BAD CHOICES & REGRET

On most days, Kristine and Trista wake up in fear.

Kristine fears she won't be one of the few drug addicts who live life
sober.

Trista knows that fear. Not just for her, but for her 13-year-old son.
She's afraid he's headed for a life of struggle, much like her own,
and she mourns not being there to mother him.

"That's my problem," she said. "I'm always incarcerated. I can't even
count how many times I've been to jail.

"I'm not a very good mom," she added, fighting back tears she rarely
sheds. "I don't know that I'll ever be a good mom, but I know that I
can be good role model."

Bad choices and regret are experiences common to all of the women
incarcerated at the Elkhorn Treatment Center in Boulder.

At age 7, Latoya tried to shoot herself because of a childhood run
amok due to an unstable family life and exposure to drugs.

"From the time I was 5 I just ran around and did whatever I wanted,"
she said.

By 10, she was smoking pot and drinking. By 11, the state removed her
from her father's house and placed her at Youth Services Detention
Facility in Billings.

By 12, she was living with her grandparents. She began using
methamphetamine, known on the streets as crank.

"I loved it," Latoya, 22, said. "It made me numb."

A week after she snorted her first line she started smoking meth. In
six months she was shooting up.

She landed at the Elkhorn Treatment Center after a crime spree ending
with charges of drug possession, forgery, and burglary.

Velores, 49, grew up in a big family on the Fort Belknap Indian
Reservation. She was drinking alcohol by 9 and snorting cocaine by 15.
Within a week she was shooting it.

Her convictions weren't drug offenses, but her crimes were directly
related to her drug addiction. Forgery and theft led to charges of
being a persistent felon. Since 1998, she's spent more time behind
bars than free.

Here at Elkhorn, these people have become a kind of family. The 43
women eat together, learn together, live together. They hope they'll
leave together.

But they know the odds are stacked against them.

While life inside the walls of the Elkhorn Treatment Center is better
than the alternative - prison - it's no walk in the park.

Like it or not, they wake up to the same women every
morning.

"A conflict in personalities is the quickest thing to make me have a
rough day," Latoya said.

Some women complain in the shower, complain at breakfast, and argue in
group session. This makes it difficult to radiate positive energy.

Still, the women say they are learning to take risks and expose
vulnerability.

"My actions have hurt a lot of people and it's time to do something
different," Trista said.

She's never known herself sober. Trista, 31, first slept on the
streets when she was 8 years old. She stole a blanket from an open
garage, and hung out under a bridge with a couple friends from a group
home in Kalispell. That was also when she first smoked dope.

By age 10, she was smoking hash and opium and snorting lines of crank.
She shot up for the first time when she was 12 and began dealing to
support her habit. She dropped out of school in the seventh grade, and
can't count how many times she's been in jail.

She came to Elkhorn after a February 2001 conviction for manufacturing
meth.

When she arrived, like the others, she counted on no one but
herself.

That's changed.

"By being vulnerable, (trust) happens," she said simply.

The Elkhorn staff tries to treat each woman as an individual, even
though many have the same difficulties. They learn life skills, like
balancing a check book and creating a resume.

Laurel Johnston, licensed addiction counselor, says 90 percent of
addiction is about core beliefs and the remaining 10 percent is about
the drugs themselves. She said identifying and learning to change the
symptoms, like lying, manipulation, rationalizing, and justifying, is
a huge factor in recovery.

"Who they are in their disease is not actually who they could be," she
said. "It's about learning how to live."

Life beyond these doors that require a thumbprint scan to unlock is
known as "the outs."

The women inside are conflicted about the outs - wanting to go there,
but fearing a relapse, even with the aid of a prerelease program.

When finished in January, they'll become the first few women to
complete the program at the Elkhorn Treatment Center. The success rate
is unknown.

Johnston optimistically predicts a 50 percent or more success
rate.

Still, there is no cure, Michael Tones, a licensed addiction
counselor, said during one of his group lessons. There's only abstinence.

The good news is that the body can bounce back and there is hope of
leading a normal functioning life, although some drug users have
permanent damage to their brain.

Johnson adds that recovery is an ongoing process even after the women
are discharged.

When the women leave Elkhorn, they'll participate in a six-month
prerelease program, which gives them support and guidance.

Velores is the mother figure for many of the younger women here. She
wants to be a counselor, and is considering going back to the
reservation to help her people once she leaves in mid-January.

"I just think that I have a chance and there is hope for me," Velores
said. "I can stay clean and I think that I can do it. It's not
far-fetched to me any more, it's reality. I can have a life of right
living and doing all the right things without feeling out of place or
being just a convict."

Latoya could get out in 46 days. She's afraid of what she might face.
But she hopes to stay clean and maybe even go to college.

Trista has about 70 days left. First and foremost, she wants to stay
clean and be a good example to her son. She also would like to open a
diesel mechanic shop.

"Before (she got to ETC) I didn't want to live, I could care less,"
she said. "I like life today."

Kristine, 36, gave up custody of her two children before they entered
kindergarten. She knew she couldn't take care of them and knows she
can't still.

"Every morning I just pray that I'll make it," she said. "I want to be
the best person I can be. I want to leave it all behind me."

Kristine said that beyond being armed with sobriety, she hopes to
leave the facility with one thing: inner peace.