When I am given an opportunity to bring the message of recovery
into a treatment center, I do it. I do it because I am selfish in a way, and I’m
looking for the opportunity to remember where I used to be.
Tonight I travelled to a small rural Minnesota town to a
residential treatment facility for juvenile boys, and there were nine little
fucks just like me 25 years ago sitting in a circle. We actually made the
circle when we (another gentleman in recovery from a meeting I attend) arrived
ahead of the crowd. We were there to bring the message of A.A. into a place
where possibly many of the attendees were hearing their first versions of
recovery, much like I did when I was 18 and in treatment for my first time.
The format to the meeting was already printed out for us.
They hold a meeting every Saturday night, and groups from the district send
representatives once a month from their various groups to host the assembly.
All we had to do was read the format, read eight pages of the Big Book, and
then go around and share what we learned from the reading and then end the meeting
on time. Here’s what happened.
We read pages 80-88 of the book Alcoholics Anonymous. In
these eight pages, a lot happens. Some of the most important work, some of the
most read passages, and my very favorite sentence is contained within these few
pages. It starts with the ending of the 9th step; making amends. It
briefly discusses step 10-taking a continuous inventory, and describes the 11th
step which asks us to meditate and pray. This is heavy shit.
The five times I was in treatment—each time for several
months with the exception of my first which I will explain later—we were given
work that would lead us up to the fifth step: Admitted to God, to ourselves,
and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. We would write down
everything bad we ever did, and talk about it with a priest, or an um… I can’t
think of the term, but when I was young, I didn’t really understand the concept
so I would make stuff up to make myself sound really cool in my eyes. Nobody ever really talked about going any
farther until I got a sponsor which I would never do and I would inevitably
fail and go back out to gather more evidence on addiction and alcoholism.
So here we are with a chance to talk about what I would
consider two of the three most critical steps. And there are nine little
versions of young me sitting around with little to no interest, playing with
their hoodie strings and looking at the floor. It was exactly what I was doing
back in the day: making sure everybody in the room knew that I had absolutely
no interest in what this old bearded man (who drove a minivan in) had to say
about his “God program.”
We read the eight pages in a circle, some people passing,
some guys reading a few paragraphs, and we got to the end. It was time to
share. Two kids spoke briefly on what they gleaned, and I felt inspired that we
would hear from the other seven. It was my partners turn in order so he talked
beautifully on how the steps work in his life, and then he passed after a few
minutes. The next six boys all passed without sharing, very much like I would
have, and then it was my turn.
What I wanted to scream was, “Hey you little fucks! One of
you is going to be dead in a year if you don’t listen tonight! None of you are
probably going to stay sober because you’re 15 and don’t know what hell looks
like yet! You have a chance to do something with your lives; you can be
something, you can do anything!” But I didn’t, because I wouldn’t have listened
to that. I would have smirked, leaned farther back in my chair than the guy
next to me so I would be cooler, then taken a sip of my Mountain Dew, bro.
What I did tell them was that I had been around the block. I
said that my favorite sentence in the book is “Love and tolerance of others is
our code.” I like that because it’s the opposite of my old self. My old code
was “Fuck everybody.” And after a lifetime of fucking everything up, losing
everything—three times, being a homeless meth addict five years ago, and
abandoning all hope of ever being a husband, a father, and a productive member
of society, I found a way out. I found a way not just to survive, but to live.
It wasn’t always easy, but it was always better than the way it was.
I don’t know if they listened, or what they heard. I don’t
know if any of them will remember anything we said tonight. But I know that
they know that there are people out there willing to help. We may be the only
copy of the Big Book that these kids ever see, and we relayed a message of
hope. And if even one of those kids is an actual addict, someday he may
remember in a moment of despair that we are there for him, and he doesn’t need
to hurt anymore. He can be happy, joyous, and free. Just like me.
The meeting wrapped up and they went back to their rooms,
and we drove back to our homes. I had a 45-minute drive to ponder what I had
said there, and I knew that I couldn’t have done anything differently. I had
many great reminders of what I was like as a kid. I’m sorry, Mom.
My first time in treatment was back in the 1900’s. I was 18
years old and court ordered on a felony charge. I lasted five days and I’m sure
they were happy to get rid of me and my attitude. I don’t remember much from my
time there except people with mullets trying to get me to believe in God. I
didn’t get anything out of it because I didn’t want to. For me it took years of
pain to finally need to change everything about my life. It helped that I was
locked in a cage for the first 15 months of this recovery, but the following
years working the steps with a sponsor is what keeps me sane now. I have
everything I ever wanted out of life now, and I must continue to everything I
can to share this message with those who will need it someday.
