Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System (8 page)

BOOK: Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System
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“Fuck, man, you’re pissed. We knew it,” Ron shakes his head.

“Let’s go!”
Jim says. “We’re taking you to White Rock. You are so fucked up.” He leads me by the arm out of the mall.

We climb into Ron’s truck and head south to White Rock, a small, affluent seaside community about forty-five minutes from downtown Vancouver, right on the British Columbia–Washington state border.

I haven’t been there in almost twenty years. My two older boys, five and three,
raced across the expansive White Rock Beach begging, “Find some more baby crabs, Daddy. Do your earrings. That’s so funny.” Rhonda smiled. Our youngest, five-month-old Jonathan, was home with his grandma and grandpa. I lifted a large rock from the wet sand and scooped two tiny crabs from a troop that was scurrying for cover. I held one gingerly to each ear and their miniature claws clipped onto
my lobes. The boys laughed and screamed.

“Daddy wears earrings. Ha ha. You’re so funny, Daddy. Isn’t he funny, Mommy?”

“Oh yes. He is so, so funny,” she said with a sardonic grin.

Today the beach is all but obliterated by a wall of thick, pelting snow. The wind wails incessantly; the snow piles two feet deep against pounding grey surf. It’s the beginning of the worst winter
in sixty-four years. I couldn’t be further from that young, exuberant, sober father.

At the recovery house, a woman waits at the door for me.

Jim explains, “She runs this house and a few others in town.”

“How are you going to pay?” the well-dressed, middle-aged woman demands.

“I’ve applied for social assistance,” I say. “I’m still waiting to hear.”

“We’ll
take you to the welfare office tomorrow,” Jim assures me.

Jim and Ron dump my duffle bag at the front door.

“You’re going to be okay,” Ron calls out from the truck as they get back in.

I walk into my bedroom and a young guy lying on the other bed mutters, “She’s sleeping with one of the clients here.”

This offends my drunk self, which is a crock because who am I
to claim the moral high ground? Without a word I pick up my duffle and garbage bags and stagger out the door into the biting cold. Wearing a thin jacket and runners, I wander the streets of White Rock. I don’t even have a quarter to make a phone call. What’s worse, I have no one to call. I huddle behind a Dumpster in the alley behind a row of restaurants. Then I spy the Boathouse—an old family favourite.
I stagger in, drawn by the warmth. A young blond hostess greets me with a look like I am a creature from another planet.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m sorry, I have no money for the payphone. Can I use your phone to call a friend?”

“I’m not sure,” she squeaks. “I’ll have to ask my manager.”

As she disappears around the corner, I notice the place is empty. A young
fellow wipes and sets tables. He busies himself out of sight. Blood floods into my extremities and my fingers are on fire. Even more painful is the unquenchable urge to drink.

Behold the superbly laid out and highly stocked bar. My lover’s gaze lingers on the vodkas, then comes to rest on the Scotch. If I just stretch a bit, I can grab a bottle. But I can’t possibly steal a bottle of booze
from the Boathouse.

Yes, I can. It would be no different from the dozens of times I strode confidently into the Penticton liquor stores, picked up two bottles of Smirnoff, shot a swift glance around to ensure I was out of sight of security cameras and people—then stuffed one bottle in my pants, walked up to the clerk and paid for the other.

No different from the summer I broke
into my accountant’s cabin next door and took a bottle of her expensive Snow Queen vodka. Police told her that if she pressed charges, I’d get help. She agreed. The Summerland
RCMP
charged me with break and enter and theft, my first drinking-related charge. I received a conditional sentence and no record. The only condition was to get treatment and go to
AA
. And I did... for a while.

I scan the restaurant. No one in sight. The pretty hostess will be back any minute. I must move fast.

A brief flash of another Mike Pond makes me hesitate: honest contributing citizen, family man, hockey coach, the man I used to be—he wouldn’t dream of doing this. But that Mike Pond doesn’t live here anymore. That unbearable, beyond-any-logic-and-understanding desire drowns out reason.

I zero in on a bottle of Glenfiddich 12 single-malt Scotch. With surprising deftness, I reach up, seize the trophy and shove it inside my jacket just as the hostess comes around the corner of the bar.

With a look of regret she murmurs, “I’m sorry, sir, the manager says you can’t use the phone. Unless you want service, you will have to leave.”

I can’t wait to get my ass out
of there. I duck into the washroom, slither down the stall wall and pull out my precious prize. The first hot swallow hits the wall in the back of my throat. Five deep rapid breaths push it down. A straight arm against the wall of the stall steadies me. My head dips expectantly over the toilet. The next gulp is bigger and easier to keep down. My stomach welcomes it now and the warm, numb glow fills
my entire being. Nothing matters anymore except this feeling. Everything else disappears. My kids. Homelessness. Being broke.

I head out into the midday cold and stumble down the isolated boardwalk. The freak winter storm continues to batter the entire lower mainland of British Columbia. The snow-clogged streets lie silent. The wild ocean wind shoves me sideways, making it even more difficult
to negotiate an already unsteady search for sanctuary. I take shelter behind a log on the beach. I take another long, full swig of my delicious Scotch friend and snuggle with him close to my chest. I don’t feel the chill anymore.

RELUCTANT EYELIDS PEEL
open. My body shudders. It’s cold again. I fumble unconsciously for the elusive blanket. A metal door clangs and boot steps echo down a
concrete hall. The familiar smell of old paint and piss invades my nostrils. I’m in jail again.

The small window shutter slides open.

“It’s time to go.”

I mutter through a cotton mouth, “Where am I?”

“White Rock
RCMP
cells. A couple walking their dog on the beach found you behind a log. They thought you were dead. We brought you in. You were half-frozen. I’ve got
to release you.”

My jeans are wet. Lovely. I’ve pissed myself.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Oh-three-eighteen.”

“In the morning?” I blink and look around.

“Yep. You were brought in early last night.”

The corporal’s key opens the door and he leads me down the concrete hall to the desk. He heaves my duffle bag onto the counter and pecks on his keyboard.

“You have no
ID
. What’s your name?”

“Michael Pond.”

“Date of birth?” He types my information into the computer database.

“September 27, 1953.”

“You’ve got quite a record here, Mr. Pond—a lot of alcohol-related charges and convictions.” He looks up from his screen. “You could have died out there last night. This is brutal weather. You’re lucky those folks
found you.”

“I have nowhere to go.” It’s starting to become my mantra.

The corporal slides my duffle bag across the stainless steel counter.

“There’s a United Church just around the corner on Pacific Avenue. They have an emergency shelter set up because of the bad weather. They may be able to help you.” He gets up out of his chair, keys in hand. “I’ll let you out the front
door. Good luck, Mr. Pond.”

I shoulder my duffle bag and step out into the cold darkness. The crackly air shocks my lungs. I squint at the road sign: Pacific Avenue. To the north, a block and a half away, is the church. Sick and disoriented, I make my way to the back entrance.

A sign on the door reads White Rock Temporary Shelter.

I open the door and the aroma of hot coffee
and cocoa beckons.

“Come in, come in. Are you okay?” A young guy, his face flooded with concern, leads me to the church kitchen and hands me a cup of Tim Hortons hot chocolate and two muffins.

In my days as a hockey dad, stomping my feet in frozen arenas, I mindlessly downed cup after cup of Tim’s. Now I savour every precious sip.

“I was just released from the
RCMP
cells
around the corner,” I say between sips. “Someone found me on the beach yesterday passed out.”

“You can stay here till six thirty,” he says, “then we need to clear the church out. You can come back this evening at nine. Crash on one of the mats over there, okay?” The young guy points me toward the mats, then goes to greet another newcomer.

It’s a large hall, like an old high school
gymnasium, the raised stage bumped and scratched from decades of Christmas pageants and year-end recitals. A Christmas tree stands forlornly at the back of the stage, a nativity scene at its feet. A large, sliding room divider is half open, revealing a circle of wooden collapsing tables with stackable chairs around its perimeter. A single row of mats with blankets line up along the long wall below
the windows.

I collapse onto a mat. It’s comfortable and warm. Half a dozen snoring bodies lie in a row alongside me. An old white-bearded fellow curled up beside me murmurs, “It’s brutal out there, eh? I’ve been on the streets for eighteen years and I’ve never seen a winter like this. Thank God for this church, eh? I’m pretty damned sure I woulda froze to death this past week.”

“Yeah. It just feels good to have something warm in my stomach.” I shut my eyes.

I wake up with the young church guy gently shaking my shoulder.

“It’s time to go, sir. I have a voucher here for a breakfast meal at McDonald’s.”

“But I have nowhere to go.” It’s a limp protest now.

Nowhere to go. Nowhere to go. I have to say it a few times before it sinks in. Oh my
God. I am truly homeless now, just like the decrepit old man being nudged awake beside me. I gaze across at him; raw fear like I’ve never before experienced grips my heart and won’t let go. No more second-rate motels or hostels. No more couch surfing or sleeping in my truck or crashing in my office. No more home.

“I’m really sorry.” The young guy shrugs. “There’s an
AA
meeting here this
morning at seven. Why don’t you stay for that?”

He points to a middle-aged fellow making carafes of coffee with a Bunn industrial drip machine.

“That guy over there may know someone who can help you.”

I’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship with
AA
for years now. I hate to go to the meetings because doing so means I have to admit I have a drinking problem. Rhonda,
desperate for me to get help, used to drive me to Kelowna, an hour’s drive from home, so I could attend a professionals’
AA
meeting. She’d drop me off, go shopping and come back to get me an hour and a half later.

I never went in. I went shopping, too—at the nearest bar.

Now I have no choice. This
AA
meeting is the only place I have to go. I walk over to the guy on coffee duty.
We shake hands.

“My name’s Clifford,” he says. “There’s a big meeting here every morning. I’ll introduce you to some of the guys.”

Exhausted, dehydrated, I’m barely aware of time passing by. My head droops loosely on my shoulders, and saliva pools and dribbles from the sides of my mouth as I nod in and out of sleep. Like time lapse on
TV
, each time I come to, more bodies fill the
room. By seven a.m. the hall holds over seventy-five people, mostly men, of all ages.

AA
meetings typically begin with the Serenity Prayer: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.”

“Is anyone coming back?” the chair asks.

AA
experience tells me I will be asked to share. I’d
prefer to sit in silence with my shame. My hand slides up, sheepish and slow.

“My name’s Mike, I’m an alcoholic. I’ve slipped and slid in and out of
AA
and sobriety for three years,” I say to the packed hall. “I just can’t seem to stay sober. I’ve lost my family, my home, my career, and my self-respect. In the last six months, I’ve moved from a beautiful and successful life in the Okanagan
to living as a down-and-out skid-row bum on the Downtown Eastside. I sold my brand-new laptop for five beers. I’ve probably been to a half-dozen treatment programs. Drunk tanks, hospitals, detox centres—I know them all. I’ve had seizure after seizure. I’ve racked up half a dozen drunk-driving-related charges. Every day, I thank God I never hurt or killed anyone. My kids don’t talk to me. I have
nothing left.” I stop to take a breath.

“And yet, I don’t seem to be able to quit. I’ve even come close to dying. I’ve been told my ego will kill me. I’ve been told I need to ‘let go and let God.’ I’ve been told I just haven’t surrendered yet. Well, where do you sign up for that? I’m surrendering today.” I sit back down.

The meeting ends as it started, with the Serenity Prayer.
Several guys envelop me in a circle of encouragement, urging me to just stay sober today.

“Just for today, Mike, one day at a time,” one guy says, nodding.

“We’re from a recovery house just down the road,” an older guy says. “Why don’t you come with us? Jump in the bus.”

Before I leave with them, I seek out a female member of
AA
and press Dana’s phone number into her hands.

“Tell her I’m going to rehab. Tell her I’m going to be okay.”

The woman smiles and I manage a shaking half-grin back.

I follow the men to the church parking lot through the still-raging blizzard as daylight finally breaks. A white minibus sits idling. Blue letters along the side spell out the next stage of my life: “We Surrender Addiction Recovery Society.” Several men huddle
behind it sucking cigarettes and diesel exhaust. The bus fills with men of all ages and sizes. I look back at the church, the snowstorm, the smoking men and climb inside the minibus. The black vinyl seat presses ice cold through my thin, piss-damp jeans. I feel a rush of warm air from the dash. I close my eyes, rest my head against the window and fall asleep.

BOOK: Wasted: An Alcoholic Therapist's Fight for Recovery in a Tragically Flawed Treatment System
12.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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