Today marks seven years since I had a drink of alcohol. That was 2019, and while that’s the date that has stuck, I actually went to rehab for drinking back in 2014 on the not-so-gentle advice of family (some of whom would currently qualify as alcoholics if we’re going by the program I attended). Back then I knew I was not ready to stop drinking – I only knew that I could stop when I wanted, and to prove that I agreed to do an outpatient rehab stint at Conifer Park. They had a working professionals program that met after work and was designed for those who didn’t need a full 24-7 rehab program. While that sounded lovely, or at least the lesser of several ill-fitting evils, it was still unquestionably a rehab program, with the whole range of people that encompasses such a program – drugs and alcohol and sex were all treated in my ‘professional’ group, and everyone had horror stories and histories that went disturbingly beyond my situation. Even in rehab I was an outsider among outsiders, and at the start of that journey, I most certainly did not feel like I belonged.
They’re always knocking at the door
You get a bed, but you use the floor
They watch you take your pills
No thrills, no TV after 9
Swimming pool and cigarettes
And what you get is what you get
There’s a telephone, but the only number that I know is mine
I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
My intake person – a short, solidly-built young man with a buzz cut and military background – gave me an assessment and recommended a program with a couple of meetings a week at first. His line of standard questions, and his blunt manner, didn’t pair well with my personality, but we weren’t there to make friends, so I gave him the facts and the bare minimum of feelings, and he set me up for a plan for the next few weeks. I’d only see him on the first and last day of treatment, so his lack of understanding of my particular predicament didn’t matter much. Maybe I’m being a bit harsh, and the memories have their bitterness which is shading his treatment and engagement. It doesn’t matter – I was there, and I was ready and willing to play the game. In that respect, I was a pretty decent client – I would do as I was told, and I would be as honest as I could about it at each and every step of the process. Because the truth was, I didn’t know if I was an alcoholic – but I was open to finding out if I was.
You tell the man what’s in your head
He writes it down and he nods his head
Then the other heads nod their heads
Then everybody cries
My group sessions began shortly thereafter, and it was just as cliched and dismal and hopeful as you might surmise. We sat in a large circle in the middle of a larger gray room. Harsh fluorescent lighting gave a clinical coolness to the meetings, while a sad poster of the 12 Steps and some abstract religious bullshit artwork hung on one of the walls in my sightline. A gray-haired man with matching mustache and woefully unfashionable glasses led the meetings. Without truly connecting my social anxiety to my drinking, the whole experience was doubly difficult and challenging for me, but I was determined to work through it and do what I was supposed to do – then get out and see how long I’d decide to stop drinking. Part of me also wanted to see if I was going to go through any withdrawal or cravings for alcohol (there were none) and whether any of these people working the program could tell me if I was or wasn’t an alcoholic once and for all. That’s how I began my introduction too, because I’d decided from the start to be as open and honest as possible for the duration of this, and the truth is I still didn’t believe I was a full-fledged alcoholic. (And I knew that’s what all alcoholics said at the start.)
You bite your tongue while somebody talks
You got one eye closed, the other’s on the clock
It’s all sitting and circles, I sure could use some kinda line
I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
For those first sessions I did the bare minimum as we went around the room as far as participation went, and mostly trying and succeeding at fading into the background. Still, I paid keen attention to everyone else’s stories. There were several people who had been there multiple times – one woman said this was her tenth try at rehab and she didn’t expect this one to take but she didn’t know what else to do. I watched and heard the strained patience of the man leading the session, who had clearly had her in his program for perhaps many of those ten times. There was the gay man who was a drug addict and had the skillful charm and ease of getting everyone on his side to further his manipulative method of navigating his addiction. There was the young woman who described her sex addiction in what seemed more of a social scene, even as it was wrecking her home and family life. My tale of having too much to drink at parties on occasion gave me a certain sense of imposter syndrome, while emboldening the take that I was not as “bad” as anyone else here, and there was an illicit and uncomfortable sense of relief and gratitude that came with it. Some doubt as well, because I was certain there was something I must have been missing.
Maybe I could just ask real nice and they’d let me out today
Excuse myself from this living hell and tell ’em I’m back out to stay
Get a spoon, dig a hole, buy a bottle and a ball
And get the gang back on the road
If I could just jump the wall, then I’d run on home
Over the course of the weeks that unfolded, I got the hang of the sessions – the way we would talk through our difficulties and let people offer words of support, while the facilitator would give his take on possible improvements to be made. I shared a bit more, but the simple truth was I didn’t have it as difficult or awful as most of the other people there – and for me, at that time in my life, that was probably the best lesson and most powerful effect: the idea that ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ was profoundly weighing upon how I navigated the idea of my drinking. Comparison may be the thief of joy, but when you’re the one doing “better” in the given scenario it feels damn fucking good. That’s not said with any notion that I deserve a pat on the back – my mindset was probably all wrong for rehab, even if I worked the program as directed and would go on without drinking for several months after it ended – just to prove to myself I could do it.
I hear they’re serving eggs today
And sweet salvation’s on the way
But glory’s full, and you can’t cut the line
From time to time, one of the attendees would ‘graduate’ and we would mark their last day of group rehab with a round of applause. They’d give their final rendition of how they were doing, and I couldn’t tell if I felt envy or some weird sense of pride-by-approximation. The stories I heard from others were often so harrowing and scary to me, that I didn’t want to touch a drink for fear of approaching such a life, and part of me wondered if that was the point of these group sessions – it seemed too easy, too basic to be all that was going on here, but I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, figure out the rest for the remainder of my meetings. Sometimes the stories and the backgrounds would be so sad that no one could blame the person for losing themselves in liquor or drugs, and at those moments I wondered how any of us would get through this life alive.
So catch me on the evening news
“Dumb fag dies from the rehab blues”
I guess I could use some rest, but man, who’s got the time?
When I reached my final session, I was hoping there would be another person whose last day coincided with mine so it wouldn’t be so noticeable, but there wasn’t. At the end of the meeting, the facilitator mentioned that one of us was graduating today, and he pointed me out and the requisite round of applause sounded, my social anxiety at an all-time high as the room focused its attention in my direction. He then looked at me and said, “You’ve been coming here a few weeks, and you’re usually pretty quiet, but I see you engaged and listening and taking part in the program, really working through it, and I thank you for that. You’ve done a good job without whining or complaining, so I hope you continue.” Not sure if that was a dig at anyone else, and it didn’t matter. I’d completed the program, and I wouldn’t drink for another six months, so it was as successful as it was going to be for someone who knew he wasn’t ready to stop drinking.
I wouldn’t be ready for another five years, but once I was, I didn’t need rehab to stop.
I hate it here, I don’t care
I hate it here, I don’t care
I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die
