How to Grow an Addict

by J. A. Wright

I mumbled a few things about taking them for a disorder in my brain, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. She didn’t give me an extra pill.

  I stared at the ceiling for what seemed like an hour before I began to cry. My dad was right. I was nothing.

  I waited for the night nurse to close my door and turn out the hall lights before I got up to find my purse and the bottle of Valium I’d put in there before I went to the party. There were only six left. I took one and found my way to the bathroom. I wanted to see my face, and I especially wanted to get the smell of rape off me. I used every cleaner I could find to wash myself and I buried my underwear under a pile of paper towels in the garbage bin.

  I thought about calling Mom to come and get me, but after I had a look at myself in the mirror, I decided not to. I knew she’d be upset and I’d be too humiliated to look at her. I crawled back into my hospital bed and prayed to Uncle Hank for help.

  I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to go to the Facility. It all happened so quickly. The social worker was in my room at 8 a.m. my first morning at the hospital telling me how sorry she was about my accident and how she could help me. She convinced me that I needed a break from my hectic life and I agreed.

  “I know of a life-changing place that has scholarships available for young people,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll qualify.”

  By the end of the day, she’d arranged everything: called my mom, arranged for someone to drive me, and given me two sets of clean clothes from the hospital’s lost and found closet, along with two ten-dollars bills. “Just in case you need anything,” she said.

  I used some of the medical tape from my IV to hide my last few tablets of Valium. I taped them to my left leg before I put my sock on and before I got into the backseat of a hospital car. The old guy who drove listened to a baseball game the entire time. I was grateful.

  The way the social worker had gone on about the Facility I was convinced that I was going to a glamorous Hollywood spa, but it wasn’t. It was something completely different. The Facility was in the middle of nowhere, on old farmland in San Bernardino. The building was mustard yellow and huge. It reminded me of an old factory, and I could tell just by seeing it that I didn’t want to stay there.

  I’d only just arrived at the Facility when a woman who looked like she was in charge of the world told me to leave my things by the front door so she could have a look through them later. Then she talked without taking a breath as she escorted me to a big room full of people sitting in chairs arranged in a circle.

  “You’re here for thirty days and you’ve got a lockdown period of twenty days. No visitors, no phone calls, no exceptions. Most of the people in the room here are clients, just like you. Make a friend or two. It could save your life,” she said before she left me to listen to a couple of people talk about how they would organize our daily schedule at the Facility.

  I didn’t make eye contact with anyone. I just sat and read the activity schedule I was handed when I arrived. My personalized schedule included seeing a nutritionist three times a week, checking in with a doctor every other day, participating in relaxation hours and lots of group therapy sessions, the first of which started at 8 a.m. the next morning.

  As I looked around the room at the other twenty or so clients, it was clear to me that I was the youngest one there by a long shot. The others were old, and too many of them were red-faced, grumpy men. There were a few women, but none of them seemed very friendly. I was relieved to learn that I wouldn’t have to share a room with anyone, and especially happy to hear that the women’s bedrooms were located in a brand-new part of the building that had recently been painted a creamy lilac.

  I was assigned a private room overlooking the “serenity courtyard.” It was a nice room with floral wallpaper and a pink and yellow circular rug on the floor. I liked it, but I wasn’t happy about the door not locking.

  By nighttime I was desperate to leave but couldn’t get anyone to listen to me about being admitted to the Facility by mistake. It was hard to tell if the three people I spoke to about it didn’t believe me or didn’t care. None of them responded with anything more than an “Is that right?” and no one would give me anything for my headache.

  Every muscle in my body ached, and my swollen face throbbed to my heartbeat. It was driving me crazy and making me cry. I went to my room and lay on top of the blankets for hours, too tired to get under them but not tired enough to fall asleep.

  I took one of my five Valium at 4 a.m. and fell asleep until 7:45 a.m. Before I got dressed I moved the tape and the pills from my leg to underneath my right toes, just to be sure no one found them. I had to sit alone at breakfast because the others had eaten by the time I got to the dining hall. I had a piece of toast and went outside to smoke the cigarette I’d borrowed from someone who’d left a pack on the kitchen bench. I’d almost finished smoking when I spotted an old guy walking toward me. “I’m Charlie, the day manager here, which kind of makes me the boss,” he said as he sat down next to me, so close that I could smell his coffee breath.

  “I’m Randall and I don’t plan on being here very long, Boss.” I quickly stood up and moved away from him.

  “That’s fine, but you’re here today, so get to group,” he replied.

  I arrived at my group therapy room just in time to stand in the open doorway and listen to a guy, dressed in an old army jacket and grayish-green-colored slacks, talk about his wife and how she’d taken off with his best friend while he was in Iraq, and how he’d tried to hang himself because of it. It was kind of sad but I didn’t want to care so I stopped listening, looked down, and stared at everyone’s shoes. It took a few minutes before I got to the therapist’s shoes and when I did, she said, “Keds,” pointing to her feet, and motioned for me come in and sit in the chair next to her. The second I sat down she put her hand on my shoulder, introduced me to the group, and asked me to say a few words about myself.

  I wiggled around until she got the hint and moved her hand off my shoulder. “It’s Randall and I’m here because someone at the hospital made a mistake and sent me to the wrong place. I’m probably going to leave this afternoon,” I said.

  “How’d ya get those black eyes?” said the girl with a devil tattoo on the back of her hand.

  “I was at a party and got into a fight with a bigmouth who wouldn’t leave me alone. I broke a beer bottle over his head and he beat my face for a few minutes before someone pulled him off me.”

  I heard a few people moan, like they understood or agreed, and it made me feel okay about telling them that story instead of what really happened.

  I saw the therapist reach across her desk and grab a tissue and then wipe a tear from her cheek. It made me feel weird, like I’d said too much or the wrong thing.

  A few of the others spoke, including a guy named Josh who was pretty angry and wanted the therapist to sign a court slip he had with him so he could leave. I guess the therapist figured this was a good time to give her little speech. “You’ve all got three things, three secrets, and this is your chance to get rid of them,” she said. “Write ’em down.” She passed around pens and pads of paper.

  “I don’t have to do it, do I? I’m leaving just as soon as I can get a ride,” I said.

  “Until then, why not try it? It can’t hurt, and it’ll give you something to do while you’re waiting for your ride to get here,” she replied.

  “I don’t know what you mean by three secrets,” I snapped as I moved to let a fat old guy squeeze by on his way out of the therapy room.

  “Writing will help,” she said.

  “Writing what?”

  “Start with everything you don’t want me to know,” she replied.

  “Geez, that’s a lot,” I grunted.

  As I stood up to leave, she asked if I’d brought any drugs with me. I froze, wondering if she’d noticed how careful I’d been walking, trying to protect the pills I’d taped under my toes that morning.

  “I don’t think so,” I sa
id quickly.

  “Come on, everyone brings something,” she said as she put her hand out, palm up.

  “But I’m not staying,” I replied

  “Then I’ll give them back when you leave,” she said.

  “Well, they’re not in my pocket.”

  “I’ll wait,” she said.

  I had to sit down on the floor to take my shoe and sock off. And it hurt a little when I ripped the piece of tape from underneath my right big toe, but not as much as having to give her my last four Valium. Three of them fell from the piece of tape onto the carpet, and she reached down and picked them up before I could. “I’ll take the piece of tape too,” she said as she pulled it from my fingers.

  “Now what am I going to do? I need those and I’m really leaving!” I cried as I covered my face and sobbed.

  “Then I’ll give them back to you when you leave. But right now you’re a client, and clients can’t be holding. That’s just the way it is,” she replied.

  In the next moment I felt her hand reach under my arm to help me stand up. The same way Uncle Hank used to. “I really know what I’m doing and you’re going to be fine, honey, really you will,” she said.

  I felt calmer than I had for months as she walked me to the medical room and introduced me the nurse. “Can you have a look at Randall’s eye and maybe give her a lavender wheat bag to take to bed tonight?” she said before she left me.

  Later on, I thought about what a couple of women had said in group therapy that morning. I couldn’t figure out why they felt okay about telling such awful things about themselves to perfect strangers. It’s not like I’d never seen those TV talk shows where people spill their guts, but I’d never been in the same room with people who said they’d fuck anyone for twenty dollars or give details about beating their kids. It was weird, but kind of interesting, though I hoped they didn’t expect me to tell them anything I’d done.

  I heated the wheat bag in the dining hall microwave exactly the way the nurse told me to and put it on my chest that night when I got into bed. It didn’t do anything for me, though, and I was awake all night staring at the cobwebs in the corner of my room.

  At breakfast the next morning I was tired and poured myself two cups of black coffee (with six spoons of sugar) before I found a seat at a table with Mike, the guy from our group who bit his fingernails down to the skin like I did. “Why does she want to know three things about us?” I asked.

  “That’s what it’s all about—to get it all out. I’ve been here twice before but it didn’t work because I’m not willing to talk about the worst things I’ve ever done.” He smiled and quickly bit the edge of his thumbnail.

  “Really? That’s what she wants to know? The worst three things I’ve ever done?”

  “That’s it, little lady. Figure it out and you win,” he grinned.

  “Oh god, what if I have more than three?” I asked.

  “Tell her everything you’ve done that you hate. Why not? You’re young enough to make a new life for yourself. I’m too old to change and too set in my ways to care enough to try. I’m just here because I got my sixth DUI last month and it doesn’t look good for my law firm if I go to jail again.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” I said this so loudly he cupped his hand over my mouth as he nodded his head yes and grinned a little sheepishly.

  Before we got up to go to group therapy, he told me that a few of the staff members were alcoholics and drug addicts and that he’d seen them at meetings. I was shocked, mainly because I didn’t think that type of a person could have a job. I began to wonder if any of them might have something they’d be willing to share with me, because I knew it would be a lot easier for me to sit in group therapy if I was a little bit high. Something to take the edge off would help so much.

  At group I confessed that alcohol was the least of my worries, that I had much bigger problems than drinking or taking a few pills now and then. Such as Nick and the child he’d made me abort the month before. The therapist asked me how I felt about Nick and the abortion.

  “Of course I feel bad. It was stupid to get pregnant and more stupid to wait so long to have an abortion, but I thought Nick was going to change his mind and decide he wanted our baby, like I did.” I felt my bottom lip begin to quiver.

  On the afternoon of my fifth day at the Facility I told Charlie, the Boss, that I really needed to phone my mom. “It’s her birthday!” I practically screamed.

  “You’ve got five minutes, not a second more,” he said.

  Instead I phoned the social worker at the hospital to tell her she’d made a mistake and I wanted her to help get me out of the Facility. “I don’t think I’ve made a mistake, Randall. I think you’re exactly where you need to be,” she said just before the phone went dead.

  I didn’t understand what she meant, but when I called her back to ask someone else answered the phone and told me she’d gone home for the weekend. I was pissed off and quickly dialed Nick’s cell phone. He didn’t answer so I left a message about where I was and how much I wanted him to come and get me.

  I was pretty upset by the time Charlie walked up behind me telling me my time was up. I wanted to talk to him about the social worker tricking me but Charlie said I didn’t have time because there was an AA meeting I had to attend. He wasn’t the type of guy I could argue with so I went to my room and changed out of my sweatpants and into the purple cords I’d gotten from the hospital’s lost and found. I’d never been to an AA meeting, though I’d seen a lot of them on TV shows and they always looked so corny, almost embarrassing to watch. I did see a movie once that starred Meg Ryan playing a pathetic drunk, and she went to AA meetings. I wondered if the meeting I had to go to would be like that. I hoped not because I wasn’t about to walk up to a podium, say my name, and announce to everyone that I was an alcoholic.

  At 6 p.m. a little yellow school van picked six of us up in front of the Facility and drove us into the city for what I assumed would be some secret place where AA meetings were held. But it turned out the meeting was in the basement hall of a Catholic church right in the middle of town. I was sure they’d brought us to the wrong place, because there must have been a hundred people there and I couldn’t believe that many people would be in AA.

  The others from the Facility headed to the front of the room and found seats at one of the several long tables set up with metal folding chairs around them. I stood frozen, self-conscious about the state of my face. I wished I’d brought something to cover my face, even a pair of sunglasses would have helped, but I didn’t have anything and I hadn’t thought to ask anyone if I could borrow something before we got on the bus.

  After about ten minutes, an old bald guy with a long beard hit a mallet on a table at the front of the room and said, “Good evening everyone, welcome to the ‘do it or die’ meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. My name’s Dan and I am an alcoholic.”

  Everyone in the room yelled back, “Hi Dan!”

  “Are there any newcomers here tonight? If so, can you introduce yourself by your first name only?” Dan asked.

  I watched the five people I came with raise their hands. Each one said their real name, followed by, “and I’m an alcoholic,” and each time the room exploded into applause. I cringed with embarrassment. How can anyone applaud for people admitting they’re alcoholics? I wondered. I sank down into my chair, expecting someone to make me do the same thing, but no one did, and I watched Dan slide coins across the table to my fellow patients, something he called twenty-four-hour chips.

  I prayed no one would ask me to talk, and I cried silently through most of the meeting, hoping one of the women sitting nearby would tell me to leave. But instead one of them handed me a Kleenex and whispered that it was going to be okay. By the time the meeting was over, and everyone stood up and moved to the outside walls of the room and started holding hands, I could feel the sweat dripping down my arms and onto my hands. I didn’t want to hold anyone’s hand, so I ran outside to the van.

  On
the drive back to the Facility all the others talked about was how excited they were about getting an AA chip (which was a brass coin the size of a fifty-cent piece with a big triangle on it and some words I couldn’t read). They acted as though they’d just received an Academy Award for saying out loud, in front of a room of strangers, that they were alcoholics. For that the chips should have been solid gold. I decided right then and there that I wasn’t ever going to get one.

  CHAPTER 20

  The day after my first AA meeting, I told my group about the call I’d made to the hospital social worker. I was so angry about it that I almost choked when I told them how she’d hung up on me after she said something about me being exactly where I was supposed to be. And I got angrier when I saw everyone in my group nod in agreement. I burst into tears when my therapist smiled at me and said, “I think she knew what she was doing. No one ever gets to a place like this by mistake.”

  I didn’t say anything the rest of the session. I felt like a prisoner and I thought about calling Mom to come and get me but my face was still pretty messed up. That night, at an even bigger AA meeting, I told three older women seated together in the back row how I was a prisoner at the Facility.

  “I was tricked by a hospital social worker. She never even asked me if I was an alcoholic. Though I could sure use a few drinks right now, ” I cried.

  That’s all it took for all three of them to scoot in so close I thought I’d suffocate. “No one knows better than a drunk what it’s like to be a prisoner. I think you should stop complaining and take what they’re offering you,” one of them said just before she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of cherry Life Savers. “Here, these might help you feel better. Sometimes it’s just the sugar we crave.”

  I finished the entire roll of Life Savers and the two cups of sugary coffee they brought me during the meeting. When it was over, I bolted out to the parking lot before any of them had a chance to hug me or ask me for my phone number.