Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System (10 page)

Stays in government-licensed and -funded treatment centres, like the Phoenix Centre, are often paid for by the Department of Mental Health and Addictions. If you get kicked out of facilities like
these, as I did, you can disappear into a netherworld of unlicensed, unregulated recovery homes. There are hundreds in British Columbia alone. To open one up, all you have to do is incorporate a non-profit society. Clients are all on welfare and hand over their cheques for room and board and what passes for treatment. I suppose there are some recovery homes that provide genuine, medically informed
treatment. I just haven’t been in one. In my experience, treatment is most often a ride to the closest
AA
meeting.

I shuffle out of the office and collapse onto the corduroy couch of willingness. My body vibrates uncontrollably. Half-digested hot chocolate and bran muffin spew into the plastic bucket Tom “Guns” thoughtfully left at the side of the couch for me. I am haunted by the black-circled
faces of the men who never surrendered.

I grasp at snippets of sleep, broken by incessant arguing and put-downs throughout the day and by head-ringing snoring at night. Each morning at six the men gather in the dining area and read from the Big Book.

AA
’s unique blend of compassion and support has worked for millions. Eli’s militaristic approach delivers cold discipline with almost
cultish fervour. But I’m not convinced Eli’s version will work for me. Upon each man’s arrival, Eli directs him to “personalize” his copy of the Big Book.

“Every place you see a ‘we’ or ‘us,’ scratch it out and put ‘me’ and ‘I.’ Take full fucking responsibility for yourself and the damage you’ve done! The Big Book says you’re selfish, self-centred and self-seeking. That is the root of
your troubles.”

Well, to Mike Pond the professional therapist, it’s not that simple, and it’s clear I need to set the record straight.

“I tend to lean toward a more eclectic interdisciplinary approach,” I say. “Using appropriate medication and an integrative blend of different models, like cognitive behavioural therapy, motivational interviewing, family therapy,
SMART
Recovery
and relapse prevention. Evidence-based holistic, multifaceted treatment. Along with being a disease, alcoholism is a systemic problem.” I pride myself upon being able to remember all the current buzzwords about addiction treatment.

All the men’s eyes turn my way, then dart back to Eli.

He glares at me then erupts.

“What the fuck do you know about recovery! Look where your
fuckin’
SMART
Recovery got you. You’re in a condemned old folks’ home, for fuck’s sake. You’ve lost everything. Your selfishness is going to kill you! God makes that possible. Follow the program, guy, or get the fuck out!”

His words sting like a slap. He is right. I am at the bottom of the bottom of the bottom. There will be no holistic approach here, only Eli’s. I see what happens to
guys who won’t follow the program Eli’s way. Trent, a heroin addict from a well-to-do family, arrived here after a failed stint at the Orchard, a high-end treatment centre on Bowen Island, just off the coast of Vancouver. He’s relapsed multiple times. His grandmother just died, he’s depressed and he won’t come out of his room. He won’t participate, won’t attend Eli’s program, so he’s out on his ass.

“Alcoholics are willful and ego-driven. Self-will run riot,” says Eli. I know that part’s true. I also know that it would be challenging not to be hardened, dealing with alcoholics and addicts day in, day out for years. We lie and cheat and steal and scam, and our word, as long as we are using, is worth nothing. Maybe Eli operates like a drill sergeant because it’s the only way to survive
dealing with us. In a place like this, perhaps a more compassionate guy would be chewed up and spit out in a day.

Eli’s unshakable belief in his way or the highway befuddles some of the guys. He forces everyone to admit he’s an alcoholic, which is a mind-bender to the guys who are dope fiends. After the early-morning
AA
meeting, a fellow member of the house tells me Eli forced him to say
he was an alcoholic.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” he says. “I don’t even like booze. I’m a crackhead, and I love crack. I don’t understand how admitting I’m an alcoholic will help me kick crack.” He shakes his head.

I’ve read enough of the
AA
Big Book to know the version of
AA
at We Surrender surely can’t be what
AA
founder Bill W. had in mind. Bill W. said all that was needed to be
a member of
AA
was a desire to quit drinking. Eli demands a lot more than that.

Thank God I’m a plain-and-simple alcoholic. I love booze. I am anxious to stay on Eli’s good side, so I get with his program. I start to memorize the Big Book.

On my seventh day at We Surrender, I take my first shower. Brown and yellow scum coats the shower stall. Slime and pubic hairs cover the toilet.
And then I laugh to myself. There is some irony in a guy who hasn’t showered in seven days protesting the cleanliness of the shower stall.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and step in.

The hot water cascades over my face. The filth fades and I stand in the walk-in white marble shower of our newly renovated home on the lake. My morning routine before I head to the office unfolds:
a steamy americano on the deck with the morning paper; I scan Skaha Beach as the early-morning strollers walk their dogs; birds chirp and a golden retriever scatters a gaggle of Canada geese off the sand; they fly low about forty feet and skim along the water off shore to taunt the barking dog, just out of reach—

“Get out of the shower, dude.” Someone pounds on the door. “You’re using
up all the hot water.”

I towel dry, pull on my filthy donated jeans and grimy shirt and smile in spite of myself. I’ve worn the same pair of underwear for a week. My mother would be appalled.

From this day on, I clean the bathroom in my wing, every day.

Later that day, Josh speed-waddles toward me in the dining room.

“Let’s go. We’re going to Social Services. You
gotta apply for welfare.”

At the Surrey Ministry for Housing and Social Development office, the lineup trails out the door and halfway around the block. People smoke and cough and curse the brutal weather and curse the government and stomp and sway in the frosty air.

I’ve never collected welfare or unemployment insurance in my life. Started working when I was fourteen. I retreat
deep into myself, physically curling inward, partly in response to the cold, partly to hide my shame. I hope no one I know drives by.

After two hours inching forward in the frigid lineup, I meet a social worker in her mid-twenties. Her young brow furrows, perplexed.

“Your file from the Phoenix Centre indicates you have significant assets and property in Penticton.” She looks me
right in the eye. “You don’t qualify for financial assistance.”

I must. Without money to pay Eli, I’m homeless. I meet her stare.

“I’m an alcoholic who has lost pretty well everything. What’s left, I can’t access. I am over a hundred thousand dollars in debt. I plan to sign the house and everything over to my ex-wife to make amends for all the damage I’ve done to my family.”

“You’re too mentally ill right now to make that kind of decision,” the social worker says. “You need to see a psychiatrist. You need legal advice as well.”

“I’m in treatment. I’m a professional therapist. I’m also a psychiatric nurse. I’m going to appeal to my professional governing bodies to have my licence to practise reinstated. I plan to get work at a local hospital. I’ll take
any nursing or social work job I can get.” Desperation creeps into my voice.

The social worker takes in the whole sorry sight of me. And she relents.

“Wait a minute, Mr. Pond. I’m going to talk to my supervisor.”

A minute becomes twenty minutes. I count every one on the large institutional clock as I wait alone in her office. I imagine the conversation they’re having about
me. I wouldn’t believe me either. She finally returns. And she’s smiling.

“I’ve talked to my supervisor. We will grant you six months of social assistance under the hardship clause. During that time you will be required to retain a lawyer, settle your separation agreement and find work. Your assistance will then be cut off. Good luck, Mr. Pond.”

How many times now have I heard
that—“Good luck, Mr. Pond”? Police, doctors, nurses, lawyers, social workers, all seem invested in me getting my shit together.

My monthly welfare check is $610. We Surrender takes $550 for room and board. That leaves $60 a month for everything else. I used to spend that on lunch and a glass of Chardonnay.

Back at the house, Tom “Guns” conspiratorially gestures me his way.

“Hey, Mike,” he whispers. “A woman has been calling all day for you on the house phone. She sounds loaded.”

• 10 •

DANA!

“That’s my girlfriend, Dana,” I burst out. Dana, my last connection to the life I used to have.

“Man, she’s got a hot voice.” Tom grins. “Call her on my cell if you want. Don’t let anyone see, though. You’ll get kicked outta here if Eli finds out you’re on the phone, especially with a woman. And a drunk bitch at that.”

I duck around the back of the building behind a large cedar tree.

“Hi, Dana,” I whisper. My voice drips with longing. The words catch in my throat.

“One of the guys at the Phoenix Centre told me where you were. I miss you, Mr. Pond. I need you.” Her voice is deep and husky. I crave her. I also crave a drink. The two are becoming indistinguishable.

“It’s Christmas
in a couple of days,” says Dana. “I will come and get you from that hellhole. You don’t belong with all those crackheads and criminals. You’re a professional, Mr. Pond.”

I am a professional—a professional drunk.

“Okay,” I say. “Call Tom on this number when you’re ten minutes away.”

“I’ll be there, Mr. Pond. I can’t wait to see you. We’ll get a hotel.”

Dread and
exhilaration duke it out in my head. The thought of Dana’s long silky legs, her dancing mischievous eyes, her bed-tousled red hair makes me want her here, right now. But a few days of sobriety reward me with fresh insight: the two of us together are a train wreck.

Then, like an apparition, Monk’s huge body glides up in the snow.

I snap Tom’s phone shut.

“Pond,” Monk says.
“You’re not supposed to be on a phone. Anyway, get your shit. You’re off the couch. You’re gonna bunk with Dangerous Doug.”

In my new room, Dangerous Doug lies on his bed reading a paperback inside his Big Book.

“I hate this fuckin’ place and all the fuckheads in it,” Doug says into his books. “I’d kill every one of the fuckers if I got the chance. Get outta here as soon as you
can, buddy.”

Twenty-five years of hard drinking cost Dangerous Doug everything. He’s a mean drunk. He’s relapsed twice in the last three months and fought both times with a couple of the young men in We Surrender, who tease him. I’ve drawn the short straw. Only a few hours, though, until I see Dana.

After ten days on the couch of willingness, I should be thankful for my real bed.
But as night falls and Dangerous Doug slips into fitful sleep interrupted by huge snoring snorts, I am not thankful at all.

I lie awake and obsess about whether seeing Dana is a good idea. How can seeing Dana ever be a good idea? The fact I actually have this debate with myself is testament to how much my judgment is impaired.

Ever since my last bender during the blizzard, I’ve
been sober. Just over a week. I survived yet another detox. But Dana is temptation itself. I can’t stop thinking about her. I miss her. I can’t admit to anyone, even to myself, just how lonely I have become.

I look out the window. The snow shimmers in the soft moonlight. Clouds scud past the moon and reveal a twinkly starlit sky. In the claustrophobic misery of We Surrender, it’s easy
to forget there’s still a wide-open beautiful world beyond the six-foot fence. I gaze out and watch the stars fade, replaced by the grey slate dawn. The clouds look heavy again. More snow.

I attend the mandatory
AA
meeting that morning, and I begin the Serenity Prayer. “God grant me the... yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah,... and the wisdom to know the difference.”

I struggle
more and more with Eli’s version of
AA
. Real
AA
embodies love and tolerance and acceptance and one day at a time. Here, I am surrounded by hostility, criticism, shame and a sobriety hierarchy. The dissonance of the hypocrisy dilutes the power of the program. Yet it works for some of the guys. Men credit We Surrender with saving their lives. And I desperately need the support of a sponsor.

An
AA
sponsor is a member with significant sobriety, experience and knowledge in the program to guide and support a co-member. It’s strongly suggested that you have a sponsor—another level of accountability and commitment to the program.

After the meeting I mechanically eat several pieces of Cobs-donated white-bread toast and drink coffee after coffee. The artificial whitener leaves
a vague petrochemical taste in my mouth.

My internal debate about seeing Dana escalates. Am I still searching for excuses to fail? Clearly, I’m not quite ready to surrender yet.

I play crib. It’s a popular game in recovery and treatment centres. It kills time and conversation. The schoolhouse clock above the fireplace reads 9:13 a.m.

Brad deals the usual six cards each.
It’s his crib.

“There you go, Professor Pond. Read ’em and weep.”

I survey my hand. Two fives, two Jacks, a six of spades and an eight of hearts. Nice! I flick the six and eight to Brad. He slaps two cards face down on top of mine.

“You’re gonna get skunked, Doctor Pond. I just dumped a seven and an eight in my crib.” I cut the deck and Brad flips over a seven of clubs
and yelps, “Yes! Come to Papa. You lead, sucker.” I fight back the urge to curse.

I glance at the clock. 9:15. Shit, time crawls sometimes. I hate crib today. But at least I don’t have to talk recovery or
AA
.