Gregg Was Waiting For Me.
The rest of rehab had its ups and downs. I recognized that I had a purpose for being there – to learn, and to follow the rules. I didn’t like the rules; I have never been a fan of authority. But I enjoyed the groups, I loved the people, and I became vulnerable enough, finally, to be happily sober for 31 days.
My graduation from rehab was terrifying. I’d made a home for myself there. I didn’t want to leave. Everyone assured me that if I went to meetings and got a sponsor, I’d be fine. But I liked the people I met in rehab; I didn’t want to find new people.
Rehab suggested that I transfer to a sober living facility to keep me free from old triggers, but I declined. I had an important job at The Carnegie. I had to go home!
Also, Gregg was waiting for me. I didn’t know what to do with Gregg, since he was my only friend and I also detested him. I’d asked him not to visit me – which worked out fine, since he didn’t have a car to drive. I’d taken my car keys to rehab, so he couldn’t drive my beloved Bug.
I called the night before I left rehab and alerted Gregg to clean up the place and make sure that my tiny apartment had no alcohol or drugs. He assured me that he would do that. My guess? Any mood-altering chemicals that were around after I left had already been consumed in my absence.
Gregg had been taking care of Kitty, and I was happy he’d been there for her. He ran to meet me on the street, under the guise of helping me with my stuff. I had one bag, and I could carry it fine myself, thanks. He gave me a big hug and spun me around.
I really just wanted to see Kitty.
Upon arrival, I looked around. Everything was in order – no drugs or alcohol, and sadly no cigarettes since Gregg had smoked all of those, too. I gave him five bucks to go get me two more packs.
While he was gone, I opened my mail. I had a lot of junk and a bill, so I opened the phone bill first. Inside the envelope was the highest bill I’d ever received – more than $50! I was stunned. I flipped through and found several phone calls to places with monikers like “SEXY PHONE CHAT” and “900 WOMEN XXX.”
When Gregg returned with my cigarettes, I’d already thrown his stuff into a grocery bag. I waited for him outside, the bag on the ground.
I had not learned to curb my anger.
I ducked my head and ran at Gregg like a football player trying to make a tackle, bowling into him and bouncing backward. Then I swung my fists at his face, screaming obscenities like “FUCKING PHONE SEX!” and “FIFTY DOLLARS!” … hoping to land a blow and break his nose.
Gregg barely flinched, finally pinning my arms and explaining that he had just been lonely while I was gone, and that he would pay me back just as soon as ….
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE!” I screamed.
Gregg unpinned my arms and looked down at me. Then he turned and walked away, never to return.
I ran into Gregg about a year later, after I’d heard that his dad died of alcoholism. I told him I was sorry and hugged him, because I was sorry. I always felt sorry for Gregg.
Finally, though, Gregg was out of my life.