'Hab: The Other Side of Rehab

By John Sloop Biederman

This POV Big Rehab tour tells the Other Side of our Sacred Recovery Cow. Follow 23-year-old free-thinker Boris, and a diverse band of fellow 'Habbers (half on repeat stints), as he's floored to find 12-Step religious indoctrination via a 20th Century hospital. Desperate to quit, fearing for his very life, Boris learns he must recover by rejecting the Program, rather than through cliche acceptance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Sloop Biederman
• Release date: Jun 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301683109

John Sloop Biederman

John “Sloop” Biederman John “Sloop” Biederman's fate as a writer was sealed early, through encouragement from his parents and teachers. In grade school, he wrote old-time “radio” plays and won an Earth Day poetry contest in the late ’70s. (The blue spruce “sapling” prize now towers by his former family home in Ringwood, Ill.) His folks spurred his budding humorist through their favorite classics, from Laurel and Hardy to “Pink Panther” movies. Moved by authors including Poe, Tolkien and Twain, in junior high he crafted Dungeons & Dragons adventures and figured he’d grow up to be a humorous sci-fi/fantasy novelist. In high school, Sloop was an award-winning humor columnist/editor and picked journalism as (ahem) a practical career. Sloop chased rock star dreams from his teens through three semesters at the University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign) in the ’80s. When rampant partying prompted his folks to yank the money, he moved home for a Multi-Year Funk and grunt jobs, pitching sci-fi/fantasy to magazines, earning feedback and a first unpaid “sale” (poetry), though the rag failed before publication. He moved to Chicago in 1991 and founded the first of two writers’ groups. Members loved his Floyd Pinkerton, from a one-off sci-fi story, so much they even wrote their own Floyd tales! Sloop landed in alcohol rehab and was screwed-up worse by its religiosity. Pitching Gauntlet Magazine on a 12 Steps critique (later published), he snagged his first paid story (1993), analyzing a then media circus involving child’s birthday party stripper. Rehab became his first novel’s theme (‘Hab: The Other Side of Rehab, 1993; reedited and published on Smashwords in 2013). He returned to journalism school (Columbia College Chicago) in 1994, wrote a humor column for the school’s Chronicle, rose to editor-in-chief and interned at MAD Magazine. Dismayed at the Internet’s effects on writing careers, Sloop indulged new creative directions. Sloop hit poetry readings socially and his humor verse landed paid gigs (Chicago Cultural Center, etc.). On graduating (1997), he founded a poetry scene rag, Tunnel Rat, which buried him in debt but landed him as editor of Chicago Artists’ News. In 1999, for the 10th National Poetry Slam, he hosted the Limerick Slam, founding DailyLimerick.net to plug it. (“News Limericks” and humor.) He met the woman who’d one day become his ex-wife, who moved him to California, where he worked at the L.A. Daily News, freelanced (San Fran Chronicle, MAD, etc.) and plied stand-up and comic verse at the Laugh Factory, Comedy Store, etc. Sloop hated L.A., so returned home, bolstered clips with theater (CenterstageChicago.com) and sports (The Heckler) and scored his sweetest gig, News Limericks for the Chicago Tribune’s RedEye. When RedEye axed freelance, he placed “The News of Our Time--In Rhyme” at Continental Features. As writing income waned, Sloop translated stage experience into emceeing and acting gigs (TV, ads, indie films), even stumbling into directing/producing a theater troupe (Family Shoe Players) and a regular gig playing a tour bus gangster for Untouchable Tours. The Great Recession/Internet tag team launched Sloop’s second Multi-Year Funk. While pleased he’d reinvented himself creatively, with his lifelong identity as a writer, he was now identity-challenged. After his parents’ deaths (2012 and 2014), he reclaimed his original identity by reworking the original Pinkerton tale into Drunk Space Driving in the Twenty-First Century, prelude to the novel series The Cosmic Misadventures of Floyd Pinkerton, Space Crock.

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’HAB: The Other Side of Rehab

by John Sloop Biederman

Copyright 2013 John Biederman

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day Six

Day Seven

Day Eight

Day Nine

Day Ten

Day Eleven

Day Twelve

Day Thirteen

Day Fourteen

Day Fifteen

Beyond Hab, September 11

Beyond Hab, September 19

Beyond Hab, September 23

____________________________________

DAY ONE: Monday, August 12th

____________________________________

************************************

ONE

************************************

Welcome to ’Hab. My name’s Nate.

I put my hand in his immense, spiderish hand and let him shake.

’Hab’? Huh? Oh—my name’s Boris."

Re-hab, Boris. Lighten up. Nate’s pasting lines of blue construction paper around a poster board’s edges.

Wow. I’m in rehab. I mean, I knew that, but it’s just now registering. Fuckin’ rehab, for Christ’s sake, one place my childhood dreams sure as shit never touched upon. But here I am, at 23, in rehab. The few kids I knew in school who’d been to rehab… They didn’t talk about it. People only whispered about it behind their backs, once they were back in school…

I remember buying, for the last time—good God I hoped for the last time—the vodka, taking one last trip to what’s supposed to be Alcoholic Eden… The thrill was still there, for a few minutes, anyway. Soon, the whole ritual, again—passing out, damn sun rising, refusal to look at the clock, more vodka to quell Earthquake Head (just enough, right?)…

And I dragged myself to rehab before I could put it off again.

Come to think of it… I added a step to last night’s ritual. Crap. Called my grandma, of all people. My thinking, at the time, was that she’d lived a life leery of the Demon Drink, having had a violent alcoholic father, and would be proud that I was conquering it at an early age, or she’d feel some toothless, inbred cousin of proud, anyway… And I feel guilty about letting my grandparents down, along with my parents and everybody else, and she’s the only grandparent left alive to prove my non-loserdom to and… Yeah. I bawled my nuts off on the phone with her. As cliché as it sounds: What have I become?

So after hours of intake interviewing and paperwork, insurance- and drinking-history-related, I was given a quick tour of the unit and plopped into a chair around a newspaper-covered table littered with art supplies and circled by a sampling of other addicts.

’Hab’? says an older man. That’s a new one to me. But I guess, like any term you end up using a whole lot, it helps to abbreviate. First time, Boris?

Yeah.

Abbreviating will save you a lot of speaking energy. Only your first time? This is my fifth!

Fifth time? Oh no… the only lady in-unit says, wave motion of her hand continuing, even though her sewing needle missed her under-construction pillow.

I was told I was joining rehab festivities during Occupational Therapy, or OT, which occurs to teach us productive use of free time. So they furnish paper and paints and glue and clay and what-have-you and have us get all artsy-fartsy. Not that I can picture any of these addict bastards making crafts of their own accord. Maybe the lady.

Didn’t mean to scare ya’. Don’t think of it as a reflection on the 12th Floor here, Cynthia, Ralph says, then turns to me. Oh, and I’m Ralphie. Good to meet you, Boris. Ralphie’s smile seems heavier on the right side of his face. A stubby guy, his round, bloated head resembles a rag doll’s after being left in the rain overnight. Anyway, I’m the one who screwed up, not the Program here. Like a lot of people, I figured you could just check-in to…er, ’Hab, stop by a few AA meetings now and then and poof! You’re okay. Common alcoholic mistake, right Ken?

Ken holds up three fingers as he mouths, Third time. The word black is usually inaccurate to describe African Americans, but Ken’s close to the crayon color. He and a guy hunched over in a chair are the only ones not working on a project.

Each of my five times here in rehab have done nothing but good, Ralphie continues. It requires effort and what they call, profound seriousness and brutal honesty. The Program works if you work it.

Well, I’m sure as hell gonna work it the first time, Nate says.

Say. Ralph’s out of breath from pounding uncooperative clay. Boris. Do you need a Buddy?

I…I don’t know.

For the unit…you’re supposed to have a Buddy. A guy to help you fill out your lunch menu…kinda show you the ropes… It may sound a bit goofy, but get used to it. You’re gonna need people from the Program to help you from now on.

************************************

TWO

************************************

My name is Boris. I look around the circle at four other addicts and the counselor, Suzy, who’s running group therapy, or group. She’s also my primary nurse, for whatever that’s worth. I’m 23-years-old. Checked in today.

Did I miss a question? They’re all looking at me like I’m supposed to have a punch line or something.

Boris… Why are you here?

Ohhh… I have to stop drinking. I’m… I’m an alcoholic.

Thank you very much. Good crowd.

Tell us a bit about yourself, Boris. When you started drinking, a brief synopsis of your experiences, why you drink… We have to get to know each other, and ourselves, to get better.

Suzy’s dayglo eyes are large and bright, like lights, holding contact I can’t return. Too intense. I look to the floor, keeping her legs in the corner of my vision. I’m bummed I’m apparently not gonna see the stereotypical nurse uniform, especially on her, but I’ve never seen legs like that, outside of movies. They’re art. Rounded calves, delicate ankles, curves that almost seem exaggerated—like on a comic book she-superhero, hot but unreal. Legs like a face. I could pick ’em out of a lineup.

Boris?

Oh, sorry. It’s been a long day. Or morning… Well. I started drinking and smoking pot in high school. Grew up in the country, just south of Wisconsin, so there wasn’t much else to do as a teen, unless there was a party or something, so we’d drive around, gettin' wasted. Occasionally checking the fast food joints on the major strip for other friends, chicks, whatever. I don’t think I partied more than others my age, then.

It’s common for alcoholics and addicts to think their habits are normal, Suzy adds. Regardless of what you think, you had a problem from the start. And you don’t know what ‘normal’ drinking or using is. That’s why you’re here. Proceed.

Okay… Well, when I went off to college, at 18… For starters, I was kinda talked into it. I wanted to run off and get famous with the horrible band I’d formed in high school. My parents urged me to go to college, and deep down I must’ve known the band… Well, we didn’t even have any original songs. So I figured I’d put together a band at college, either use journalism as a fall-back, should I not attain fame and fortune, or switch to a music major… See, since early on, my parents had encouraged me with writing. I wrote extra-credit stories in grade school, wrote for the high school newspaper, was always creative… But when you’re in high school, it seems that the only artists who matter are rock stars so, like most everyone else, that’s what I aimed to be. At this point, I’m back to writing again. I think. But I digress.

You can’t digress in group therapy, Boris, Suzy says. This is your time to tell your story, uninterrupted. Be as long-winded as you feel.

Point is, I only half-wanted to be in college. I wasn’t a famous rock star yet, so I’d have to either work in the real world or go to school, so college seemed the better option. But… Well, I’ve always been ridiculously shy around women. I don’t make friends quickly. Here I was, in college, a great opportunity to meet lots of women and become a party animal… I guess I’d beat myself up. Tell myself I should be a social animal, but that wasn’t happening, so I’d get wasted to escape the fact or whatever…

Ahem. Suzy manages to sound sexy even clearing her throat. Can anybody tell me what’s wrong with what Boris just said?

The rest of the bunch looks bored. Actually, they look attentive, on the surface, but I’m sure that, underneath, their skulls are numbed with boredom. This drinking-story shit floors people who’ve never had the good fortune of being addicted, but these cats have been through it firsthand and they’ve been hearing these stories for…however long they’ve been here in ’Hab.

You guys need to participate more. But in the interest of moving on, Boris is blaming outside occurrences for his drinking. You drink because you have the disease.

Well, I know that much, but was just explaining how the disease kicked-in and…. Anyway, booze didn’t lower my inhibitions—not enough to pick-up chicks, anyway—so the more I partied, the lonelier I became, and the lonelier I became, the more likely I was to get even more wasted…

Excuse me Boris, but I need to break in here, Suzy said. This is one example of the many self-destructive circles you addicts live with. Proceed.

"So I reached a point where I was ‘addicted to buzz.’ It wasn’t anything specific—we threw a kegger once and I helped myself to the leftover beer the next day when I got up. But I didn’t drink even every day. I got buzzed, one way or another, every day, all day. If I had marijuana, I’d get stoned all day. But, again, didn’t smoke it every day.

"One day, I was walking down one of the main streets on campus and some dudes flagged me down. I didn’t know if they were people I knew or what the fuck. Turns out, they asked me if I could find ’em weed. That’s how much of a wastoid I was—with my concert shirt and long hair, I just cried out, ‘Stoner!’ And these dudes… One of them was diagnosed as manic-depressive. This somehow got him near-unlimited access to various pills. He hung out with these two guys—me and a roommate dubbed ’em ‘The Barbituate Brothers’—who’d pop his pills with him. According to them, they literally drove through a pharmacy window to get the goods. Unlimited drive-through pills! Anyway, I hung with those guys and ended up pill-buzzed all day.

I didn’t even ask what the shit was—until after I popped some. Scrawled the name of the drugs on a piece of paper, don’t even remember what they were now… I asked one of the guys if I’d be cool to hit quarter-beer night at the nearby bar after those, as I was planning to blow my laundry roll, and he said I’d be fine if I just ‘paced myself’ but… No way. Man, that stuff knocked you out—the next day felt like slow-motion; it’d take 45 minutes to shower. Sloowwly washing my bicep…

Damn, is Suzy hot. Since I’ve been a do-as-little-as-possible drunk for years, most of them spent in a rural area, and because I rarely interact with attractive women, if at all, really, much less sober or even manageably buzzed… I’m like a sailor coming back to shore, having not experienced feminine wiles in years and acting all goofy now that I am.

Uh, Boris?

Sorry. Rough day… Where was I?

Slowly washing your bicep?

Right. The Barbiturate Brothers, I giggled, but so did some of the others. Which is a good sign—entertaining this crowd with yet another drinking story. "So, while I’d never have, say, one or two drinks—if I were gonna indulge, I’d get wasted—alcohol wasn’t specifically the problem then. No one drug was. Whatever was available…

"Predictably, my grades suffered. They weren’t horrible—although I did get a couple of ‘Ds’ and even an ‘F,’ and as a high school honor student, a ‘C’ was the lowest grade I’d ever received to that point, and those were rare… The university didn’t kick me out over the grades, although I was on ‘probation’ until I brought my GPA up. My parents yanked the money. The deal was, I’d make decent grades, they’d pay. I screw-up… And, well, if I pay for a semester myself, through work or loans or grants or whatever, and do well, they’ll consider helping again. But I screwed up my end of the bargain.

"That, of course, sucked. There was the stench of failure in screwing up at school, but even worse was living back with the parents. I’d been out on my own. Living my own life. True, it wasn’t much of a life but… It could’ve been. Maybe. I could’ve been making real progress with a band, or something else; I could’ve been dating all sorts of chicks but… I blew it on every level.

It was time to save money, get myself back in school but… I was just so depressed. And I really had no skills, I…

Boris? Have you been diagnosed as clinically depressed?

No. I’ve generally been an optimist and happy guy, so the chief suspect behind the depression is the booze. But life has ups and downs and I was about as down as I’ve ever been.

It’s important, in a clinical setting like this, to differentiate. You were diseased, not depressed.

Well, I was there, and let me tell you, I was depressed as all hell. Not clinically, of course. Anyway, I wasn’t an alcoholic yet…

Boris, Boris, Boris. You were born an alcoholic. You just weren’t practicing yet. And you’ll always be one. But you can stop drinking and keep the disease from destroying your life.

I… I’m not sure how I feel about that. I mean, what if I’d somehow got involved, early on in college, with a band that hit it big, for example? And, consequently, had more women than I could manage. Would I have still turned to abusing booze?

Boris, as an alcoholic, you’ve been subconsciously looking your whole life for an excuse to drink.

That makes sense. I put on my best pensive-faced act, although the idea still seems loopy. Looking back it…yes. Makes sense… For a moment, Suzy’s mouth sorta hangs open. The strangest things she does, and says, and has, are sexy. Her mouth looks so warm and moist inside…

Continue Boris.

"So anyway, unlike other friends who had some construction experience, or a trade, or even took shop class… I had no real skills. I’d been gearing my whole life toward college. Or music or writing or some artsy shit. So I looked for unskilled work… Well, semi-skilled work. I knew basic computer stuff, could type and all… Ended up with a night job, at a graphics place, running proofs of typeset pages through a film machine for the daytime proofreading department, backing up the typesetters’ day’s work on this outdated, tape machine thing. Some light typing…

"Although I, obviously, lost it in the end, I’d been careful with drugs and alcohol on some levels. I’d even researched marijuana, and other drugs, before I tried pot. In fact, while I dabbled in a lot of stuff, I made sure to avoid too much of things. I’d tried coke, but never actually bought any. I’d go to college classes and stuff stoned, but not drunk or anything else. With pot, I could at least mostly concentrate in class and lend the appearance of sobriety…

"I became a pothead at school, but once I moved back, it was easy to drop. And I had little choice in the matter—most of my old friends were either still in college, or had moved away, so I didn’t have connections to buy any. For a while, I actually was mostly on the straight and narrow. I started working on writing short stories. Researched how and where to submit ’em. Even got a few out. Got rejection letters and an occasional, encouraging comment…

I’d come home after work and my parents would be asleep. So, missing the buzz, I started taking a few shots from their liquor cabinet some nights after work. They drink fairly regularly, so it was easy to go unnoticed. When I’d go crazy, I’d make what I called ‘jet fuel’—a teeny bit form this bottle, little bit from another… Horrible tasting mixture, but it got the job done. Still, I briefly started to feel better about myself—having a few drinks after work some nights, but not spending most of my time wasted. Working, saving money. Keeping obligations. I’d started to think that maybe I’d gotten over a phase. But I never fixed the underlying problems…

Sorry, Boris. Suzy shifts her eyes to the others, but I wanna break in for a second. What’s wrong with the last sentence Boris started?

The others stretch as if coming out of meditation. Ralphie’s mouth opens.

He was looking to solve his problems.

Excellent, Ralphie. Boris, you can’t solve your problems. You’re an alcoholic. As they say in meetings: Your best thinking got you here. You have tried numerous schemes of your own to quit, all of them failures.

The others nod, with assorted levels of conviction.

Okay, continue.

"Well, pretty soon, I was drinking every night. And not just a couple pulls from the parents stash before bedtime. I’d get off around two in the morning and would delay going home. Perhaps because the home situation was depressing. Of course, drinking and driving is wrong and all, but we’re talkin’ country roads. Could go 20 minutes without another car passing. Road drinking became my major source of R&R, especially since I pretty much gave up on a social life. Oh, at first, after moving back, I’d go through the same ritual as everyone else. ‘Friday night! Are there any parties or anything?’ Then it became just gettin' wasted with a friend or two. Or by myself. There was just something about driving around, slow and aimless, on back roads, with a 40-ouncer between my legs. Eventually, I’d supplement that with occasional vodka shots. I’d listen to the radio, daydream about being somebody famous, interviewed by the talk DJs I’d tune-in. Temporarily forget about what my life had become.

"Overall, I got comfortable with my situation. I knew I wanted more out of life but… I had my meals taken care of. A roof over my head. The job was easy. Plus, being on the night shift, there were no bosses to worry about. I’d read—I found a copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ there and even read that on the clock. I’d sometimes bring a story I was writing, mark it up…

"I ended up staying at the job for three years. Oh, I saved money toward college but…not enough. I started drinking on my lunch breaks. The next step was drinking at work. I’d tell myself, ‘It’s night time. It’s okay to drink at night. Sure, you’re working, but it’s still night time…’ Oh, there were other employees to deal with at night. Not as many as a day shift—but I didn’t get trashed. Just comfortably buzzed…

So that became a regular, every-night thing. I basically stranded myself in a nowhere job. And I ended up in a nowhere relationship, too. Slept with a coworker, twice my age. Coming out of a divorce, already had kids, so didn’t want anything too serious or too long-term… I knew it was doomed all along but, not having had anything for a few years… Well, stuck with that dead-end relationship, like the dead-end job, for a couple years. Got comfortable with all of it. She actually became my boss for a bit.

Wow. Ralph sits up from a near-melting posture. I think we need more details on that one.

Ralphie, Suzy says, This is Boris’ story. He’ll tell us what he wants to—and don’t forget, Boris, the point is how all this relates to drinking or using.

Yeah, and the point is that, while getting laid again was certainly a pick-me-up, especially with the older woman fantasy fulfillment angle… I was already too far gone. Or almost. It was about that time that I made perhaps the biggest mistake of my life—I tried drinking shortly after waking up.

Boris, Suzy broke in again on my uninterrupted drinking tale, there’s no need to beat yourself up. You did not make a mistake. You’re an alcoholic. It was your destiny.

So… That’s just too hokey to let lie… Destiny? You’re saying I couldn’t have taken different actions and avoided this?

For the most part…no.

But then… How do I know that drinking myself to death isn’t my destiny? How do I know that ’Hab—er, rehab isn’t a hopeless exercise? Why beat myself up when I can feel a much better emotion—hopelessness?

Boris, the point is that you’re an alcoholic. You have a disease. Now, of course your actions can alter your life. And once you’re aware of the addiction and recovering from it, you can even alter that so-called destiny, which I’ll admit isn’t the best term… Ironically, in taking control of your destiny, aka recovery, you place your destiny in the hands of a power outside of yourself… But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The main thing to remember is that, sure, when you’re under the control of the disease, you can take actions to alter your life, but as far as addiction’s concerned, that’s the direction you’re heading in. Maybe certain decisions will stave it off a bit, but the destination remains the same.

Well, that clarified the issue…at the same time it confused it but… Whoaah! I clench my fists and my palms are dry! The Librium they gave me must’ve kicked in. It’s supposed to stop withdrawal symptoms. They say it won’t buzz ya‘, but less Jonesin’s thrill enough for me.

Eye contact among the group is falling; eyeballs roll to the side…then catch themselves and try again. Even these mini-arguments are old hat to the ’Habbers, although Suzy’s workin’ the serious, wrinkled brow… I’m totally into telling my story now, in a whiny, self-indulgent way.

"So I got up one day, was a little bored and wanted a buzz. I had no pot or anything and, while a part of me knew it was a bad idea, I took a shot—vodka or brandy or something. Then another shot—I was intending to just get buzzed but… Then another. Next thing I know I was so trashed that I went back to bed. Luckily, woke up in time for the night shift…

"Man, did I feel pathetic over that incident. Wake up, drink—go back to bed? I didn’t make that a habit—not yet, anyway—but it did start me to drinkin’ pretty much constantly. I’d get up and have a shot or two, then take others at various intervals. Your body’s supposed to work off a drink in an hour’s time, so I’d calculate… Man, it was pathetic, almost scheduling the next shot. I had some control, on and off…or the illusion of control, sorry, because I’d fuck it up more and more frequently.

"When my partner in the hopeless relationship switched to the day shift, so did I. This prompted me to moderate somewhat, at first… That was a joke. I was hiding bottles in the film developing room. I really hated my job at that point, now that I had to deal with the bosses and stuff during the day, and knew I had to work to get out of there, back to school, but wasn’t saving what I should and… My tolerance was increasing. The three shots to ‘prime’ myself for work became four…six… I thought I had everyone fooled but, after I was fired, I learned that all the ladies in typesetting were ‘concerned’ about me…

" I had no life, at that point. Socially… And the writing was barely productive, at best. Booze was my life. Everything else just got in the way of being constantly drunk. Oh, I made time for my lady friend, but that was just sex and, with her family responsibilities and all, that was rarely more than once a week, if that.

"I don’t know how in the hell I managed to keep that job for three years. I’d call in sick or whatever when I was too hungover—or already drunk. I’d go off drinkin’ on my lunch hour, drivin’ around aimlessly—and realize I was too drunk to go back to work. Go home, make up some excuse… I was runnin’ out of excuses. It was already getting too pathetic to hide well at work. Then the woman dumped me and… Although I knew there was no future for us, my life was about ‘putting off’ the future. I really took it hard. I didn’t think it were possible at that point, but I actually started drinking heavier. One lunch hour, I was hauled-in for a DUI. That time, I didn’t bother with a phony excuse and they let me go. Not directly because of the DUI—although it didn’t help—but because everybody was on to me. Even though my tolerance let me perform duties normally, and it was a mindless grunt job, I’d pushed it to the point that I was fuckin’ shit up…

Then… Well, since I’d be without a license for a while, and didn’t even have a job to get a ‘drive only to and from work’ permit or whatever, it made sense to move into the city with a friend of mine, who’d rented a huge, cheap place by himself. Could take buses and trains to work, have a bigger pool of jobs to apply for… I used to bash the idea of city living but ended up loving it. Got some job as a law clerk at a law firm. Was around lots of attractive chicks, had more social options… Sure, I went out with the bunch one night and fell off a barstool, but I somehow curtailed my drinking for a while there. Even quit—for a week or so. A couple of times. Seemed I had a new life to live for. Yeah, I soon returned to getting bombed at night. And, yeah…

Before Suzy can speak, with that sexy, be-lipsticked, moist open mouth…

…I never really had controlled it, just maintained that illusion… Really, speaking of putting off the future, I’d known I had to quit for… A year, maybe even? Soon after the ‘drink all day’ thing became a habit. I just kept putting it off until sometime in the future—never today, not even next week, but sometime way off in the future somewhere… Even when I was holdin’ down the law clerk job, I’d fight the urge to booze-up the morning… Didn’t want to lose another job because of it. And I knew I had to quit soon, or at least soon-ish… The day I lost my graphics-place job, wrapped up in a life-success combo with that DUI, I knew I had to knock it off, and not way off in the sprawling ‘future.’ That day was my turning point.

You’re turning point was today, Boris, Suzy says.

Well, my sobriety turning point was today. Or, God, I hope it’s today, but… After the DUI, I could no longer drink and enjoy it. I knew I had to quit; that I shouldn’t be drinking and had to quit soon…so it was my turning point in that way.

Boris, up until today you were in denial. In fact, you’re still in denial.

I may be in denial of some things, but I find it more ambiguity than denial. Swear off drinking, then talk myself back into drinking. Realize that it was ruining my life, but talk myself into putting it off one more day, one more week…

Boris, you are in the phase called denial because you are denying the underlying disease and all that surviving life with that disease entails. Until you can break that denial, it’s only a matter of time before that next drink or drug.

Eyes are flipping back and forth as if we’re watching a ping-pong competition. Suzy leans back, crosses her legs, straightens her dress.

Okay, I get it. We’re talking about a therapy term here. Not dictionary definition denial but denial. Maybe I don’t know all I have to do to survive yet, but I’m not denying that I have to stop drinking.

Boris, it’s not just about stopping drinking.

Er… I’d thought it was.

You can’t just stop drinking and expect your problems to go away. You’re in denial.

Actually, when I managed to lay off the sauce for a week or two, it was amazing how many mini-problems disappeared.

You’re in denial of the fact that you have a disease.

Okay. Am I? I was always suspicious of the disease label, to be honest. Maybe it works as a convenience—kicking an addiction has some qualities in common with a disease. But with diseases, in general, you don’t willfully inflict it upon yourself. You don’t purposefully tip a bottle of…say, rickets to your lips. And you don’t catch a drinking problem because someone coughs on you.

On one hand… This business is coming off as hokey. I don’t want to be a cynic about it. I don’t want it to be hokey, in any way shape or form. I want science. You go to a hospital and want science to help you. But I can’t help questioning this stuff.

On the other hand… I shouldn’t question. I’m in freakin’ rehab, man! This is what I’d become, for Elvis’ sake—do I want to be the ‘rehab rebel’ on top of it? That’s like not only being a loser, but being elected president of the Loser’s Club!

Anyway, Boris. All this questioning is a major symptom of denial. Just asserting that you’re not in denial is a symptom that you really are in denial. But we’re running out of time and you have a story to finish. How’d you get from moving to the city and being a law clerk to here?

I’d like to ask about someone who truly isn’t in denial denying that he’s in denial but… Pffft.

Oh—after the DUI, my attorney had advised me to obtain a ‘drinking evaluation’ of some sort. I’d done that—before I’d moved to the city—and received the ‘recommendation’ of a certain number of outpatient therapy hours. The way it was worded, I figured, ‘Thanks for the recommendation," but I’ll pass.’ After moving to the city, I got a letter from my lawyer asking whether I’d done anything about the ‘recommendation.’ Turns out, the ‘recommendation’ was a ‘requirement,’ assuming I didn’t want to be held in contempt of court.

"So I tried to sign up for outpatient here and they said I had to take a new evaluation, as it’d been a couple months. This pissed me off on many levels. The evaluations are expensive. I don’t think the state has an interest in me other than the fact that I’m not drinking and