As I reflect on my time in this community, I often wonder what others would think about it. I’m not even exactly clear how I feel about it. I can say a few things for sure. The time I spent in treatment and for a couple of years afterward changed the trajectory of my entire life. I learned valuable lessons, made lifelong friends, and became a Christian, (a miracle in and of itself). I learned about generosity and grace at an extraordinary scale. I learned empathy as I wept with those who were around me. I’ve seen firsthand the spirit of God sweep through a community and change lives forever.

I also witnessed how cults start. I have languished about using that word for literally years now, and for obvious reasons. I want to be as precise as I can, and all indications are yes, I did belong to a cult. It’s hard to draw a line between the treatment center and its culture, and the extension of that treatment center I belonged to after I left. For all intents and purposes, I don’t believe anyone tried to form a cult or hurt anyone, spiritually or otherwise, but there was a cult and people were hurt. Be it negligence, hubris, or naiveté, those are the facts. I believe one man was responsible. More on that later.

I saw many men get saved. Men who are still strong Christians today. I saw many men walk away from the faith. More realistically, I saw men confess what they really believed once the social pressure was lifted. Hundreds and hundreds of men went through this place. Many recovered, many did not, some died, and some are still lost as I write this.

The treatment plan was more like gorilla warfare. When I arrived, I had been through several other rehabs, and this place was like none of them. The overarching theme was that everywhere else had it wrong. They were keeping people sick. We had arrived at, “the Harvard of recovery centers.”

I heard that quoted more than once when I first arrived. Frankly, it filled me with confidence. There had to be some truth behind a claim like that, right? It is amazing what statements like that will do to a culture.

“My guys have more recovery in one year, than people with five outside of here.”

“You only have to do this one time right, and never go through this again.”

“I guarantee you’ll get better if you do what we say.”

Bold statements in an arena where the statistics were not in their favor. I think at the time, most treatment centers were wildly successful if they had a 20% success rate of five years or more of continuous sobriety. At the House, I was told there was almost a 90% success rate. I saw no evidence backing up this claim, but I believed it. It made sense. I needed it to make sense. I was desperate and willing to do anything to get better.

I think this is what made it easy to overlook some of the red flags that arose during my time at the House and afterward. To be honest, I was never looking for red flags. I trusted everyone completely. I gave myself over to the program and its leadership. My commitment only grew stronger as I got better. Even to this day, I don’t realize how crazy some of this sounds until I describe it to someone who wasn’t there.

There were a few things that filled me with dread. We had a group twice a week on Mondays and Fridays. It was officially called ‘Resentment Group.’ We called it ‘Group,’ and it was clinically noted as ‘Conflict Resolution Group.’

When you’re brand new, you are required to attend a tiny version of this group before you go to the big one. I think it was about two weeks. It is a well-known axiom in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous that “resentment is the number one offender.” Meaning, unresolved disturbances, grievances, guilt, bitterness, grudges, were the primary motivating factor when an addict or alcoholic picked up again. I couldn’t say if this was for certain, but it seemed logical. What is true, are men that ended up in this treatment center were not emotionally well adjusted. What’s more, and what I can say for certain, is many of us had resentments that were decades old, slowly eating away at our spirits. Were they the cause of relapses? I don’t know. Did they contribute to what created an alcoholic or an addict? Absolutely and without a doubt.

What is a resentment? I got many lessons.

“Anything you think about more than once.”

“Picture a soda bottle, with all the little, tiny bubbles. Each bubble is something small that frustrated you over time. More and more of them gather and pressure builds. Either one day the bottle explodes, or you can slowly open the lid and release the pressure.” Group was important. To release the pressure.

“Imagine you have a backpack on. And all day long you gather resentments in your backpack. Little pieces of shit. The bag gets so full that not only is it breaking your back, every time you turn around you smear shit on an innocent bystander.”

“Have you ever gotten up, and just started the day angry? Someone pisses you off, and it keeps getting worse from there. Then someone says, ‘good morning,’ and you hear ‘fuck you.’ That’s what resentments will do to you.”

These were the lessons I learned in my first two weeks. I would go on to hear them many many times while I lived there. I would teach those same lessons myself.

I remember my first Resentment Group. Someone yelled, “Everyone go to group!” All the guys got up and somberly walked down the driveway along the right side of the house out to the sidewalk. There we turned right and walked a short distance to one of the other Houses. This was another big Victorian. The colors were really just multiple shades of grey. Picture 50 men all in a herd going through a single doorway. It was a bit of a controlled scrum. There was not chatter. No laughing. Everyone was strangely somber. Serious. Over the threshold to my right was a staircase going up to the second floor. To my left was a huge living room. To the far left was the street side. There were windows across the front of the room. Couches lined the walls in the front. Sort of in a horseshoe shape. To the right was a large archway and in the middle of the room were rows of chairs. Cloth chairs with wood armrests and feet. Like 90’s conference room style. Lining the right wall were more chairs leading into a smaller entry to the kitchen. Lining the wall in front of the kitchen and the left side of the room were more couches.

I was directed to the front left couch with the other new guys. By this time, we had learned that the new guys had assigned seating everywhere. Everyone took their places elsewhere. The room was full. The wood floors creaked as everyone settled. The air was thick and heavy. No one really made eye contact. A sign in sheet made its way through the room. Someone yelled, “let’s pray in!” I don’t remember if it was the Lord’s prayer or the serenity prayer. And then we sat in the silence.

We were literally crammed in there.

The program director came in last. He bounded in and sat on the couch in the front of the room. Dead center. He looked over at us, the new guys, and individually asked us all:

“First time?”

We nodded.

“New guys are off limits.” He announced to the room.

I remember thinking that was a curious statement.

“Let’s do resentments.”

And it began. I was in shock.

It was an ordered chaos. Each man went and rattled off the things he was angry at.

“So and so, it pisses me off when you…!”

That was the format. I came to learn later, the general idea was to express what you were upset about and attach a specific feeling. It was clear, the resentments were usually directed at individuals. Some behavior, action, or statement. It was loud. Not everyone was loud. Some yelled. Furious. Others were more measured. It was scary. Somebody called me out for something. The director stopped him and reminded everyone that I was off limits. My heart was in my throat. I didn’t even know these people yet.

Everyone in the room went. There was another theme developing. Everyone’s focus was directed at a single individual. This guy was getting called out by everybody. I felt so bad for him.

“So and so, it really fuckin’ pisses me off the way you act around here. You ain’t about shit!”

“…it seems like your building a case.”

“I got so angry when I tried to give you help and you battled me!”

It was strange the way they spoke.

These phrases were part of the colloquial vernacular there. They would become arrows in my quiver too.

Then everyone was done.

The director had chimed in at various times to prompt individuals to:

“Do some fucking work right now,” or,

“Time to get honest,”

“Get your shit above board.”

He asked everyone to take a deep breath and then it started again.

Only this time, the tone was completely different. The first guy stood up and began apologizing to each person who had called him out for something. It was so weird.

Never in my life had I heard a group of men be so honest with each other.

“I apologize for what I said to you man, the truth is I’m just really insecure and I was trying to get attention so I can feel better about myself.”

What! And so it went, all the way back around the room. Apologies. Honesty. It was remarkable.

You could feel the air in the room begin to lighten. Postures changed. The tension died down, and we were done.

I remember walking out of that house and reeling. I felt like I was on drugs again. I was sweaty and confused. I immediately did what I do, and retreated into my thoughts. We were walking to lunch, and as always, my thoughts were interrupted during our usual march.

The guy who had gotten absolutely lambasted by everyone in the room ran up to me. He was quite overweight. Hispanic. Brown hair and eyes. Apparently, he was ex-military. An Iraq war veteran who’s life had spiraled out of control when he came back from active duty. We had chatted briefly before, and he had shared those details with me. There were 100 or so guys there, and I’d only been on campus for two weeks, so I’m sure I didn’t even remember his name.

“Hey man, I wanted to talk to you about what happened in there.”

“Oh really, what about exactly?” I lied. I knew exactly what he was talking about. This was the pariah. I felt like I might acquire the scarlet letter just being near him. I knew he was an outcast. He wasn’t “about it.”

“I know you’ve never been to group before, so I wanted to let you know that those guys were helping me in there.”

He was trying to soften the blow, I thought. Trying to make sure I’m not scared away.

“I needed my brothers to point out things that I don’t see, they’re being my mirrors.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

I was completely uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if I was even supposed to be talking to this guy. From what I saw, he was in serious trouble and I didn’t want anyone to think I was in cahoots. He continued as we walked.

“Sometimes you get a lot of help in group, everyone has a group like that.”

“Not a chance in hell I’m going through that.” I thought to myself.

Call it judgmental or mean. It was both. But, when you get into situations like these, you must learn the social structure right away. You must observe everyone’s behavior and catch on quick to what is and isn’t accepted, or your life would be miserable. In jail, you’d get beat up for breaking the social rules. On the street, you had to learn how everyone operated to ensure you got what you needed, and nobody was trying to come after you for anything. Call it a survival mechanism.

I asked him, “Why do you call it help?”

“Well, when your brothers are pointing out things to you, they’re helping you, giving you help.”

“Oh I see.” I said.

What I thought was, “got it, we call it help when you get yelled at.”

That’s exactly what it was. Sort of. Like many of the sayings, slang, idioms, etcetera, there was a well intentioned design behind it. “Help,” was supposed to be exactly that, help. However, as these things did there, it had a life of it’s own.

That is the crazy thing about social model and peer to peer feedback. Things would travel through the community. Jokes, sayings, slang, euphemisms, even actual physical behaviors. We had communal vocabulary.

There were many times, when you’d cross paths with someone looking glum and dejected, myself included.

“What’s up dude?”

“I got a bunch of help in group today.”

or, “I just got a bunch of help from the program director.”

We had many euphemisms for this process.

“Getting laced up.” One of my personal favorites, although it was discouraged by the staff to make a joke about getting help or group. It was a big no no. If you did, you were sure to get a bunch of “help.”

One common theme in this story, is this program was about as well-intentioned as one could be. Everything had a purpose. Was it all within the ethical bounds of counseling and the other regulatory bodies? Certainly not. That is where the tension lies. Was some of this over the top, too intense, did it cause problems? Yes, for sure. Did it help people? Yes it did. I’ll get into this more, but where it really got ugly, was when we were no longer in the confines of treatment. It was a weirdo socialistic spiritual commune, and it helped save my life and the lives of many others.

There were other groups on Mondays and Fridays. Sometimes, we’d have a “come above board group.” Those lasted for six to eight hours. We’d have to break for lunch and come back and finish. These groups were basically a giant confession. I won’t get into all the details, but some crazy crazy stuff would come up in there. People wanting to leave, sneaking into the office to call their girlfriend, the guys in second phase talked about porn and selfish desires.

Now, if someone else, “brought you above board,” the consequences were always greater. Secrets were treated like cancer. Straight chemotherapy. Nuke the system. If it was ever found out someone had secrets and others were keeping those secrets, there was hell to pay for that.

There was pressure on everyone to participate. If you didn’t have something to say, you’d better come up with something. Time to get honest. We all got pretty good at this after three or so years. Sometimes it was honest, and frankly, it was refreshing. It felt good to be free of all your secrets after so many years. Being honest about the day-to-day weirdo thoughts that go through your head as you recover generally get a good laugh.

It was in these groups that I saw the directors really do something special. I hated these groups. We all did. But, what I can’t get over was when someone would be honest, on their own, and would put it all out there, the directors would show them so much mercy. They wouldn’t yell, or embarrass, or shame. They’d simply relate, sometimes we’d all have a laugh, and move on. Don’t get me wrong, there would be consequences, but often they’d be mild, and the guy would be held up for his honesty. It always made me cry. I’d never felt safe to be that honest in my life. With anyone. Ever.

There were times when they’d embarrass and shame. That’s for sure. But never with the most damaged, weakest guys. They’d usually embarrass the heck out of the macho cocky guys. But the guys who were awkward, shy, and generally traumatized were handled with love and grace like I’ve never seen. It was so admirable.

The directors weren’t perfect. They weren’t particularly pleasant all the time. They made many mistakes, and were blind to many things. But the way they handled broken men was truly remarkable. I have great disdain for both of them, but often, [1]“the least of these,” were cherished and cared for.

[1] Matthew 25:40