What Else Could There Be?
It took me a minute to settle into rehab and recognize that we were actually working on ourselves. I wasn’t there to find a husband or to make new friends. I wasn’t even there to stay out of the bars and away from drugs. I was there to learn how to stop drinking.
I still didn’t know exactly how that worked because, it seemed, after 28 days I would graduate from rehab and I would have nothing to do except drink beer. My entire adult life, all I’d done is work and drink and do drugs. What else could there be?
Fortunately there was no way to be in rehab without learning about the multitude of 12-step programs that were available to me outside the doors of rehab. I could go to Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, Sex Addicts Anonymous, or even the brand new Cocaine Anonymous. I remembered those really fun stories and laughing aloud at my first three AA meetings and determined that I wanted to go to all the 12-step programs.
It never occurred to me that there was more to it than laughing about someone losing her car. This, I guess, is why we did so many therapy groups.
“Group” lasted all day, it seemed, with breaks for food and cigarettes. And I looooved “group.” In group, we sat around in a circle talking about the things we’d done, where addiction had taken us emotionally, physically and mentally, and why we started drinking and drugging in the first place. I enjoyed talking about my inability to adapt socially to a world where everyone was normal and I was weird.
But listening to the other people in my group talk about their experiences…. That woke me up.
For example, we were supposed to share the worst thing anyone had ever said to us. I said: “My mom told me I was the most selfish person she’d ever known.” Though I was horrifically selfish, this felt like a knife in my gut when she said it.
Then Alice told her story. “My dad took me out to the garden and pointed at all the weeds growing between the flowers. He said, ‘Alice, you’re just like these weeds. You’re disgusting and suffocating all the beautiful flowers.’ He started ripping out all the weeds and said, ‘You belong on the compost pile.'”
My jaw dropped. All the other “worst things” were worse than mine. Being selfish didn’t seem so bad anymore.
Another time, we talked about the underlying cause of our addictions. I talked about how my uncaring parents had moved me from Maryland to Virginia “right in the middle of 8th grade!” Imagine!
Then Keisha told her story. “My big brother walked me to school in the mornings,” she said, crying quietly. “Every day he pulled me into the bushes to have sex with him.” Keisha started choking, sobbing, and fell out of her chair onto her knees in the middle of group. “I was eight!” she wailed. “I was just a little girl!” Keisha screamed and moaned and wailed. I stared, confused and stunned.
Friendships inevitably happened; we all formed a tight bond. Everyone’s favorite person was Junior, who graduated halfway through my stay. Junior deservingly won the “Most Likely To Stay Sober” award. We all applauded, proud and excited for him to start his sober journey.
We all watched Junior from the rehab window as he got into his friend’s car to leave. Junior stuck his head out the window, holding up his drink to say “Cheers!” as they pulled away.
Junior’s drink? A can of Budweiser.