“So why did you come back here?” she asked me. “You were in what—five, six other rehabs since we last saw you? And in that time you have managed to stay continuously sober for only three months?”
I nodded.
“Seriously, what makes you think it’s going to work this time?”
“Well, those other rehabs were bullshit. They were just out to make money, and the counselors only had a couple years sober, and were making ten bucks an hour repeating slogans like a bunch of programmed zombies. I just remembered a much higher quality of treatment here.”
“You do know, Oran, that even though we may be more educated, we do use the AA model here because we think it’s the only one that works. We may be wrong, but that’s what you’re going to get here.”
“Yeah, I know. I hate it, but I’m ready for it. Honestly, I’ll fucking do anything right now. I give up. I’m done. If I knew for a fact I would die out there, I wouldn’t have come back, but my big fear is that I’ll just keep going somehow and I’m just too much of a fucking wimp to kill myself. I swear, I’m finally ready to do this shit.” I was starting to get choked up, so I stopped.
She stared at me for a little while with a sad look. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just waited.
“You know, it’s kind of funny. The last two times you were here, we would have done anything to get you to say what you just said. But now that you’re actually saying it, the whole thing is making me terribly sad. I’m not even sure why. For some reason, I have a picture in my head of a bird with its wings cut off. What happened to that crazy, dope-sick kid who walked in here two years ago? I mean, you hadn’t slept in like seven days, you were shitting in your pants, but you were able to stand your ground against thirty people. Do you remember that night?”
“I remember,” I said, thinking about what a maniac I must have looked like.
“You were maybe the most stubborn, obnoxious, hardheaded, all-around pain in the ass I have ever seen in my years as a counselor, and…I need to think about this some more, because…I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I think I liked that obnoxious kid who came in here raising hell more than what I’m looking at right now.”
“Do you think I’m just saying this shit because I think it’s what you want to hear?” I asked, but not in any kind of confrontational way. I was just curious.
“Unfortunately, no. With all the doctors and lawyers that come through here, you think we don’t know how to deal with that? That’s easy. If I thought you were just trying to say the right thing, then I’d have something to work with.”
“Okay,” I said, absolutely perplexed. “Then what do you think I should do?”
“That’s what’s bothering me. The old Oran wouldn’t have asked that question. Listen, we talked about you at the staff meeting before you got here, and we had worked out a tentative plan, but apparently we were discussing a different person. I’m going to have to think about this for a while. In the meantime, just jump right in. We’ll talk soon. Someone will show you the house you’re staying in after the alumni meeting.” They decided that, since I had already gone through detox in Oxnard, I could stay at another sober house and do day treatment.
“Thanks, Eileen,” I said, getting up to go.
“Oh, here are a couple of books I brought for you. They’re both about creativity and addiction. Look them over. It might be totally irrelevant, but we’ll talk about it later.”
Normally I would have been mortified at the thought of reading a self-help book, but I took them as further proof of how far down I’d come.
When I went back upstairs, it was dinnertime. Not feeling at all like jumping right in, I used my freedom as a day patient to walk down the street and get a sandwich. I sat down with my food and mulled over what Eileen had said. I couldn’t make any sense out of it. Was there an angle? If there was, what the hell could it have been? I didn’t like it at all, but something had resonated and not in a good way. I was still lost in thought on my way back for the alumni meeting. She was right, though. The old Oran wouldn’t have said any of that shit. In fact, the old Oran might have committed suicide for me had he seen a glimpse of his hollow shell walking down the street two years in the future, actually looking forward to an AA meeting. Goddamn, that would have made things easier.
I took a seat in the back. It was an anniversary meeting, meaning that those who had celebrated a milestone in sobriety would go up and ramble on about how the rehab and AA changed their lives, and everything was amazing now, and all we have to do is not drink, and go to meetings, and get a sponsor, and do the steps, and help a newcomer, and read the book, and keep it simple, and on, and fucking on, and life will be fantastic.
Even though I had said I would do anything to stay sober, there was still a big difference between me and these people. I was resigned to this AA sentence because I simply had nowhere else to go. These people were so psyched to tell the world how awesome AA was that I couldn’t tell whom they were trying to convince. Themselves? Me? Their wives? It all looked like a big charade. If I just act all excited and stuff, then maybe I can convince myself everything will be okay. Oh well, I didn’t come back here to make friends.
Toward the end of the meeting, a guy who had been a client the last time I was there walked up to the front of the room to get his two-year anniversary coin.
“Hey, I’m Frank, and I’m an alcoholic,” he said to the crowd. “I want to thank everyone for this. When I came in here, I’d been smoking pot every day since I was twelve, you know. But at some point it stopped working, and it just started making me angry, and, well…” The same old shit. I did remember him as being extremely angry, though. I started zoning out and thinking about the last time I had been here and we were in group therapy together. He was the only guy I had ever met who was in rehab for pot. It just wasn’t that common. He would go on and on about how addictive pot was, as if he had to prove something to us. I remembered hating the guy. Not so much because he was a pothead, but because he just seemed like a fucking idiot and said the stupidest shit, like, “You know how people think pot’s not addictive, man? Well, I’m here to tell you it is. What about the shakes, man? What about the cold sweats, huh? What about the wanting to jump out of your fucking skin, man?”
I didn’t get it. The guy looked like a real estate broker, but he talked like a cross between a hippie and an ex-con trying to scare the kids away from a life of crime. “You guys have no idea what it’s like to wake up from these nightmares, and they don’t go away just ’cause you wake up, man. Oh no…”
“Um. Excuse me? Am I allowed to say something?” I had asked Jan at the time, cutting the guy off from his after-school-special pot rant. I hadn’t yet learned how this group therapy thing worked, but I couldn’t take this anymore.
“Well, normally we like to wait for people to finish with their turn, but sure. Go ahead.” I think Jan was giving me special treatment because it was the first time I had opened my mouth voluntarily. The pothead looked as if he wanted to rip my head off for interrupting, but that seemed preferable to having to listen to any more of his bullshit.
“Hey. Would you shut the fuck up? Look around you, man. We’re all going through this shit. Please…do you think any of us wants to be here? Jesus fucking Christ! It’s pathetic, man.” I didn’t know where it came from, because the last thing anyone would have called me was a tough guy. Instead of lunging at me, though, he just kind of collapsed back in his chair looking stunned.
“Well, Oran,” Jan said with a hint of amusement. “That is not usually how we do it here, but…”
“I’m sorry,” I said, a bit stunned myself.
“Frank. Did you hear what Oran just said?” Jan went on without missing a beat.
“Yes.”
“And how did it make you feel?”
As my mind came back to the alumni meeting, Frank was up at the podium saying, “I don’t think he meant it this way, but when that junkie kid told me to shut the fuck up…
that I wasn’t the only one going through this…well, for the first time in my life I realized I wasn’t alone. All of us have been through hell, and that’s what gives us the ability to understand and help one another.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“That kid saved my life, but I’m pretty sure he just wanted me to shut the fuck up. Thanks.”
I found him after the meeting and congratulated him for his two years. “Hey listen, man. I’m assuming that story was about me. I need to apologize for telling you to shut up. I was out of my mind back then.”
“I know you were out of your mind. We all were, but until you said that I really thought I was the only person who had ever felt that way. I mean, Jesus…you were sitting there kicking heroin and you had to listen to a pothead bitch about withdrawal symptoms? Seriously, man, you saved my life. I tell that story at almost every meeting I go to.”
I had to admit that he did seem a hell of a lot calmer now. That whole tough, hippie, real-estate-broker persona had vanished.
“It’s pretty ironic that I was able to unintentionally save your life, and here I am back at this fucking place.”
“Oh. You’re back as a patient? I assumed you were here for the meeting. I just thought I should come back and show the new people that it works,” he said.
“Well, I’m a ‘new people,’ and it seems to have helped you,” I said, trying to be funny. God, I had even lost my sense of humor.
“At least you don’t look as bad as you did last time. I’m sorry you’re still struggling, but it’s good to see you, man. Good luck,” he said, shaking my hand.
I STAYED THERE for another four months, slowly trying to make connections and set up a safety net back in San Francisco. I did whatever they told me to do. Underneath it all, I was as anxious and uncomfortable as ever, and I wanted to get high so fucking bad.
My weekly meetings with Eileen were depressing. She had told me they had been expecting a challenge, and instead they got a piece of silly putty they didn’t know what to do with.
“So are you talking to your sponsor?” she asked.
I had asked this musician from San Francisco to be my sponsor, and I was calling him every day.
“I can see that you’re going to meetings,” she said, glancing over my attendance card. “Are you making any progress with the steps?”
“I’m working on them,” I answered.
“Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you. We’ve tried everything, and no matter what we come up with, you just do what you’re told.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”
“Yes and no. Sure, it makes our job easy if you just say yes to everything, but…I don’t even know how to say this…. We’re concerned that this person who is going around following suggestions and doing all the right things is not really you. I would expect you to change a little after what you’ve been through, but you’re almost unrecognizable. We want to work with that hardheaded, stubborn, obnoxious, charming, charismatic Oran because—and both Barry and Jan agree with me on this—that’s the guy who’s going to keep you clean. If we can’t bring that part of you out, we have nothing to work with.”
“I don’t know what to do about that. Believe me, I wish I could.”
“Hey, are you still doing that Artist’s Way book I gave you?” One of the books she had given me was a workbook with different exercises designed to trigger creativity. Eileen and the whole staff, including Jan, had changed their minds since the last time I was there. They had decided that the key to my staying sober involved getting back into music and reconnecting with my old friends. She hoped the book would help.
“Yeah. I’m writing every morning, and going to the city to see music on the weekends.” One of the exercises was to experience some kind of culture, art, or nature once a week. I had even started sitting in on a film-making class back at the Art Institute.
“Good. What about the affirmations?”
I was hoping she wouldn’t bring those up. “Um, I can’t do the affirmations,” I said, waiting for her to tell me how important they were.
“Why not?”
“Honestly, because I think they’re bullshit.”
“I’d like to hear more about why you think affirmations are bullshit, Oran. I mean, they seem to work for an awful lot of people, including myself. But for some reason, you think they’re bullshit?” she said.
I should have just lied. I didn’t want to argue about it, but since she asked, I answered, “Yeah, I do think they’re bullshit, and here’s why. They’re based in fantasy. Standing in front of the mirror and saying ‘I’m pretty and people like me’ doesn’t make someone pretty or likable. If it affirms anything, it’s that they’re ugly and people hate them. I mean, who else would say something like that? I’m sorry, but I can’t do the affirmations. I refuse to look at myself in the mirror and tell lies. I already hate myself enough as it is.” I got a little worked up.
“Okay, Oran. The next staff meeting is tomorrow, and I’m going to recommend that we start working on an exit plan,” she said.
“You’re going to kick me out because I won’t do those fucking affirmations?” This was bullshit.
“No, no, no. I’m going to recommend we release you soon. This is what we’ve been waiting for. I finally got a glimpse of the old Oran.”
What the fuck? I didn’t understand what had just happened. “I have to admit, I cannot figure you guys out for the life of me,” I said.
“That’s a good thing, because if you could, we wouldn’t be able to do our job,” she said with a grin. “Listen, that was good work today. I’ll let you know what happens at the meeting. And one more thing, Oran…”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Promise me you won’t do those affirmations.”
AFTER MY RELEASE, I stayed on at the sober house, did outpatient treatment three nights a week, and had even started a band called Dig That Body Up, It’s Alive, with a guy named John Dwyer. I had met him at a place called Adobe Books, in the Mission, where a lot of my old friends congregated.
I wasn’t having any luck finding a place to live, though. As much as my friends were starting to warm up to me, no one seemed ready to give me a set of keys. It was still going to be a few more weeks before I was released from outpatient anyway. The rehab still wanted to see my relapse prevention plan, and I could tell they were watching to make sure my outburst wasn’t just a onetime thing.
I didn’t go crazy, but I allowed myself some room for what I was hoping would be interpreted as a bit of healthy cynicism. Not just to convince them the old Oran was coming back, but because it also made me feel better. I had been clean now for a record of four months, but nothing seemed to help with my anxiety. The best I could do was to try hiding it.
Unable to find a room in San Francisco, I ended up moving in with a trombone player named Chad I knew out in West Oakland. I didn’t know him that well, but I told him what I had been going through, and he didn’t seem to care too much, probably because his place was a shithole and there was nothing to steal anyway. Nothing. No TV, no pots and pans, no stereo, and aside from the food and water bowl for his cat, there weren’t even any dishes. I even had to buy a spoon at the thrift store, when unable to stand the anxiety for one more fucking minute, I found myself in the Mission buying heroin again. When the euphoria faded, I found myself in my bare room, sitting on the piece of foam I used as a mattress, once again wondering how the fuck I had let myself relapse again. I had no idea what led up to it, and my despair and self-loathing was beyond anything I had experienced in the past. Once I started, though, there seemed to be nothing I could do to stop, and a few hours later I was back in the Mission buying more.
It didn’t help that it was Christmas, my least favorite time of year, and even though Mom was only a couple of miles away, I hadn’t spoken to her since those orderlies tackled me in Santa Barbara over a year ago. Kyle, who was caught in the middle of our
relationship, was hanging out with her. I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas day alone at the house—more depressed than I thought humanly possible—shooting speedballs and cuddling with Chad’s cat. I knew intellectually that there was a window of opportunity to stop before I got physically addicted, but as always I pushed through that window and rode out the binge for as long as I could.
Because I had sold my drum set, Dig That Body Up, It’s Alive had to rehearse at a studio that rented out drums by the hour. I still had my cymbals, though, and Dwyer figured out exactly what was going on when I showed up to rehearsal without them.
“Fuck. I must have left them in Oakland. You got a few extra bucks so I can rent some?” We always split the cost right down the middle, but this time he had already paid for the whole thing. I had been doing such a good job at staying clean that my trust managers had agreed to help out by sending me a thousand dollars a month until I got back on my feet, but I was still always broke.
“You mean you left them at the pawnshop?” he asked me. “Let’s go,” he said before I had a chance to respond. While driving to the pawnshop, he asked me what I planned to do.
“I love playing with you, man, but it’s not going to work out if you keep selling your cymbals for dope.” It was funny coming from him, because I wasn’t so sure he didn’t have a problem with drugs himself. Unlike me, though, his “problem” always seemed to result in having fun and getting laid. My problem led me to hiding out by myself on Christmas Eve trying to figure out how I had become such a miserable piece of shit. Although I didn’t know what the hell I expected them to do for me, Dwyer convinced me to go back to Redwood City.
I MEAN, REALLY,” Barry said to me in his office a few days later.
“What the hell do you expect us to do for you?”
I didn’t say anything. All my focus was going into not letting the floodgates burst. A few tears came out anyway despite my valiant attempt. It hadn’t even been close to my worst relapse, but given a few more days, I’m sure it would have been.
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