With urgency, I was whisked home to California. With my girlfriend equally afraid of me as for me, my chain of command got complicated. But I made it home safely, with calls being made behind the scenes. For what do you do with a 28-year-old suicidal alcoholic bent on self-destruction?
Back in the South Bay, I still had some good friends. One was a teaching pro named Nick Getz, son of the famous tenor saxophonist Stan Getz. Nick's father's struggled with alcoholism throughout his life, leading his mother to become well versed in the world of recovery.
Nick's Mom and my parents got coordinating, trying to find an inpatient treatment center that could take me immediately. By the time I'd touched down in Southern California, the plan was set and already well in motion. I was going away for a while, to a thirty-day substance abuse center in Tucson, Arizona. Luckily, finally and barely, I'd found my way to Rehab.
But something was obviously wrong. Seriously wrong. My behavior the past couple weeks, hell, the last 14 years really, culminated in a dangerous, reckless, ham-fisted binge that almost took me out, with my life destroying drug usage now becoming life threatening.
But my incessant drive to get high was a smokescreen, for I really wasn't getting high anymore. What I was doing was avoiding coming down. For in coming down was where reality resided, of how lost and adrift my life had become And the only method I had of escaping that reality was to take ever-increasing amounts of mind-altering substances, further destabilizing my already fragile state.
A vicious cycle, where my solution to my mounting problems had become a near-deadly problem itself. For when I was using, all of my life's failings melted away and they would remain melted if I could just stay high. It's when that high began to wane my problems rushed forth. The unimaginable pain of pissing my life away. And I would try to reason with myself, that I was just biding my time, waiting for a break, for my fortunes to change. But the break never came and now I'd run out of time. And when the addict's only solution stops working, something had to give. And for me, that something became rehab.
Inpatient Treatment. Thirty days. Rehab was for the hard cases, the ones at risk to themselves and others. At first glance, treatment is for the patient, to stem their downward tide toward jail, institutions, or death. But it was just as much for their loved ones, likely at their wits end trying to save the addict's life during the insanity of late-stage addiction. For that's where I was. Late stage addiction. It's what rehabs were built for, when all else had failed. The graveyard of countless vain attempts, a thirty-day timeout to alter the course of badly broken lives.
Back home in Los Angeles. I take a seat at the dinner table across from my parents. I sat in the same chair facing my father, the same chair I sat stoned out of my mind for all my high school years undetected.
We had no idea. We had no idea...
My troubles were all out in the open now. No more secrets from me. No more obliviousness from them. Or was it? How much did they know? Did the Doctors tell them everything? My parents only knew how it ended, with me writhing and screaming in an ICU bed. So how much should I tell them of these past 14 years? And would it help anything if I did?
We sat quietly at the table, a palpable tension hovering between us. We were all way above our pay grade here. Now forced together with a common problem. What a weird place to jump back into being a family, for once again, nobody had any idea what to say or do. I mean, where do you start?
Moments later, my friend Nick arrived to give me a ride to the airport. He'd been a partner in crime for some time, but even he didn't know what to make of me. My being obscenely high all the time took the focus off his own behaviors, with Nick adhering closely to rule number one of the Party Club, never be the worst in the room. But my predicament now forced some soul searching upon him, which I sensed he resented with a passion. We had partied hard for years together. Was he a contributor in my decline?
We all exchanged uncomfortable pleasantries, the reason behind our convening still too heavy to broach. Then it was time to go. It was tense. It was awkward, all of us unsure what to say or do. I sensed their fear, I felt their helplessness. Their son was being taken to a hospital, stay indeterminate, his future well-being in serious jeopardy.
My folks quickly thanked Nick for coming, who headed out to his car, leaving me alone with my parents. My Dad walked me to the door. As I reached for the handle, he put his hand on my shoulder, wishing me luck.
Incapable of words, I immediately started to tear up. I would have loved to reassure them I was going to be alright, but I simply couldn't. I hated scaring them, I hated putting them through this, yet all I could muster was an I'm sorry as I headed out the door.
Traffic was slow. We drove in silence, the ride to the airport taking forever. At every stoplight, I'd see the bright neon lights of corner liquor stores. They called to me. What I would give. I felt raw. I felt vulnerable. I mostly felt scared, for I was detoxing terribly, the withdrawals near overwhelming. But I knew what would make me feel better and it was right there, in the liquor store's front window. I wanted to jump out, I wanted to make a run for it. But that voice from Atlantic City returned.
No. You've had enough...You've had enough.
I arrived at the airport early for my flight. As I reached my gate, I was surrounded by temptation. People having drinks with their food, the bar three deep with imbibers. But I stayed to myself. Surrounded by alcohol, I felt out of place for the first time in my life in the only world I knew.
I boarded my flight without incident. The flight attendant, doing her rounds, soon approached me, asking me if I'd like a drink. Again I was surrounded. Everyone on my flight was drinking. How did one not drink constantly in a world so construed? I entertained the thought for a moment. One last one. Who would know? Then that voice again...
No. You've had enough...
Fortunately LA to Tucson was a short flight. Departing the plane en masse, through the sea of people I saw across the walkway a poster board sign with my name. It was Sierra Tucson's driver. As I approached, a sinking feeling enveloped me. This was it. My drinking days were over. I was being taken to a hospital. I was on my way to rehab.
Helping me with my bags, the driver and I walked outside to where a nondescript white van awaited. I surmised this was the anonymous part of the program, with most folks not wanting anybody to know why they were in Tucson and where they were headed.
It was about an hour's drive to the Center. My driver was a chatty one, making small talk the whole way. He started by telling stories. About the Center, about the myriad of crazies he'd driven to and fro. All the insanity of the runners and those finishing their final stash, spilling out of the van rock star style. For some of Sierra Tucson's patients were actual rock stars.
I wasn't feeling it though. Still detoxing, I was way edgy, being somewhat of a dick. I was itching. I was hurting. I wanted to get out and run. I asked the driver to pull over at a convenience store so I could grab some grub, yet I was really plotting out a way to make a run for it. He pulled over and parked. As the van slowed to a stop, I grabbed for the sliding door handle, but it was locked. My driver busted out laughing. Don't worry, you're not the first. Defeated, I felt my rebellious spirit sink. My days of running away from my condition were coming to a close.
Unsolicited, my driver began to tell me his story, how he once sat in my seat many years before, wanting to die, wanting to run, feeling hopeless and lost in the world. But that Sierra Tucson saved his life. So much so, he never left and that he works for them now, transporting wretches like me from the airport to the center and back. It was the greatest job in the world he said, having a birds-eye view for impossible transformations. Looking back at me in the van, he then got serious. He said I could have one too.
Now he had my attention. I needed to hear this. As we neared the Center, he told me to pay particular attention to a sign we were about to pass. Entering the grounds, at the head of a long circular driveway, he slowed the van to a halt.
Look to your right he said. And there, painted on a big sign the words...
He looked back at me again, saying I could be a miracle too...
A Miracle. What the hell was a miracle? What did all this mean...
We arrived, pulling up to the front doors. I was greeted by the hospital staff, who immediately grabbed my bags, whisking me away to a meeting area. I asked where they were going with my stuff. They said they needed to search my bags, that I wouldn't believe what people tried to sneak in there.
Oh, I believed it alright. There was nothing I wouldn't have given for a hit right then.
The staff dumped my bags, searching them good. They took my books, telling me I wouldn't be needing them. As they continued to scour my belongings, I was ushered to an office to begin an intake interview. It was lengthy, detailed, extensive. When did I start? How did it progress? I was told to leave nothing out, for they say you're only as sick as your secrets.
Oh, I have secrets alright...
They wanted it all, a fearless and searching moral inventory of my life. So I told them everything. No more secrets. They told me I was safe there, that I couldn't get in any trouble. But they needed to know everything to help me best. Reflexively, all my normal resistances flared. But then they stood down. This was opening up, confession style, recovery's way without all the guilt.
Confessing my every transgression, the weight of them was daunting. Page after page of behavior. From my first drink at age 14 and every subsequent year. All that I did. All it cost me. It was a lot to take on. I began to feel nauseous. It read like a horror film. The carnage. The self-destruction. How in the world was I still alive? This was Zombie shit. But it was sad too. I was so young and innocent once. Why had I been destroying myself so?
I finished my paperwork. Then my undressing began. This was you, correct? You did all this, correct? Threw everything away, everything that mattered to you, everything you worked your ass for. Hell, you almost lost your life. All for a drink and a drug?
But you probably thought you had it under control, that it was just a phase. That you weren't that bad and you could stop anytime you wanted. Yet you had to be rescued from Atlantic City. Twice! Two weeks in a row!! Do you know what we call that? Insanity!!!
You come from a successful family. You're educated. Yet all your reasoning, all your plans, all your best thinking has you right here, sitting in a chair about to begin a 30-day stint in a hospital. Because you're a danger to yourself and others. So much so, you need to put away.
We need you to feel this with every fiber of your being. Hear me when we say this. It's no longer safe for you to circulate in society. So this is your last chance. And don't hang your head. You're lucky. Most alcoholics don't get to go to rehab, especially one as nice as this. So this is it. From what I'm reading here, if you walked out that door right now, you'd disappear and never make it back. So we need you to take your time here seriously. And all we ask of you during your stay here is to be willing. Willing to look at your life and envision a new one, a different one, a life free from alcohol and drugs. It can be done. All of us here live that way. From the drivers to the chefs. Everybody associated with Sierra Tucson was where you are right now and got sober. And you can get sober too. But you have to be willing.
Their pitch was powerful. I was being scared straight, rehab style. I had nothing to say, no defensiveness left. I feebly nodded at their evaluation, telling them I was willing as I could be, considering my past couple of weeks. But not so fast they said, I wasn't ready for treatment quite yet. I needed to be fully detoxed before entering the general population.
They escorted me to the detox wing. They tested me for drugs. I got a perfect score. Positive for cocaine, marijuana, opiates, benzos. They handed me my results. I knew I did a lot of drugs but there was something about seeing narcotics in my bloodstream. It hit me hard. I was poisoning myself, and I couldn't stop. I so wanted to go back in time, to start my adolescence over, to be a child again, and listen to people and heed all their warnings. I didn't remember on career day saying I wanted to grow up and be a drug addict. Yet there it was, right in front of me, in writing. I was addicted to hard narcotics. And a sadness overtook me. I felt dirty. Unhealthy. Damaged. But I'd been this way half my life now. How did all this happen on my watch?
After a couple of tough days, I made it out of the detox wing to begin my thirty days of treatment. Sierra Tucson. A beautiful sprawling center with all the comforts of a country club, pool, gym, sport court, though I wasn't feeling very sporty, as well as hiking trails and a horse ranch for a little nature ride to clear the head. A converted dude ranch in the hills outside Tucson, surrounded by the vast Sonora Desert. If you looked real hard over the horizon, you could see the ill-fated Biosphere, a post-modern experiment in communal living. Was Sierra Tucson really all that different?
There was a schedule. A tight one. With every hour accounted for and none of it optional. Their goal was to level us. There was no status in treatment nor ego. There were no big shots here. You could be from Park Avenue or a park bench, Yale or jail, rehab was the great equalizer, the feelings of advanced alcoholism universal.
We were given chores to do. Clean ashtrays, vacuum, mop, straighten. First morning, I emerged from my room to an Academy Award-winning actor sweeping the sidewalk. There were Hall of fame athletes here too. And supermodels. And rock stars. But all that status stuff was for the outside world. In rehab, we were all just addicts and drunks and dysfunctional fuck ups trying to help each other get through another day clean and sober. We were sheep. We met together, we ate together, we healed together. It was all about the fellowship. And I got it. There was no magic pixie dust here, nor anything to strike us clean with the wave of a wand. It was all AA. They taught us here what we'd need out there to survive.
Military style, but in a self-care way. Meditation. Yoga. Spiritual awakening classes. Nature walks. Rock painting. Church services. Special visitors art course. Horseback rides. Overnight camping. From self abuse to self care. And the fire pit. A beautiful rock encircled amphitheater, ideal for moments of solitude and reflection.
A good place to get some thinking done...
But the real healing got done in our primary groups that met every morning with me, my assigned counselor, and 4 other patients. We would all sit in a circle, sharing the most painful events of our busted lives. Yet I felt an immediate disconnect, sharing my most intimate secrets, stuff I swore I was taking to my grave, to a room of complete strangers. Yet they were not strangers. They were fellow sufferers, all imprisoned by the same alcoholism and addiction that imprisoned me. And it became instantly apparent they were the only people on the planet who could relate to my problems, for they were afflicted by the same baffling ones.
The mood was somber here. Tragic even. So many broken lives. It was all heavy. Dreams interrupted. Yet through it all, we laughed. Gallows humor to the core. We'd have to laugh, or we'd crumble from the weight of it all.
We were in Rehab. Our death sentences commuted, we'd been granted clemency, all be it temporary. We could exhale now, for we've been blessed with a reprieve.
But in the laughter, we bonded. We laughed with each other, we laughed at each other, we laughed at ourselves. Sharing our insanity chipped away at our shame. It felt transformative, to know I was not alone in my madness. And the lack of judgment there. Hard to be high on your horse locked away in a hospital.
The days become cathartic. Weights were being lifted, veils pulled back. We all got each other. We pushed each other, to dig deep, deeper, get it all out, we were there to put their broken selves back together. No more secrets. Be authentic, feel the liberation in owning your shit. For there were no big deals here. The big deals happened already. All of us sharing our drama about how we ended up in Tucson. Losing cars. Crashing cars. Getting lost. Going missing. All the secrets of our lives becoming punch lines. I was there a week and I had a new nickname. They called me Casino Barry. They told me I had a phone call. Atlantic City on line two. Due to your fine play the past month, you've earned yourself a free weekend.
My emotions were on a pendulum. I found myself crying all the time. At the intersection of devastation and hope, for that's what they sold in treatment. Hope. There was no remedy, there was no cure. Just hope. And their medicine was straight talk. Rigorous honesty. They aimed to teach me. About myself. About my past. About my condition. That my alcoholism wasn't a moral weakness. That my alcoholism was a disease.
At first, I felt great relief. Finally a reason behind my behavior. But it all seemed a bit quaint. Too convenient. I wasn't quite ready to exonerate myself. I understood the psychology. They wanted me to cut myself some slack. Take my foot off the ass-kicking machine for just a moment, opening a window ever so slightly for some compassion and healing to enter.
But it didn't sit right with me. Diseases afflicted the unsuspecting and undeserving. I did this to myself. Nobody drank that beer for me. That crack didn't jump into the pipe by itself. I put it there and would go to the brink of insanity procuring it. I was the primary actor in all this. None of this happened without me.
Yet so much of what I'd done I didn't want to do. And I didn't drink like an ordinary person. At some cellular level, I was physiologically different than my fellow man. And don't get me started on drugs. I craved them like a madman. An invasion of the body snatchers. So there was something different happening with me, but what? Why was there no determining blood test? Why was it all so subjective? It was all so confusing as we laughed some more and cried some more, the states of stability and equilibrium miles beyond our scope.
A week in and I'm feeling the gravity of the devastation, all the stories about late-stage addiction. It does not discriminate. It destroys. I felt lucky. I felt unlucky. Unlucky I've got such a bad case. So lucky I had people in my life who helped me reach treatment. The guy bleeding from his eyes on the gurney in Atlantic City. He had nobody to call. At least I still had someone to take my call, still had people who loved me enough to help me. But my alcoholism wanted all of me. To a final resting place of a loneliness unfathomable.
In my primary group. It became my turn to share. I was overwhelmed with guilt. I left my girlfriend in a bad way. Pregnant, scared, alone, 3000 miles across the country. My counselor had me write a letter, to the baby I was never going to meet because of my alcoholism.
I'd been deemed an unfit parent before ever becoming one...
In session, I read it. It was beyond hard. I fell apart again. The wreckage of my present. There wasn't enough Kleenex for how I was feeling. Falling apart a little more each day, where was all this sadness coming from? After a particularly stressful day of group, I stayed after to speak to my counselor. She was a saint in the flesh, patient, compassionate, but firm. At the conversations end, I asked her how she dealt with such heaviness every day and was it possible to go home to her family and children and have a normal life?
And she told me a tale. How at the end of each workday, she walked to her car, and before heading home, she performed a ritual. She pictured all of her patients' faces on a bunch of balloons. And one by one, she addressed them, praying for them, then releasing each one to the heavens with love and when she returned to work the next morning, she gathered us all up for another day.
I was a face on a balloon. Patient by day, released with love at night. I found this beautiful. To be thought of so...
But it was in the afternoon family counseling sessions where the heavy shit went down. FOO. Family of Origin. Alcoholism. One part hereditary, the other environmental. Alcoholism, a family disease, often passed down from one fucked up generation to the next, with one of the many goals at Sierra Tucson to break that chain.
For my situation, that meant getting my parents to the Center. End of my first week, the Family Counselor called me in. We get to talking. I shared it all. He sensed my urgency, how imperative it was that my family participate in my recovery. He assured me they'll be there. I laughed. I told him there's no way in hell my Dad's coming within 500 miles of this place. The counselor countered. The only parents he'd ever had not come for their child's family week were either in jail or deceased. He'd be here.
Getting up to leave, I told him he'd likely be adding a third category to that list with my Dad, because there was no way he was coming.
Preparing us for our family week, Sierra Tucson would have us sit and observe other patients' family sessions. First day in the room, a patient and his large family prepared for his week. Relatives from all high had made the trek to the desert to comfort their fallen sibling. As people kept filing in, they had to bring in more chairs. And then more chairs. Standard chairs, some plastic folding ones, the random metal one with a cushioned seat. There simply weren't enough chairs for this person's family.
I doubted that would be my problem...
The chairs, once arranged in a circle, had grown into an ellipse to accommodate the growing throng. In the center stood two chairs, one for the patient, the other for a loved one. The two chairs faced each other, aligned for a showdown. But there would be no showdowns here. Just painful expressions of how addiction affected the family as the rest of us sat quietly in the circle, respectfully attentive, bearing witness to these most emotionally charged encounters.
The exchanges were regulated. When you X, I felt Y. There was no blaming or venting or cross-talk allowed. You had to sit there and take it. And feel. Feel the pain addiction created as it all got spilled out. What was yours. What needed to change. All of it heavy.
The presence of family. To drop everything to save a life. As the first family finished, the second one entered. Now we needed even more chairs. In the spirit of an intervention. The details varied, but the sentiments remained the same. Guilt for their role, guilt for not being able to help, guilt over not heeding the signs sooner, then the fear. Profound fear one night they weren't going to make it home. Then those nights they didn't make it home. The waiting. Praying for the call. Fearing for the knock on the door. Day after day. Nerves beyond frayed, with every ring of the phone, praying it'd be you.
Family purges completed, then it was all about the love. How much they missed the old Jack or the younger Jill. So much fear, so much love. Parents seated across from their children. Barely alive. Their pain simply unimaginable. The weight. The power. Their child was sick and they couldn't help them. It was a unique pain to endure. To have an illness destroy a family. To have an illness overtake your child.
Language fails in such matters...
But by the week's end, there was healing. Separated for the entire week, yet on Friday, families were reunited, walking the manicured grounds in various states of joy and relief, with lots of nervous laughter and fearful tears, with everyone healing in their own way and in their own time during Family week.
To bear witness to such alchemy. From Monday devastation to Friday reconciliation. It felt voyeuristic, invasive, yet powerfully transformative. Seeing firsthand how alcoholism destroyed families, yet with sobriety, healing was allowed to begin. It was all so moving. I tried to envision my crew. Mom Dad brothers, girlfriend, friends, coaches, teammates, peers. How powerful that would be.
Between sessions, I flagged down the family counselors, asking them how it was going with my folks? But they would stick to their party line. Focus on your recovery. We'll take care of your family.
No, you won't, I would say. You have no idea what you're dealing with.
And they would counter. After 20 years of family work, we think we do. They'll be here. Just focus on your recovery. Yet with each passing day, still no confirmation they were coming.
The weekend before family week arrived. I saw my counselor. He tried to avoid me. I zeroed in. Come to my office. We tried everything we could. Your Father's a stubborn man.
Oh, he's something alright.
He says it's your problem and they see no benefit in their coming.
We'll get you the help you need.
And that they're not going to be coming to your family week.
None of them?
None of them. I'm sorry.
You said jail or dead.
I know I did. Jail Dead and your Dad. Again. I'm sorry. We'll still see you Monday for your Family week.
Why? They're not going to be here.
Yes. But you'll still present. Just to an empty chair.
A whole weekend to prepare for the unthinkable. Confronting an empty chair where my Dad wouldn't sit. Pages of grievance. I edited. I edited more. It's not what they did. It's how what they did made me feel. I can't control how people behave. I can only control how I react to how people behave. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to stay sober. I want them in my life, but not at the expense of my sobriety. So I need to let you know when you do or say certain things, this is how it makes me feel.
But most importantly, you're not responsible for my alcoholism. But the grief I feel at the breakdown of our relationship crushes me and I drink to mask that pain.
And it all made so much sense on paper. And Monday arrived. It was my turn in the circle. The family counselors prepared the room. Another large family entered, taking all the open chairs. The chairs where my family was to be seated remained empty. Only myself and my counselor sat at our end. And an empty chair.
And I wouldn't be needing more chairs. And there would be no back and forth.
And I heard a lady from across the room ask where's his family? Why is there an open chair? His family didn't come???
My family counselor called the group to order. The circle tightened. I moved to the center. I took my chair. They slid an empty chair before me. I wanted to heave. I wanted to crumble. I wanted to scream. Instead, I collapsed. Sobbing. Unable to speak. The family from across the room closed in, surrounding me. The Mother approached. The counselor attempted to wave her off but to no avail. The Mother consoled me. Kleenex flew at me from across the room. I tried to gather myself. To ceremoniously, ritualistically purge myself for the group and finally say the quiet part out loud. Scream it if I had to. Tell my Father to his face how being abandoned felt. Yet I couldn't. Because he wasn't there.
The cruel irony of it all. I felt like an orphan, the whole ceremony all too much.
Broken. Betrayed. Confused. They paid for my treatment, but wouldn't come. The mixed feelings about the mixed messages again. Walking around the facility feeling defeated. I needed family week to go well and it so didn't.
With my time at Sierra Tucson winding down, they wanted to keep me longer and who could blame them? But it was time to go, to restart the life I'd been missing from for so long. Eager to get out, yet scared to return home to the scenes of so much of my life's dysfunction.
But this return home would be different. I had some recovery now. I had a detailed aftercare program to employ. And I had my first 30-day sobriety chip and a sobriety date too that I held dearly to my heart. I was going back home. To start life over again, this time with some hope and a plan.
Graduation day. All packed up. I got my after-care package. And saying goodbye to all my new best friends. The forced intimacy, yet I knew I'd never see these people again. Saying goodbye. Saying thank you. To the people and the place that gave me another chance at life.
Climbing back into the van. And I had the same driver. Our eyes met. I nodded and said thank you. He nodded back. No more words need be spoken.
We began our drive out. He stopped again, pointing to the right where there was another large sign.
I strained my eyes to see clearer. And there, in bold letters.
And my eyes welled up one last time...
I was heading home. I'd finally gotten the help I needed...
