January 7, 2015

This story is true. I've chosen to leave out specific details about the people involved to protect their anonymity. It should also be said that I was hurt by some of the people in this story, therefore, my recounting of the events is probably skewed. However, I've attempted to write the most objective story as I possibly could in all fairness to everyone involved. Mistakes were made. I cannot know a man's motives, his intentions, or his heart. Maybe I shouldn't, but I have and will attempt to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. This is a story about despair and hopelessness, salvation and redemption. It's about helpers and those who need help. I'm writing this story because I am looking to make sense of something that happened to me. I'm not out for revenge or retribution. I've been hurt, angry, and confused about all of this for years, and frankly, I don't know that I have really processed through this experience. Like many moments in my past, sometimes the memories haunt me and sometimes I'm filled with overwhelming joy and gratitude.

I was listening to the podcast: 'The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill,' and it was like someone opened up a faucet of thoughts, feelings, and memories. It all came rushing back. The specifics are almost entirely different, but not completely. The thing is, and maybe more will be revealed as I write, I can't quite put my finger on why my brain heard that story and immediately drew parallels, but it did. The only way I can figure it is best summed up by United States Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart in Jacobellis v. Ohio: "...I know it when I see it." There are some personalities we cross paths with who are unforgettable. There are a handful of those in this story. One in particular, that to this day, I don't know if I respect or hate. I also cannot say if it was willful ignorance and good intentions, or pure evil I encountered. I know for sure I'm dealing with some level of 'Stockholm Syndrome.' It's confusing and strange. I can go from absolute anger and hate to a deep and true desire to reconcile.

There is a strange place I wandered into as a new Christian recovering from addiction. Somewhere between trauma and forgiveness; whilst knowing the depths of my own depravity, hypocrisy and sinfulness. In the pursuit of healing and clarity, the aforementioned characteristics make for confounding bedfellows. I've prayed and prayed for discernment and wisdom, and I'm not sure I've found either yet. Maybe that's why I was so compelled to write this. Then again, maybe it isn't.

It all seemed too good to be true. A year away from society would be a welcome respite from the world I was coming from. I traded the car I was driving to my drug dealer, packed my things into a couple paper bags, and slept on my parents' couch the night before I checked in. I was strung out bad this time. 31 years old and strung out.

I was thin. Emaciated. When I ate, which was rare, it was usually a scoop of peanut butter or a donut and chocolate milk.

As I write this, 7 years later, I still remember what it was like. The smells are still vivid. Cigarettes, stale meth smoke, and heroin lingered in the air like a putrid demonic stench. It turns my stomach to think about. I was barely human. It came out of my pores as I was sweating, trying to clean up my room. I was staying in a house a few miles from where my family lived. What was said, the timeline of events, exactly how it all went down those last couple days is a haze, but I'll never forget the smells.

I don't remember if I slept the night before I left.

I called a friend a few days earlier and he had sort of taken me hostage until I made it to treatment. It was very strange. I called him for help, and he just came and got me. He didn't leave my side until I was checked in to rehab. This man saved my life.

I was smoking meth off of a piece of tinfoil as we pulled around the corner from the rehab. I was in a strange place. I don't recall observing my surroundings in any real detail. All I remember was I'd never been to this city before, and I had no idea how we had gotten here. My brain was still sluggish from the heroin I had done earlier. It was a flurry of sound, and sweat, and anxiety. I was an absolute mess, but I was resolute in my decision to go into treatment.

I think it might be important to note I still feel utterly disturbed when recounting these last moments. However, I think it is very important to lay the foundation as to my state of mind when I went into this place. Although, it my be hard to read these ugly details, they are important. While I know these lines may be difficult to read, I promise they were far more difficult to write.

I wasn't drug tested when I arrived. Thank God for that. There was a standard, I learned later, that you had to 'test clean' upon arrival to treatment. This is because withdrawal from alcohol and benzodiazepines (Xanax) can cause serious seizures and be fatal. This treatment center wasn't built for that level of care, so most would need to detox before arriving. It was also used as a tool to test for willingness.

The scene was so strange. I don't remember how it all went down exactly, but I arrived with my bags in tow and was seated at a table bolted to a concrete slab. There were a row of these subway tables running parallel to the sidewalk. When I sat, the street was to my left. Across the street a group stood and smoked cigarettes and talked. To my right were various patio style tables and chairs scattered across the concrete. There were guys everywhere. It was like a little beehive. There was a flat wooden roof stretching over the entire concrete slab. Further to my right there was a black Labrador tied to one of the polls and a doghouse.

Then they started. One after another, introducing themselves, shaking my hand, "what's your name man?"

"welcome home," "you have everything that you need?"

Over and over and over, the same questions and statements. They all looked me right in the eye. Everyone seemed sincere. I was reeling from the drugs, and it all was quite a blur.

I feel the need to add another warning in here. There is cursing in this story. I am only going to use it when necessary, however, it is very important for the reader to get an understanding of the vernacular. There was a whole language of its own in this place, and cursing, was a part of it. I will not use it for dramatic effect, or emphasis, I only use swear words in direct reference to the way people spoke. I'm trying to paint the clearest picture I can while reflecting on the crazy psychology of it all. Language, behavior, thinking, speaking, everything had a life of its own. Frankly, the vast majority of the men there were from very rough backgrounds and swearing comes with the territory. When you're unhinged and addicted to serious drugs, living under bridges, in jails and institutions, you learn to express yourself like the trolls and demons. You become a creature, and creatures do not speak the 'Kings.'

I had been to treatment before. I had been to jail before. They are not the same, but they do have similarities. No matter where you wash up, you are kind of always ready for anything and on edge. This was all unexpected. I think the best way to say it is I was disarmed immediately. When one wanders amongst the monsters of this world, he so arms himself. Multiple personalities, defenses, hiding, secrets, pain, suffering, pure unadulterated terror, borderline psychosis, lying, violence, cowardice, and evil make up the armor we wear upon entering into new situations. I was disoriented, still intoxicated, and burned out, but I was still watching everyone closely.

Directly in front of me was the house. This place sits on an entire block with multiple buildings. We always called it 'the house.' The main house sat on the corner of a 'T' style intersection. From the front looking directly across the street was an incredible view of a harbor. It was quite literally a house. Two stories, white with blue trim. The concrete area was set in the back. I found out later this concrete patio gathering area was called 'the Pit.'

There was a short staircase leading up to the porch with railing that stretched the width of the building along the back. There was a white podium seated directly in the center of the deck area. Behind it was a bench. There were two doorways. One on the left and one on the right. Each doorway had a short staircase in front of it. Both had screen doors. I couldn't see the second floor from where I was sitting because the roof of the Pit blocked my view. I could see the stairs leading directly to the second floor to my right. It was an external staircase. It was obviously old. The paint was cracked and faded.

I was staring directly at the doorway on the left side of the house trying to get my wits about me, shaking hands, and responding as politely as I could to each man, when the screen door popped open and out came a man. He came down the short staircase as the screen door slapped shut behind him.

He was a short square man with broad shoulders and short arms. He didn't look very old. Maybe in his early forties. His arms were covered in tattoos. Back then I would have said he was 'sleeved out.' Meaning the tattoos covered his arms like shirt sleeves. I saw right away this was not professional tattoo parlor ink. It was prison art. Prison tattoos don't have any color. They have a greenish black hue. Usually, they have skulls, demons, nude women, and symbols. Again, "you know it when you see it." He had dark short hair, kept in a messy crew cut.

I watched him as he sort of bounded down the steps energetically. He came over and sat down directly across from me. He looked directly at me with cobalt blue eyes that didn't seem to blink. I remember thinking there was a familiar mischievous twinkle in those eyes. He shook my hand and introduced himself without breaking eye contact. I remember this moment clearly. Relief washed over me and I realized this person saw me as a human being. It was surreal and authentic. I wasn't a patient in that moment, or a client, I wasn't just another body to be cycled through in 30 days. This man looked at me like he cared, understood me, and was sincerely interested in what I had to say for myself.

I don't remember the details of our conversation. I do remember he never broke eye contact with me. I'm sure I lied about the details of my using, and especially avoided telling him that I had been doing so up to the moment of my arrival. He knew what was up.

He said, "So you'll probably be dope sick for a few days right? Like the flu."

I said, "yeah," not really knowing how severe my withdrawal would be.

"I don't want any whining, okay?"

I chuckled and agreed.

Then he laid out what my life was going to look like for the next 9 to 12 months.

"Alright, so the program is 9 to 12 months no contact; could be longer, could be shorter, depends on the person. No letters, emails, phone calls, visits, of any kind. Your family needs a break from you. We got you from here. You'll be up at six every morning and in bed at ten every night. There's no hanging out in your room and 'chilln,' no naps, TV, newspapers, no books except for approved AA literature. Everyday you'll have groups, classes, and 12-step meetings. This is a social model program with 100 men. If you can follow directions you'll be just fine. Can you handle that?"

"Sure," I replied.

He had one final question.

"Are you willing to go to any lengths for your sobriety?"

"Yes." I said solemnly.

He had me fill out some paperwork, I said goodbye to my friend, and I was in. That was January 7th, 2015.

I was in. Immediately, I was escorted into the House by a young man. He looked like he was about 17 years old. It was so weird. He told me that he'd be searching my stuff for contraband. I don't remember our conversation exactly, but I remember him telling me that he was an intern there. I thought that was interesting.

I had lost all real sense of personal privacy. I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I had to drug test in front of people, shared small rooms with criminals, been stripped searched, even my secrets didn't stay that way for very long.

After I was all searched and checked in, someone took my belongings to my room for me and I was sent to get a haircut. No long hair, no beards, no mustaches. I didn't know all of that when I sat down. They sent me to a house across the street from the main one. Another crazy looking Victorian. It had tall white pillars between the first and second floors and a string of windows along the bottom and the top. The building was white with blue trim and looked to be about the same age as the main house. As I walked across the street with my escort we went up a long wheelchair ramp along the right side of the building to a door. Inside we went and to my left was a hall. Along the right side of the hall were commercial grade washers and dryers. To the left was a long table. The hall lead into what looked like a living room. To my right was a small room with two windows and sure enough there was a barber chair right in the center.

My escort also happened to be my barber. He was different from the guy who checked me in. This guy had nautical tattoos on both of his forearms. They were not jailhouse or prison tattoos. He was shorter with blonde hair. And this dude had the craziest lazy eye I have ever seen. My barber. I pretended to ignore it and proceeded to describe how I'd like my haircut.

"Just leave it kind of long on the top and clean up the sides."

He only nodded.

I wasn't really watching what he was doing. But, before I knew it I realized I was getting a buzz cut. Number two all the way around.

I wasn't even mad. I realized it wasn't an accident, and I knew he heard every word I said. This was my introduction to "you ain't runnin' shit around here." Still makes me laugh to this day. He was a good guy and ended up being one of the faces that would appear in this place for treatment more than once.

It was a Wednesday. The handshakes continued, it was a warm and overwhelming experience. I asked everyone how long they'd been there. Some of the answers were unbelievable. Three years, two years, four years! I was shocked. I remember thinking that was probably a good thing.

Then, suddenly, someone yelled, "Primary, go eat!"

The sound of all the metal chairs on the cement was deafening. Everyone started to migrate towards the right side of the house down the long driveway to the sidewalk. There was someone by my side the whole time. Chatting me up.

We walked in pairs along the street. I don't remember who walked with me. The whole heard of men traveled down the street. To my right, were the harbor view properties. A sign hung from a two story house. That was one of ours. As we continued, we passed a Swedish church on the corner of the next block.

As we crossed the street towards another large single story building, I got an important lesson. My walking partner pointed to the stop sign on the right of the crosswalk and said, "always go around that stop sign, we don't cut corners." This would be one of many many rules I'd learn about here. My world was about to dramatically change, and I couldn't be happier.

I was dying for some type of structure and discipline. I welcomed all of the order and the rules. I was 31 years old and had been living in the middle of utter chaos for many years. I was exhausted. I had spent so many years aimless, without sails, rudder, or map; I was dying for some direction. My spirit was crushed, I was literally starving, for food and for friends. I spent years pursuing pleasure and my very own heaven-on-earth, that I ended up in Hell. This place was very strict, and it felt like heaven.

We walked up a narrow walkway lined with nautical style rope and post decorative garnishes. The building itself looked like an elementary school on the outside.

To the right of the walkway was an open space that was paved with bricks. It ran into a large wall with two cement seats against it. The wall was the back of an autobody shop next door.

The walkway took us through a rod iron gate where we hung a left and there were 2 coatracks on either side of the door. No hats allowed in the "Barts." That was the name of the large commercial cafeteria.

The floor was vinyl with huge round plastic tables scattered throughout. Chairs encircled each table. Everyone lined up on the right wall and waited to use the bathroom. We all had to wash our hands. At the end of the wall facing out was the serving window. There were a handful of guys in white t-shirts shuffled around busily. I remember the noise was crazy. Every one was chatting away happily. There had to be 60-70 guys in there.

When I came out of the bathroom, someone yelled, "new man to the front!" Everyone started clapping and pushing me to the front of the line. They were letting me eat first. I was mortified, and I'd never felt so welcome anywhere in my life.

After dinner, we marched a few blocks up the street to another building. Two by two. Everywhere was always two by two. This was by design. One was never left alone with his thoughts for too long. Those thoughts were out to kill us.

We marched up to an AA meeting. There were people from the outside there along with our group. We clustered together on one side of the room upstairs. The building looked like it used to be an old church. Everything was old and made of wood. There was a small kitchen where we could grab a cup of coffee.

Everyone milled about outside of the building, smoking, waiting for the meeting to start. It was here I was briefed.

"Best you just listen. This is about sharing experience, strength and hope, of which you have none, so keep your mouth shut and sit in front."

Fair enough. I didn't have much to say anyway.

I don't remember the meeting, but it was warm and by candlelight. The meeting ended and we marched back to the Pit. It seemed like all 100 men were there milling about, sitting in groups, talking, and laughing. Some guys were across the street smoking. I didn't really care to sit and chat at the moment, so I took my place at the driveway by the street, turned and faced everyone and yelled, "new man needs a ride!" My first few weeks I'd be on 'New Man Status.' Never alone, and if I wanted to go across the street, I was required to turn and yell for a ride. Boy was that humbling. That was the whole idea. This was another one of many lessons I'd learn there. If I didn't seek humility on my own, I'd be humiliated.

We all sat around and chatted. Someone yelled for clean up, and like ants, everyone grabbed chairs, tables, old cups, books, brooms, and starting putting everything away. We all circled up, and someone made a few announcements about the next days, things that needed correcting, and I don't remember what else. We all placed a 'foot in' for all the alcoholics and addicts still suffering. We said the Lord's prayer, and headed off to bed.

I was coming off a bad run doing heroin and meth for I don't know how many consecutive weeks. I was completely exhausted, my spirit was sick, my body was badly broken, and my mind was reeling. I'll never forget, that after my head hit the pillow, I slept the deepest dreamless sleep I'd had in years.