But the fire heals. And around the fire my new friends and I spend hours laughing and messing around like little kids again—everything pure—unrestrained—stripped wide open. David, the fire builder, does a rockin’ Johnny Cash imitation, so I’ve taught myself to play a few songs—“Boy Named Sue,” “Folsom Prison,” “Ring of Fire”—and we have us some good old-fashioned sing-alongs. Another friend of mine, Jason, has been teachin’ me how to get better at Scrabble. But most of the time, well, we just talk is all. We sit around, tell stories, try ’n’ figure out what the hell we’re doing in this goddamn place, how we got here. And then, of course, we do spend a good bit of time talkin’ shit about other patients and staff members. I mean, we gossip a fair amount—maybe more’n we should. But, fuck, you know, what the hell else is there to do trapped up here on this goddamn compound? Besides, we gotta keep from getting too indoctrinated with all their cult bullshit. Hell, they even have their own way of speaking here—little catchphrases—ways of expressing themselves that everyone ends up adopting before they leave.
Like, check it out, instead of saying “I think,” we say “I make up.” As in, “I make up that Richard is avoiding talking about the real issue.” But, actually, we’re only supposed to use “I” statements. So what we really say is, “What I make up is that, for me, I always want to avoid talking about the real issues, so maybe that’s what’s going on with Richard.”
It’s all pretty annoying, but somehow we all end up buying into it.
’Cause see, the thing is, the people who come here aren’t just addicted to drugs, like in most rehabs. I mean, there’re some people who aren’t even addicts at all—they just have, like, mental problems—bipolar disorder, depression. When I first got here, there was this one woman who’d been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder. Some of ’em are recovering from serious sexual trauma and molestation. Some of ’em self-harm, or have eating disorders or sex and love addictions. Some of ’em think about killing themselves every single day. This one woman, Carol, is fifty and a virgin except for the three times she’s been raped. My friend Marc had been having sex with his older brother starting at, like, ten years old.
Basically, it’s a lot of really delicate people. So the rehab has, like, five million rules designed to keep everyone safe. First of all, we’re not allowed to touch anyone—not even a handshake. If we wanna give someone a hug ’cause they’re leaving or something, we have to get a counselor’s assistant to come witness the, uh, transaction. We’re not allowed to keep any sharp objects in our rooms. We’re not allowed to watch R-rated movies. We’re not allowed cookies or ice cream or sugar cereal at all, ’cause of all the people with food issues. Exercise is allowed only with prior counselor approval for basically the same reason.
Everything has to be supervised.
We are like little children.
And if I don’t comply, I’ll be told I have to stay longer—or, worse, I’ll be transferred to some even more militant institution.
Because, like I said, I don’t have a penny to my name; I’m completely dependent financially on my family in terms of helping me start some sort of life after treatment. Problem is, my dad buys into this rehab shit so much that he’d do literally anything my counselor tells him. He’d leave me rotting here for the next ten years if she told him to.
So I’ve gotta be good.
I’ve gotta comply with all the goddamn rules—or, at least, not get caught breaking ’em.
I’ve gotta tell ’em exactly what they want to hear so they can report back just how goddamn “well” I’ve gotten at their bullshit center.
I mean, hell, I’ve been in and out of rehab so many times, it’s practically ingrained in me to lie about having “found my higher power” or about how much I’m getting out of working the twelve steps. They want me to say I’ve had a spiritual awakening, so I say I’ve had a spiritual awakening. They want me to say that making a “searching and fearless moral inventory” of myself—as we’re directed to do in Step 4—is some life-changing experience for me. So, yeah, I go on and tell ’em all about how powerful the whole thing was for me—even if, in truth, I didn’t feel anything at all and I never have. They don’t have any other solution they can suggest. If the twelve-step thing doesn’t work, well, they just won’t accept that.
So I’ll tell ’em I’ve found God.
I’ll tell ’em the steps are working for me.
And I’ll tell them I’ve decided to leave Zelda.
They’re gonna eat that shit up—the counselors—my friends here—everyone.
Even if, like I said, she’s the one who hasn’t called me.
I’m gonna make it so they all think it’s my decision.
I’m going to show them how much I’ve changed—how healthy I’m becoming.
So I walk up to the smoke pit—layered with a borrowed sweatshirt and jacket against the bitter desert winds. The only pants I have are my soon-to-be-ex’s tight-ass bell-bottoms. It wasn’t till I was already in Arizona that I realized my bag was filled with basically nothing but her clothing. I guess that’s what I get for letting her pack for me.
Anyway, when I make it to the little smoking hut, Jonathan’s the only one who’s still there.
I forgot we have our community meeting in, like, two minutes.
Jonathan’s become a pretty good friend of mine. He’s a musician in his mid-forties with an odd-looking face—mostly because
