since Tatchi, ever since he felt the immense weight of his actions and their consequences. The weight of a thousand lives lost thanks to his negligence. And it only worsened after he lost his unit a year ago, only to then kill them off once they turned. People he’d bonded with that he then had to murder. He could still feel the blood on his hands no matter how hard he scrubbed. There was a reason Chris had originally found him drinking himself to death. Then there was New York, the whole ordeal having him wonder one thing.

When would this end? It had gotten to the point where it was bordering on insanity. If he kept going like this he’d likely end up getting shipped off to rehab. Sleepless nights filled with lifeless eyes staring dead into him, moments of quiet solemness as he mourned lives and relationships lost. Mourned his younger self, the rookie with no clue of what awaited him in Raccoon City. But not in a respectful way with a mental funeral, laying the young man down in a cleaned coffin and lowering him into a bed of lillies. It was more like tossing a corpse to the side and moving on. The years of constant fighting only for nothing to change had turned him cold. That boy with a sense of hope and pride, that boy who became a police officer to repay the service that had saved him when he was a child - that boy was gone. It had been replaced by the shell of a man with a gun forced into his hand. Before he’d even known it he was born and bred to be the DSO’s soulless weapon. Like a brainless zombie, they lined his gun up with the target and yelled at him to shoot.

So he did. Time after time. Year after year. No time for personal affairs, no time for hobbies or outside activities. No time for what made him human. 

Maybe that was why Ada had left him.

Ada, the woman on the run who’d appeared out of nowhere only to disappear once more. The one he’d been chasing after for too many years to count, who he defended during Tall Oaks and risked his life for. The one who was no longer keeping score on how many times they’d saved each other.

 The one who’d called it quits on him.

He remembered it so clearly. That miniscule glint of pain behind her professional gaze like a spinel hidden among the rocks, that of a mercenary staring down the sight of a crossbow with perfect aim. The way she stuck out her hand to shake as if it had all been some type of business partnership. Nothing more than looking out for someone to gain something. A lead, a life saved, a death quickened. It was all a ploy to her.

Leon wasn’t one to beg, he hadn’t been for quite some time. He was persistent, sure, but not to the point where he felt like he was grovelling.

He was ready to drop to his knees when Ada told him they couldn’t keep going the way they were. That they were only putting each other in danger. After a constant sprint towards her, it all came to a harsh halt. It was like his heart had been stomped on repeatedly, a sharp high heel straight through his ribcage. He would’ve rather she’d shot him. It would’ve hurt less.

But luckily he was good at masking it. So when she broke the news to him, he just gave her a stiff nod and shook her hand. As she made her exit, he had to hold back everything telling him to bolt into the nearest building to sob to himself for the first time in years. To blame himself for the fourth time that day. He wasn’t usually an emotional person, not when it came to crying. Leon Kennedy never cried, and he prided himself on that. But Ada brought out the worst in him. The worst and the best.

The months blended together after that moment. A bland concoction of aimless meetings chased down with long droning lectures on his behaviour. He was erratic, he was impulsive and most importantly he was too distracted to focus on anything other than that grey spot seeped into his brain. No one could blame him though, those who’d heard of their situationship ending seemed to pity him. He didn’t want their pity. Not for that or for his countless failures. 

Routine health check results had forced him to move away from his work at the DSO for a few months. His heartbeat was too quick, his stress levels unhealthy and his jumpy reactions to so much as thunder had him listed as a person of concern. A person who had to be forced to take a break, to leave and get out of town.

So that’s exactly what he did.

But Leon knew nothing of his life without some sort of mission, some kind of drive for a success or cure for some terrorising sickness that plagued his conscience the same way it did the human body. He was built on trauma, on the need to do something with his life for the greater good. But all of that had been stripped away from him, leaving behind a scared 20 year old stuck in a grizzled, battered body.

He’d packed up his stuff and moved out of town to a small area just outside of the city, where no one asked questions and rarely even spoke to one another. He was away from it all, yet still felt so close. He was incredibly on edge as if at any time the bored looking man across the street by the name of Mr. Danvers would burst into a pale skinned, veiny creature that he’d have to kill off. Or maybe Miss Lampkin had secretly followed him from the DSO to assassinate him, forcing him to eliminate her in self defence. Another person shipped off in a body bag courtesy of Leon Scott Kennedy.

But the question still stood clear as day in his mind amongst the hustle and bustle of dread. Was he willing to fight it back anymore?

He didn’t feel good about himself if it weren’t all that obvious. If he wasn’t drowning every issue in a bottle of bourbon, he was sinking into his own self loathing. Avoiding any issue he could, dodging any problem that couldn’t be easily solved. He closed his heart off with walls stacked tall made from reinforced steel. 

That’s why he fit in so perfectly where he was. Another husk in a greyed community, just like everyone else.

Until you came along.

“Thanks guys!”

The sound of someone so cheerful, so welcoming in his community drenched in monotone shades that it genuinely stunned him. It stopped him in his tracks on his way to the front door, just as he went to check the mail. Leon cursed his own curiosity as he felt his eyes drifting instinctively to the window facing the commotion. The outcome of this was completely unknown, for all he knew he was about to face just another grump masking their snarl with a soft smile. A form of customer service, if anything. Scolding his timing, he knew he’d otherwise forget to collect his mail for the next few days in case another blur hit him. So he slipped on a pair of older shoes, buried his pride for looking like an absolute mess and made his way out into the sun.

As soon as the chirpy voice broke through the silence of the street, Leon was turning to see where it came from. It seemed impossible for someone so cheerful to live in such close proximity.

“Oh let me help you with that. I’ll take it.”

Surely it was his imagination. He must have been slipping into some type of manic state of auditory hallucinations, because no one had ever sounded that happy to be there.

Yet there you stood, a bright welcoming smile that put the sun to shame as you helped the movers bring your stuff into the house with a grateful nod. With softened eyes and a sparkling personality he could see from a mile away. Freshly cleaned sneakers - as if trying to make a good impression with your new neighbours -sensible yet comfortable jeans, a shirt a size too big for you as you took whatever you could to try and make their lives easier despite that being their job.

Leon let out a quick exhale of amusement, closing up his mailbox to walk back down the cement of his walkway. He genuinely found it funny for someone like you to move in.

You were a drastic difference to the rest of the neighbourhood, most of which were grumps or quiet assholes who refused to interact within the community. Those who chose to drink with themselves as comfort in complete silence. Which would explain why Leon was there after everything he’d been through.

You were far too bright to be in a place like this. A yellow daisy growing through a crack in the concrete.

He was just waiting for the reality of the situation to settle into you. For you to realise you’d just signed your life away for a world of misery. Unfortunately he knew it was likely. This part of the city was going to break your spirit at some point, he could feel it in his bones.

In some sad way he could already see that younger version of himself like you. Someone grown and watered with pride and meaning, a fate sealed for something better than a normal life. 

He was waiting for your own Raccoon City incident to happen, and he could practically feel it impending. He could already hear the thundering footsteps of a Tyrant.

But he chose not to dwell on it, instead closing the door behind him to slip his shoes off and go back to his usual routine. Check over files, throw a meal into the microwave, send through overdue reports, and try to avoid the calls he could hear coming from that specific part of his fridge. Calls from chilled alcohol. Calls from the crate he had sitting at the bottom of the pantry.

Leon had been trying his best to kick the harmful habit of drinking whenever things got too tough to handle. When the buzzing in his head grew to an excruciating screech. When he could hear the echoing cries of the people he left behind. Heard the crack of bones under his hands. He wasn’t a good person, some miniscule part of him knew that, and one day he’d have to wake up and realise that voice is right. 

Or at least that’s what he thought. 

Before he knew it, it was nighttime. Deep into nighttime, to the point where he should’ve had dinner hours ago but still had yet to touch the microwaved lunch he’d tossed in. Despite his wealth, Leon found it humbling to live in a small suburbia like this one, it kept him sane. No long empty hallways. No ghosts sitting in the dining room. 

He never wanted to flaunt that part of his life, there was no need to. It would only earn him unwanted attention and that was the last thing he needed at a time like this one. He was already sabotaging himself, he didn’t need to drag others down with him as well.

That blur was hitting him again, and no amount of garbage bags and boxes being moved out onto the curb could snap him out of it. Shit, how did he end up out here? Sky full of faded stars, light from the old streetlamp’s light casting the street in a softened orange tone. How long had he been on autopilot, a walking corpse of programmed answers and tasks? Was he nothing more than a machine?

Was this what his life was destined to be? Pacing back and forth across his overgrown front lawn and the deck he hadn’t bothered to varnish until he was accepted back into the DSO, the place that helped to rob him of a regular adulthood? What if they didn’t take him back? What if he was here forever, trapped in a suburban purgatory?

He needed to come back, to take control of his feet with each pad across the walkway back to his house as if he were taking control of his life once more. He couldn’t feel his fingers despite moving them. Everything seemed fuzzy. It was like he was stuck in a state of paralysis, all of his nerves firing off as if he’d been scorched with hot coals every time a muscle moved. He became far too aware of his breathing, every hoarse huff from months of ashed abuse with a heart pumping far too loud. He could hear it beating through his ears, feel it in the back of his eyes. He was drowning.

Until he heard a frustrated huff followed by something hitting the ground.

[munsontm]

Please give Great Uncle Wayne babysitting duty (workingmanwayne)

@workingmanwayne

It was the first summer he'd seen since rehab. Things were odd, slowly returning to normal, but still strange. He still woke up fuzzy-brained and exhausted, like he hadn't slept through the night and had instead been out drinking whole bottles of vodka again, chased with thousands of dollars worth of cocaine. The doc said that feeling would continue for a while despite his clean system, but he also had some brain thing called ADHD. He asked if it could kill him. When the doc said no, he stopped caring about it. They were supposed to help him with drugs and alcohol, not his wild brain. He didn't need a professional to tell him his brain was wired differently. That'd been well documented for years. All he wanted was to go home. Well, to the new home, Steve had been preparing in his absence with uncle Wayne. A fresh start, they called it.

The fresh start is nice. It's by the perfect California beach with an oak decking that leads down to the sand and far enough outside Los Angeles that they needed a car to drive into the city. There's peace and quiet; it's pretty beautiful, actually. "You don't gotta go back to Indiana, ya know?" Eddie proposed to his uncle one morning when they were sat together on the deck bench, warm summer sunlight streaming over them, and Eddie's three kids over the way playing noisily in a paddling pool he and Wayne spent the previous hour blowing up, then filling it with water. Joany waved at them from the pool's edge, seeking their attention to watch her splash about like she'd done something impressive. According to the little miss herself, she was meant to be a dragon. It made Eddie laugh. Yeah, she was his blood, alright, and he made sure she knew she was the most fearsome dragon of all. "They'd love for you to stay here," he continued, gesturing to the kids while lighting a cigarette. Rehab might have kicked his habit of the hard stuff, but the cigarettes kept him sane and away from temptations.

"Permanently, m'saying. Stay in Cali permanently." Wayne had been invaluable the past few months, from convincing Eddie into rehab in the first place for the sake of his family to helping his son-in-law with their trio of feral goblins. Neither Sam nor Rian were related to Wayne by blood or Eddie. But they'd been Wayne's grandsons and Eddie's kids since the moment they were born. To the boys and Joan, Wayne was gramps and paw paw and hearing it made Eddie smile every single time. Sometimes he slipped and would refer to Wayne as his dad, then get embarrassed about it. Wayne also gained another son when Eddie unofficially married Steve in 1991. The point was that they were all family. Not the ideal family society wanted them to have. No, their family was much better than that.

Eddie leaned back, head turned up to release a puff of smoke into the bright blue sky, basking momentarily in the rays. He never quite appreciated the sun as much as he did now. Funny what an accidental overdose did to a person. "There's plenty of room for you. Honestly, I think Steve bought the place with you in mind." Satan bless his husband and his domestic inclinations. Yet, Eddie could not bring himself to say that maybe he needed Wayne there too. After everything, he still felt like a burden to his uncle, causing him nothing but worry and grief. "Would you at least think about it, please?" Finally, he looked over at the elder Munson with pleading eyes as the very image of the miniature version suddenly skipped over to them, soaking wet from the water. Eddie tossed his cigarette into the fancy-ass marble ashtray Steve had gotten. He never did understand his husband's love of fine decor, but he loved him all the same.

Grabbing a nearby towel, Eddie scooped Joan up into his lap, though not without a noticeable tremble in his arms, the strain hidden well in his adoring smile. "Hey, short stuff. Pretty sure that paw paw over here just announced his intentions to make everyone pancakes." Armed with an excited four-year-old and their matching smiles, how could grandpa say no? Then Joan quickly called to her big brothers that Wayne was making pancakes, and Eddie knew he'd won amidst the childish screams of delight. He shrugged just a bit smugly at Wayne, while silently mouthing...

Sorry, dad.

[nashamuktikendrainambala]

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[princekumar23]

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GEORGIA

13 Dec 2019 (Fri) – Today was a cold and miserable day.  It rained all day long and the temps never got out of the 40s. We spent the morning wrapping Christmas gifts then packing them up to ship back to New York.  At noon, we realized it was not going to stop raining so we went out to post office and mailed off the gifts and cards.  We went to Olive Garden for soup and salad for lunch. It hit the spot.

    We drove around Skidaway Island for a while, admiring the houses and shops.  We spotted a sign for an aquarium so we following the directions to it.  It turned out to be a small set of tanks at the Georgia Institute of Oceanography.  It was cute but in no way was it anything near an aquarium.  There were maybe 12 tanks with different kinds of fish indigenous to the area.  We did discover that there is a reef right off the shore of Savannah.  Grey’s Reef is a national maritime park.  I thought all reefs were in warmer waters in the Caribbean Sea.

12 Dec 2019 (Thu) – Brrrrrr.  It was cold and overcast all day today and yesterday.  What a difference from the first day we arrived when the temperature was in the high 80s.  Now it’s been in the low 50s.  Just plain uncomfortable.

    We drove an hour to Hilton Head Island. There was a plantation called Coastal Discovery Museum but was really more of a ranch (they call everything a plantation around here) with a main house and several outbuildings.  We walked around the property but didn’t see much of interest; except in a pole barn where they had a piece of space junk that fell into the water off Hilton Head.  NASA didn’t want it back so they put it in the barn and there it sits.  No sign or description of what it was part of or what it was supposed to do or anything.  Weird.

    We went to lunch at Hudson’s Restaurant. It was a seafood eatery sitting right on the intercostal waterway.  You could see that the place is very popular in the summertime.  We could see the one and only bridge onto and off the island in the distance.  Given the fact that they get some pretty bad weather here and there is lots and lots of swampy land and water, you’d think they would give themselves a couple of ways to get off the island.  Hmmmmm.

    Hilton Head was very different than what we imagined it would be.  We thought there would be lots of high rises but there weren’t any.  Every town was a gated community.  The malls were set up to look like quaint main street shops. There was lots of greenery – live oaks, flowers, and bushes.  We counted over 20 golf courses looking at the map.

    On the way back to the campground, we stopped at Staples to get something printed.  Target was in the same mall so we stopped in there to get batteries for my hearing aid then headed home.

I APOLOGIZE. I THINK THERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE TUMBLR WEBSITE.  SEVERAL TIMES, I TRIED TO POST ON THE PAGE BUT WHEN I WENT BACK, THERE WAS NO NEW POST THERE.  WHATEVER THE PROBLEM WAS, IT SEEMS TO HAVE RESOLVED ITSELF.  THANK GOODNESS!

11 Dec 2019 (Wed) – We drove to Savannah and toured the American Prohibition Museum this morning.  It was very enjoyable.  I never realized how divisive the issue was.  People were divided into the Wets (against prohibition) and the Drys (for prohibition).  The Temperance Movement was strong and various characters emerged to warn people of the evils of drink.  One man, Billy Sunday, was a former baseball player turned minister.  He gave very rousing speeches against alcohol consumption. When he passed away, thousands of people celebrated and thousands of people mourned his loss.  Prohibition caused the rise of the mob and the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan.  It lasted just 14 years and changed America forever.  At the back of the museum, there was a speakeasy that sold cocktails just like they made them back in 1920.  I had a Mary Pickford and Paul had a Twelve Mile Run.  They were tasty.

    Following the museum, we walked down to Belford’s and had lunch.  The food was pretty good.  Then we walked down the street to tour the African American Baptist Church.  It dates back to the 1700s.  Unfortunately, we couldn’t get into the church.  There were work crews doing all kinds of rehab to the building.  And they weren’t offering tours until 2 pm (it was only 1:10 pm).  We were disappointed and left.

    Next event was a drive out to Fort Pulaski.  When we arrived, we realized that we had been there before.  We really have to start reading our blog about the area we go into so we don’t repeat things.  The fort was nice and we didn’t mind seeing it again but we really want to do new and different things.

    On the way back to the campground, we shopped at PetSmart for pet food and at WalMart and Publix for groceries.

 10 Dec 2019 (Tue) – We packed up and left Charleston, SC at 9:30 a.m. On the way, we came across a fifth wheel that had a flat tire.  Paul tried to help the couple but one of the lug nuts was stripped and they couldn’t get the tire off.  We left them waiting for a mechanic to arrive.  After three and a half hours, we arrived at Skidaway Island State Park in Savannah, GA.  The campground is lovely.  There are lots of spreading oak trees with Spanish Moss hanging from them. It has a fairyland quality to it. The campsites are very spacious with lots of rooms between sites.  We bought firewood at the office when we checked in and had a wonderful campfire tonight.  It was delicious!

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How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2019/01/doctor-rapp/579634/?utm_source=feed