CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The following is an excerpt from the book Stream of Unconsciousness available on the Amazon and Barnes and Noble websites.

Thirty days clean and sober. My time at Promises had flown by. I felt great. Healthy. Alive. I hadn’t been able to claim thirty consecutive days of sobriety in over thirty years. I don’t want to sound overly dramatic or anything, but something profound happened to me up at that beautiful compound. Promises is where I was born. I felt like a new man. I had learned how to live in the present — something addicts just don’t do. Most importantly, and unbelievably, since I had arrived at Promises I had absolutely no cravings for drugs or alcohol. I intended to keep it that way.

Although I had fulfilled Lauren’s request that I remain in a rehab facility for thirty days, I decided to sign up for another thirty days at the Promises Extended Care Program. My decision to stay was prompted by Counselor Lance. After about three weeks into treatment, Lance began the full court hard press sales pitch for aftercare. He began stalking me not unlike a used car salesman. It seemed as though everywhere I turned, there he was, and nearly every time we had a discussion it revolved around aftercare. There were only so many places in the Promises compound that I could hide from him. Finally, I decided to put an end to his not-so-subtle suggestions regarding further treatment. I remember telling him, “Lance, let’s cut the crap. You’re just trying to fill beds. This isn’t about some deep concern you have for my well being.”

Without hesitation, and with complete confidence, Lance looked at me squarely in my eyes. What he said shocked me. “Yes Steven. You’re absolutely right. I sell recovery. That’s part of my job.”

Excellent! In your face Lance. This sobriety thing is great. Instead of running away from conflict, I just fought it head on. Lance will no doubt feel crushed that i called him on his game and his relentless recommendations for further treatment will mercifully come to an end. I’ll be out of here in no time.

Then he continued. “But I also know a great deal about the disease of addiction. And, more importantly, over the last few weeks I’ve learned quite a bit about your addiction. Listen Steven, you’re free to leave here any time. In fact, you can leave here now. But I have to tell you, if you are serious about sobriety, if you really want to arrest this disease, then the more time you rack up in treatment the better your chance of success.”

Checkmate. Not long after our conversation I remember walking into the Promises business office inquiring about space availability in their aftercare program. My sobriety had become that important to me. I was determined to put an end to my drugging days. Early in treatment I had surrendered to the wisdom of the Promises staff and developed a healthy respect for the power of addiction and the daunting relapse statistics for addicts in early recovery. My conviction to sobriety had risen to the point where if I had been told that in order to beat my addiction I needed to run down Pacific Coast Highway butt naked, my only two questions would have been what time do we run and how far do we go.

The aftercare program at Promises was administered at another location down the hill from the main facility at a beautiful (of course, this was Promises, after all) three story, three bedroom house situated right on the beach on Pacific Coast Highway. The program offered essentially the same type of treatment as the one I was “graduating” from, only there was much more freedom. Aftercare residents at the beach house were allowed to have access to their cars, cell phones, and an outside life, including work on a limited basis. It was designed to be a slow reentry back into the real world. The only major requirements were that we had to continue attending about half the group meetings we previously attended, respect the curfew rules, submit to random urine analysis, and, of course, remain clean and sober.

I had another motivating factor when it came to deciding on aftercare. Lauren had made it perfectly clear midway through my rehab experience that I was not welcome home. She wasn’t putting a gun to my head and mandating that I remain in rehab. She simply stated that I would have to find another place to stay, because she wasn’t ready to have me back. This was somewhat unnerving, because she didn’t mention if she ever wanted me back.

Given the choices available to me upon release from my first thirty days, and the gloomy reality of a probable relapse, I decided that an additional thirty days at the Promises beach house wouldn’t be such a bad thing. How bad could it be to spend the next month listening to waves pound against the rocks directly below my bedroom window?

I gathered my belongings from my room, picked up my razor blade and cologne from the contraband locker, and said goodbye to my fellow residents. It was an emotional moment. The very people that I avoided like the plague when I checked in had become as close to me as my own family. They were like a warm glove — something new to me — comfortable, secure and protective. Quite a difference from the feelings I had when I checked in, thinking that I was going to be raped or robbed by these people. Over the past thirty days, we had shared our deepest, darkest secrets, cried uncontrollably, and laughed hysterically. We shared a common disease and were doing our best to fight it. In thirty, short days, I had gotten to know them like they were my own brothers and sisters, and I loved them just the same. We were all the same broken children who just wanted to be loved…..