Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

**I had developed a horrible drinking problem in High School, where I would drink every morning before class. This had escalated after high school until my parents made me see a therapist. I couldn't talk to him because of my social anxiety and insecurities, so I had had to drink before I saw him. It eventually came down to me telling him I have a problem. Thus, my parents had taken me to a 30-day rehab, called Arcadia, in Kerrville, TX.**


August 2006

        “It’s all for you Arcadia!” I yell, mocking the grim scene from ‘The Omen.’
        I scream it back at the commonplace treatment building I had been housed in for the past month. It was a inside joke between the junkies and I.
        The feeling of freedom flowed through me. Very much like it had when I was let out of jail for a DWI. Though this feeling was much more intense. I'd never spent more than two days locked up.
        I've been quite lucky throughout my life. I believe it comes from being born in the Chinese year of the rabbit.
        Though the luck did disappear a number of times—I've unfortunately made some horrible decisions that led to me to hell.
        So... I'm just about to be on my way to a halfway house in Kerrville, TX. I was told it was a straight, fifteen-minute shot from the rehab I just checked-out of, Arcadia Recovery Center. "Star-cadia" is what we called it. You can't help but feel like a rockstar there. I know I foolishly did.
        My head was finally clear again. The hazy fog from alcohol and prescription pills had been inexhaustibly lifted.
        I felt good.
        My parents were my ride to my new home, so I jumped into the backseat of my dad’s Silverado. The pickup was a golden beast that made you feel like you were in a plane flying through buttery clouds. I was also given as much space as I needed to sit and relax, making it a first class trip.
        Mom and Dad were super proud of me too. I may not have graduated from my small stint at college,
        ...but I did, from rehab!
        Score. 
        They had just drove down about an hour from a little city outside of Austin, called Lakeway. It was a quaint place back when we moved there in ‘96. Back then, its demographics consisted of mostly elderly folks and new, up-coming families, such as mine: My two parents, younger brother, and myself, the black sheep of the family. Now it's become a full-blown city. Complete with its pretentious assholes.
        Back in the good days, it included several hundred homes, a Sonic, a couple golf courses, and a few stores—each splattered with ‘No Skating/Skateboarding’ signs. All thanks to my friends and I.
        Still a punk skater at heart. Cue: Fuck Authority by Pennywise
       But most importantly, it possessed access to my first real, physical escape from reality. The serene, sun-filled freedom of Lake Travis.
        It was one of seven reservoirs that made up the Highland Lakes. It was apart of the snake-like Colorado River that stretched upriver from western Travis County into southern Burnet County. It also served as a water supply, an electrical power generator, and was used for flood control.
          Thank you Wikipedia. 
        For us kids, it was primarily used for wake-boarding, knee-boarding, tubing, or just hanging out floating and swimming.
        The love of all the kids—and adults—was submerged in this aqueous escape. At least for the ones who had access to it...
        If you had a boat or knew somebody with one, you were golden. If your friend had a boat, he/she was your best friend.
        My family had one. A Supra Launch SSV designed for serious wake-boarding.
        Complete with two fat sacks, ballast system, Pioneer speakers, a 10” Rockford Fozgate subwoofer－that was stolen (twice)－and a pair of some powerful tower speakers you could hear while boarding. All powered by two impressive amplifiers.
       Yeah, in high school, I had a lot of friends.
       It wasn't always like that, though. 
        As we closed in on what looked like a small town, my body became flooded with a mixture of clashing feelings. Now that I was clean and sober, I could feel every sensation you could imagine.
        Feelings of anticipation, excitement, nervousness, but above all,
        ...clarity.
        It freaked me out feeling all of these emotions again. For the past four years before this rehab stay, I had been masking them with anything I could get my clammy hands on…
        Booze;
        Liquor;
        Coke;
        Mushrooms/Acid;
        Ketamine;
        Ecstasy;
        And any prescription pills I could thrown down my gullet. I gobbled up—or snorted—many pills of a garden variety of colors and shoveled copious amounts of cocaine into my nose. I am surprised it hasn't fallen off.
        But, for the first time in four years, my head was clear, with a freshness of a cool breeze upon tanned summer skin,
      So fresh ‘n’ so clean. 
      I’m now reminded of those feminine hygiene commercials, “Are you feeling not-so fresh down there?”
       It had been thirty-one days since I used any ‘mind-altering’ substance. I’ve been told you can see it in people’s eyes. If someone had been using, their hazy and heavy eyes were an obvious tell-all.
      What is that saying, ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul?'
      I can see that now. (No pun intended)
       Driving through the quiet, rustic town of Kerrville, I couldn’t shake off the recurring memories of the good times I had, and was now leaving behind, in treatment. It was my first stay at an inpatient rehabilitation or treatment center. Sure I had seen a therapist for a short while, so I was used to talking about my feelings, but that was one of the reasons how I ended up in treatment.
        After coming to the conclusion that I needed help, it was gonna be thirty days of nonstop therapy for me.
       Very exciting.
       Actually, it was downright terrifying…
      First off, I had arrived with a black eye with no idea where it came from. Then during the check-in, when they were taking my vitals—checking my blood pressure and pulse—they were also searching through all my clothes and belongings.
      I accidentally had a few pictures of my friends and I ripping bongs and getting totally faded. The techs snatched those up faster than I could say, "hey.!" They said I could get them back when I leave, but that was a lie because I never saw them again.
      The whole check-in process and alcohol/ drug evaluation, where you have to mention every single thing you’ve that done due to drugs and alcohol, was a nonstop nightmare. I also felt somewhat violated after an incredibly thorough pat down—from a male tech.
       The techs were usually recovered addicts and alcoholics who had previously been patients there.
       During all this mess, I was thinking—
      Who would bring drugs into a rehab?
      The answer: a LOT of people.
      Once my parents left, I was a scared kid again who felt alone. Wondering, why in the hell did I agree to do this??
      When my parents initially brought up the whole rehab idea, I agreed because I knew I needed it, but particularly, I was bored and wanted something to do. It would be a new adventure of sorts.
Later, after that pitiful conversation with my parents, I started to worry. I could not shake the vision of drug addicts wandering around aimlessly—
Drooling,
Scratching themselves,
Peeing on the walls,
And maybe even some in straight-jackets. All of them completely zonked on whatever meds they were on.
Boy, was I wrong.
Horribly wrong.
This was rehab, not a looney bin. Although some of the patients were certifiable.
This was a place to chill out, relax and get away from your outside troubles for a month.
Oh, but no alcohol. Sorry.
Now, what you’re probably thinking is,
“Hey, he said ‘no alcohol,’ but didn’t mention anything about drugs?”
That’s because you can find drugs literally anywhere.
Even in rehab.
      Especially in rehab.
To be honest, it was more like a summer camp—I was there for the Fourth of July.
Only, without the water slides, balloon fights, fun, and teenage sex lurking around every corner.
No.
It was adult sex lurking.
Usually infidelity.
A one-night stand with a recovering meth head with daddy issues that led to a wee sex addiction.
      You got to get your jollies somewhere.
I had even came close to a sexual encounter with a certain tall, blonde, recovering meth-head seductress named Annie.
Didn't know she would be a future neighbor. 
If the night security guard hadn’t dropped out of the Police Academy to come here pretending like he was an actual officer of the law, I definitely would’ve at least gotten passed second base.
I knew I was in treatment and I was supposed to be focused on my recovery, but sex was a part of my recovery plan.
I hadn’t gone over it with my counselor yet, but…
I’m a dude.
And back then, I was a 19-year old dude.
We finally pulled up to a cozy, red-bricked house with a sign in the front yard.
The Rooster House.
All I could focus on was the big-ass TV screen through the front window and also, how many jokes I could make about the house name. That is, until, I spotted the two girls sitting on the front porch swing.
One of my new housemates who came and greeted my parents and I, had caught me checking them out.
“Yea, the chick's house is just a few doors down, so they come over a lot,” he said.
I had already forgotten his name two seconds after he introduced himself.
He paused for a second, then mentioned, "We have a hot tub in the back too.”
      Ohh snap. Welcome to your new home. 
I was giddy for a few a seconds until, my stomach became a haven of butterflies, amphetamine-induced butterflies. 
So, the recovering meth-vixen I had made-out with in rehab—who would become my neighbor later on—had been solely an "in-the-moment" thing. I didn't plan or set that up. It had just happened; or she may have set it up. I had wished she stayed there in Kerrville with me because I found myself a new problem; other than avoiding drugs and alcohol,...
....how do I hit on girls sober?


        The red house consisted of five single beds and a master bedroom. It was significantly bigger on the inside than what one would view from the front. There were only five of us living there so rent and utilities were cheap. Only $400 a month, unless you lived in the master bedroom, where you would have to pay an extra hundred or so.
        It would’ve been well worth it too, considering it was a larger room with a queen-sized bed and its own bathroom. You would have it all to yourself. But the house rules stated: beds and rooms go by seniority and since. I had to share a dinky room with two other guys, since I was the new kid in the crib.
        It wasn’t all that bad, though. All of them were cool and really stoked that I brought a guitar. And could actually play it well, too; however, not as well as "country-singing prodigy," Jim.
        Jim was a highly regarded housemate, whom shared the room with me. He had been a lead role in a Larry Clark film when he was younger. Not to mention, he was a bad mofo on the guitar and always played an open mic night at this rustic, country music venue. I spent most of my time, in the beginning, with him. Playing guitar, talking about artists, and going to meetings. He was really into singer/songwriter music and had got me into artists like Fiona Apple and Regina Spector. No he wasn't gay. Or was he?
        Oh well, I love Fiona Apple. 
        We were buds until he moved out, into his own place in town. He had come from the same rehab I was at, but wasn’t convinced he was a drug addict or an alcoholic. So, James went to a bar for a beer and found out that he wasn’t at all. He could drink like a gentleman, without drooling or begging for another Jameson on the rocks. My favorite. 
        His parents had brought him to Arcadia Recovery because his older brother had some issues. So, they sent him there just in-case he did, too. He couldn’t have picked a better time to move out, because a really good buddy from rehab was getting out and joining our fun, sober community. Though, not soon enough to grab a spot in my house. Jim's bed was reserved for another addict, the owner's son, who was old and crazy. With that crap, Randy had to stay in another halfway house.
        Randall, a.k.a. Randy, a.k.a. Shit Kicker, was a few years older than me. He was tall, with really short blonde hair and blue eyes—the exact opposite of me—who always wore a country-western, button-up shirt and cowboy boots. His style was just a tad-bit different from my ripped jeans, black, band T, and black Chuck’s.
        What was I doing hanging out with a redneck like him?
        Good question.
        When I first arrived at rehab, I met pretty much everybody: from the tweakers to the junkies; the crazies to the old-fart alcoholics. I became friends with them all. It wasn't until later when I met Randy... whom I hated at first.
       Walking in, with his dirty boots, as if he owned the damn place. He started hanging out in the back row of class with the younger, more kick-ass addicts—such as myself—being a smart-asses to the counselors and tech people.
        Wait! Let's back up here. You need to know what happened before the Shit Kicker came ‘round these parts.
        Back when I had first arrived, after I was welcomed by the “welcome to high school” guy, there was a group that was considered “the popular group,” of rehab.
        Real cool, I know, to be the most popular in rehab. 
        They had taken me in, I have no idea why. They just told me to sit with them at lunch one day. I felt flattered so I joined. But after the first day, I had found out the real deal: it wasn't that they didn't want to be with other people; other people didn't want to be with them. Which is the deal with most 'popular' groups, if you think about it. 
        The “popular" clique, they were. They were the typical “Mean Girls” and guys who would sit at lunch, by themselves, making fun and creating ugly nicknames for people. I had hung out with them for the first few days until, I flew away as fast as I could. Still keeping everything cool with them. 
       I had found out I had more in common with the junkie kids, even though I was there primarily, for alcohol. There were two of them, Eric and Mickey, who were straight-heroin shooters. They were a lot more intelligent than everybody else. And they didn’t belittle anyone, like the popular kids did. So I had sided with them.
        I was part of the junky crew, but was not a junky and had no intention on ever trying it. We were quiet, for the most part, and kept to ourselves. Although, we did have fun laughing at the tweakers playing volleyball. I still don’t know how someone could become so enthusiastic about playing volleyball.The tweakers would get so into it, acting crazy and ripping off their shirts like they were imitating a homoerotic scene in Top Gun. Only tweakers have that kind of energy in rehab.
        Eric, Mickey, and I were hard to separate. We’d spend some of the day in class or meetings, where we'd play hangman and other games via passing notes. However, most of the day was spent in the courtyard smoking cigarettes and talking.
      That's literally, all there was to do. I went up to two packs a-day. This is also where most of the recovery happens. Only a small part if your recovery comes from classes, most of it comes from being with others like you. Just us addicts, talking and spending time together, realizing that we are not in this alone. Initially, that is how Alcoholics Anonymous was started, before Bill started lying thus, beginning AA's corruption. Two drunks getting together forming a community of guys with alcohol problems that can meet up and not feel alone. However, it was in this courtyard where I found out things I didn't need to know. Like how to cook and shoot heroin. You know, just in case I ever tried it. I'd never even seen it before so I thought it was okay because I figured I would never try it.
        Wrong.
        That’s the thing with rehab, you come in one thing and leave another. Like in the movie Blow, with Johnny Depp: He explains how he went into jail “with a Bachelor of marijuana, and came out with a Doctorate of cocaine.”
        In the meantime, this had been Eric’s fourth stay in rehab. He was a chronic relapser, meaning he went back to shooting dope very often after getting clean. I didn’t quite understand this at the time, so I thought after this stent, he could stay clean. 
        I remember two days before he left, he told me in group that I didn’t even know him and I should forget about him staying clean. I had felt insulted and offended because, by this time, I considered him a best friend. I was convinced that he had had the strength and courage to stay clean. In hindsight, I didn’t even know what addiction was, much less, how powerful it can be. I thought you came into rehab to detox, get all the drugs and shit out of your system, hang out for a little while, then leave and stay clean with ease.
        I was so naive.
        The day had come and a friend of Eric’s was coming to pick him up: Some chick whom he claimed was his sister. I saw nothing wrong with it, until she pulled up to the side, instead of the main entrance. He had told me to tell our counselor that his dad had picked him up.
        Red flag! But still, I had given him the benefit of the doubt. 
        Stupid. 
       We said our goodbyes and then he was off.
        That’s how rehab is, you’ll meet some of the most interesting people in your life, become pretty much family. Going through very difficult situations together sober, then your heart is crushed when they leave. Not to mention, how much it hurts when you find out they relapsed immediately after they left. As if everything they did in rehab, including your friendship, was complete and utter bullshit. 
        Such was the case with Eric. Apparently, his “sister,” Dylan, wasn’t his sister after all, but his girlfriend and ‘using’ partner. She picked him up and drove straight to Dallas to get dope. He relapsed three hours after leaving.
        Now, it was just Mickey and I, plus a few other younger addict kids that made up the back rows of the classroom. Until, a new chick, whom Mick had the hots for, came in. He then, spent most his time with her. I was pissed off. Not at Mick, but at Eric for lying to me. He was a junkie though, but I didn't understand what that really meant. 
Yet...
        Now, more younger addicts and alcoholics were checking-in. We outnumbered the older adults 2:1. Then, in-walks this cowboy-shirt-wearing, shit-kicking, redneck fella’ named Randall—though I wasn't going to call him that. He was a crack addict, though.
       Yes, a cowboy crack addict. I loved it. 
       We, instantly, became friends. After a while, we owned rehab. New patients started to flock to us now, for guidance.
        Foolish people. But...
       Did I just become popular without alcohol or drugs? I believe I did. Suck-it liquid confidence!
       Hanging out with kids who thought the same as I did, helped me gain the confidence to talk to others, the newer kids, especially. If I acted as if I owned the place, which I did—based on seniority—I had no problem talking to anyone. We all had something in common. We were all addicts and alcoholics with the same thinking process. It was great; however, there was one thing, my counselor said there was a problem with my treatment plan: I didn't have one. She said I “had to participate in the program.”
        I considered myself an agnostic person. I was raised Catholic, but stopped attending church when I turned thirteen. According to my parents, I was old enough to make my own decisions. Then, I believe it was around the time I started smoking weed and reading Nietzsche that I started to question everything.
        You know, having epiphanies and conversations that sound so astounding when you're stoned, but sound absurd when you're sober?
        So, when I walked into the main classroom, in treatment, I saw the infamous twelve steps:
        Step one: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable.
        I wasn't quite convinced with my life being unmanageable, but I played along anyway. So... Check. 
       Step Two: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
       What?
      Step Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him.
       Oh, shit.
        I had a minor freak out considering I wasn't sure if I believed in a God, and it looked like belief was mandatory in staying sober. But being sober was what I wanted. Not just for me, but for my parents and anyone who truly cared about me.
        My counselor told me to open up the “Big Book”—the book of A.A. we were given during the check-in process—and read the chapter, “We Agnostics.”
        I waited awhile before I did this, though. Randy was right there with me, helping. So I told them both I would read that chapter. And that's what I did one night.
        It made little sense to me, but I believe I got the gist of the message it was trying to portray. So after reading it, and after a few humiliating attempts, I started to just talk out loud. I felt so stupid, like asking a plant or some inanimate object to help save me. I thought of outer space and the universe. So, I asked the universe—or whatever is out there—to please, help me. Help me stay sober. Help me get through these steps. Help me find the path I was meant to be on.
        I felt nothing so I forgot about it. The  next day, on the way to my first class, I found a paperclip in the hallway. It was entwined with the dirty fibers meshed together forming the cruddy carpet. I picked it up and took it to class with me.
       Over the years, playing drums had made me ADHD (among the alphabet soup of problems I was diagnosed later). I'm constantly tapping pencils or my feet, so having the paperclip was a fun surprise. It gave me something to play with during some of the boring classes, like Relapse Prevention (the one class I should've been paying the most attention to) and the “Studs”class (STDs).
       Over several days, I had found many paperclips in some of the most random places. Places you’d think would be the last place to find a paperclip. Of course, I’d find them in classrooms and offices, but then I’d find some in the hallways, in my laundry, out on the gravel outside, and two on the mini putt-putt course we had, located in the center of the giant loop driveway out front. I even found one in the bottom of the pool.
      I started to ponder on why I kept finding these things all over the place. Sure, the buildings were considered a hospital or treatment center so you’re probably thinking… “of course, you’d find things like a paperclip.”
       Since, I had a lot of down time, smoking cigarettes, I’d think for a long time about it and tried to figure out the reason why theselittle clips kept popping up randomly. I figured there had to be something controlling this weird pattern or coincidence. Another patient—sort of a Jesus-freak woman—told me that “there are no coincidences and everything happens for a reason.” Now, when you’re around people like this for a considerable amount of time, their ideas and reasoning start to rub off on you, so I took her advice.
        What if I was meant to find these clips? What if something had answered me when I laid in bed that night mumbling things out into the air?
        I took all the information I had gathered and brought it to my counselor.
       “That’s very interesting. Now what do these paperclips mean to you? Why are you holding on to them?” Jackie asked because I had collected all of them. I was up to over 20.
        Jackie was the counselor of our group of six patients. There were five groups total. She was a short rotund woman on account of being pregnant. She was sweet and was always there when I had a problem; though, she was not an addict or alcoholic, a problem I would have with, later on.
        “I don’t know, I like to play around saying my higher power gave them to me so i wouldn’t be so bored in class.. But in all honesty, I guess because they keep some kind of faith alive that there may be somethingout there controlling this pattern or coincidence, as well as, every other coincidence in my life."
        She then asked, “Well, what is significant about the paperclip?”
        “I don’t understand.”
       “What does a paperclip do?” She reiterated.
       “Um, it holds things together, I guess.”
       I stared at her for a few seconds until, the lightbulb in my head lit up. That was it… the paperclips were holding my life together. My gentle heart gradually started thumping harder. The revelation was so astounding to me, I was gleaming with joy. Maybe I could do this program after all. Maybe I can stay clean and sober.
       It was then, after the talk I had with my counselor, I started to read the rest of the Big Book starting with the first chapter. A lot of things I read, sent off bells and whistles, really hitting the nail on the head. I was really getting it.
       I had found my higher power. It wasn’t the Judaeo-Christian God that you’d find in the Bible or any Supreme Being found in any other religion. It was as plain and simple as the universe and nature. Those were the only two things I felt were higher than myself.
       A lot better than a damn doorknob, that I heard had been someone else's higher power. 
        So, a few days later, I was ready for the third step prayer, in which I would say this prayer, giving myself over to my higher power. In my head, the whole thing sounded kind of culty, but I figured, “Why not give it a shot?” Just don’t drink any punch they give you.
        After I said this prayer, I was floating in the air. Staying away from alcohol and drugs didn’t seem like a big problem at all. I was floating on the “pink cloud” everyone talked about, when you feel this way and are excited about the program and being apart of something much bigger than yourself.
        I went back to my room and opened up my drawer where I kept my collection of paperclips. I wanted to hold them and be grateful that this beautiful epiphany had happened to me. I opened up my top drawer and saw that they were gone.
       “What the hell….?” I said out loud. 
       I opened the next drawer and then the bottom.
       Nothing.
       I went through all my folders, cabinets, and clothes, only to find my journal entries, books, and a few pieces of lint.
      Someone must’ve stolen them as a joke. The whole paperclip thing wasn’t kept a secret between my counselor and I. I think everybody in rehab knew about it while it was happening because I had made such a big deal about it.
      I was devastated at first, but only for a short while. I didn’t need them anymore and maybe someone else did, so I let it go. I also stopped finding them everywhere like before. Not in classrooms or hallways. 
But that was okay, 
I didn’t need them anymore. 
I had found my higher power now.