rehab.

punishment came in three parts. 30 AA meetings, dui school, and a 15-week rehabilitation program. i still think the judge was a dick for making me go to AA meetings (instead of NA) when i obviously was not drunk driving. if you've ever watched a movie or tv show with scenes from AA then you probably got a pretty accurate depiction of what it's all about. a lot of fucked up people in one room, some voluntarily, others court-ordered, all pretty fucking miserably sucking down cigarettes before/during/after meetings. 

i don't know anyone else who's gone through a rehab program, drug-mandated or otherwise so i'll tell you about my experience. 

mine was an out-patient program, meaning we only had to show up when we were supposed to and obey the rules. so i committed to 15 4-hour saturday morning sessions. the catch was that they did random drug testing, including alcohol so whatever drinking i wanted to do had to be done before thursday. naturally, my drinking spiked on saturday evenings into the week and tapered off as saturday approached. 

the office building where classes were held was less than a 5 minute drive from me. it's not a great neighborhood, and this school had spanish-only classes so the type of folks coming in and out leaned on the side of burrito eaters. i was a consistent student, missing only one class or so. their policy was strict and you risked expulsion if you skipped too many classes. and it wasn't free. i was barely able to afford these classes post-accident/lawyer--no idea how my bus-taking classmates were able to. the people in my class rotated; some only came once every two weeks and there were faces i only saw once. since i went to the AA meetings held near by, i ended up seeing some familiar faces from those meetings in my classes. not so anonymous after all. 

dave, our teacher, was a heavy-set mexican. an ex-user himself, his outfit was always a variation of dickies pants, short-sleeved flannel, and pristine white nikes. if you've ever visited the LA area, this is pretty standard uniform for mexicans in the area. on my first day, i was asked to share my backstory. i'd seen and heard a lot of messed up stuff from my other meetings/classes that i no longer felt self-conscious when i had to tell my story. it helped that i stayed brief. while some people clearly needed rehabilitation and used this time as therapy, i just wanted to get credit and leave. whether or not this was apparent didn't matter. when i fnished sharing my story, dave laughed. "you don't have a problem. you're an angel." 

i was slightly offended. was my story that vanilla? i guess it was, in a room filled with stories more tragic and interesting than mine. i didn't stay offended for too long. dave's public blessing of my innocence played out in my favor. every meeting started out with dave asking how everyone was doing, often picking on certain people. thinking back now, maybe dave knew what he was doing. maybe he sensed my desire to stay private and picked up on other's people's need to share. and share they did. each week alternated between discussion on assigned topics or episodes of intervention. i love stories--it's probably why i read so much. the stories a little bit harder to swallow knowing this is not fiction. these people are as real as their addictions.

one of the videos we watched was something from the late 80s, vhs and everything. the title was "designer drugs", which they defined as synthetic heroine, pcp, and something else..maybe ecstasy. i've only ever experimented with prescription-grade morphine and can only be thankful for never growing fond of the opiate family. them, either. the problem was usually meth. the video was campy, the people dated and it was hard to take talking head seriously with their mullets and sleeveless denim jackets. it became more real when the video finished and people in class shared their own experiences. i remember this one guy because i saw him often at AA. he had soft eyes, hard to believe he operated a meth lab from his garage. i've never tried pcp, or angel dust, as dave and the others called it. i've always heard it made you crazy. like, really, really crazy. so this guy went to a concert, already high as fuck on who knows what (but not pcp). as he was finding his way back to his truck, someone offered him a drag of something he later realised was sprinkled with pcp dust. this would explain why he was suddenly floating across the parking lot, far beyond reality. hmm. as crazy as his story was, i couldn't help but feel a bit curious about what this dust must feel like. 


he was in the process of transitioning into a new job when i finished rehab. i hope he's doing okay. a lot of these people were on their second or third round of rehab. you could tell they were worn out, tired of fucking up and telling the same stories to a different group of strangers. anyone who had ever loved or trusted them were gone, driven away by their inability to get it together. some people never really had a chance to begin with. one guy grew up in an addict house, already slanging h at the age of 7. in the middle of his story, dave stopped him and asked which street corner he was describing. they shared a moment. all this time, i was made to feel like an outsider but it was only then did i realise how lucky i was to be on the other side.