THE GODS OF ADDICTION

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

The program I signed up for was recommended (ordered, actually) by my probation officer. I was twenty-seven and had compiled a fairly extensive criminal record for such crimes as shoplifting, burglary, and possession of controlled substances. The absence of violent offenses in my file had been my only saving grace in terms of avoiding a lengthy prison bid. I once spent forty-five days in the Mercer County Detention Center (in those days known as the "work house") but hadn't come close to doing serious jail time. My probation officer—a smallish, soft-spoken man in his thirties—insisted I go into rehab after I got popped for shoplifting while still on probation, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I would do either the twenty-one-day program or six to nine months in the county lockup for the latest charge.

Richard had been my PO for nearly a year, and this was the first time he ever expressed any real impatience with me. I think he genuinely cared for me, and truthfully I liked him. He always treated me decently, never lording his state-vested authority over me. He was one of those religious types and offered no apologies for it. He was always saying things like "I'm praying for you, Mitch," but he never targeted me with his faith-based rhetoric, and for that I was most appreciative. Not that I was against religion—I practically grew up in church. It's just that religion never got me anywhere. My life remained the same throughout adolescence and into adulthood, so when I was old enough to decide for myself, I decided there were things I'd rather do with my Sunday mornings—like sleep.

But as I said, I liked Richard. He was a good man, so I didn't mind agreeing to the program if it made him happy. Besides, the math—twenty-one days as opposed to six to nine months—pretty much made the decision a no-brainer. On top of that, I reasoned, I needed a little time out of circulation, time to rest and recoup. Cocaine addiction is a rugged life. It revs you full-throttle until you're running out of control. That's why I managed to get myself in trouble while on probation in the first place.

The program was called Project Pit Stop, a name I found ironic for several reasons: (1) the state-run rehab was housed in what was once an auto parts warehouse near a long-abandoned racetrack just outside West Trenton; (2) I was sure the name held biblical applications for Richard, as in stopping me from falling into the pit; and (3) for me this was only a brief respite from the hassle of the hustle—time to recharge my batteries, get a few meals under my belt, clock a few nights' sleep, and lose the ashen pallor my lifestyle had visited upon my complexion. In twenty-two days it would be off to the races again. For me the Pit Stop really was just a pit stop.

There were about twelve staff members at Project Pit Stop, all recovering addicts except for Dr. Berman, the resident psychologist, and Carol, a pretty, light-skinned woman with a really nasty attitude who drove clients (or "inpatients," as we were called) to and from whatever medical or legal appointments were pending. There were forty inpatients, nearly all of us on probation or parole, so someone had to be in one courthouse or another almost every day.

The day started at 6:00. Showers and dorm clean-up until 7:00, and then breakfast until 8:00. Facility chores: cleaning or maintaining offices, meeting rooms, hallways, kitchen, public bathrooms, and grounds until 9:30, and then a short break, after which group meetings were held. To my surprise, I enjoyed the meetings. I found them mildly entertaining at first and then immensely so, and quite moving as well, especially the "sharing," or one person revealing the misadventures of his or her life to a roomful of strangers, speaking to the problems at the heart of one's addiction and then the "feedback" as the sharer's peers offered their opinions or advice about what was shared. It fascinated me to watch people expose themselves so unabashedly, withholding not one sordid detail of their junkie lives. We held two such meetings a day. The sharing got to be pretty emotional and the hour almost always ended with at least a portion of the room in tears. As it turns out, though, melancholy is a contagious mood. Midway through the second week I found myself sharing ... and crying. I didn't know I was carrying so much emotional baggage until I started talking about it. It felt good to unload, and amazingly the twenty-one-day "sentence" ended sooner than I wanted. On a bright and breezy Tuesday morning in mid-April I was discharged from Project Pit Stop with a certificate of completion to prove I was recovered from drug addiction.

Upon learning I had completed rehab my mother took me right in. I hadn't seen her during the last few months prior to my most recent arrest. It broke her heart to see me strung out and hustling; overcome with shame, I avoided North Trenton and her house as best I could. Now, however, I was feeling spectacular. Project Pit Stop had proved a more effective experience than I'd anticipated, and I felt as though I really had put down drugs for good. I hadn't even smoked a cigarette in eight days. Truly I was in recovery.

I promised Mom I'd look for a job right away. Two days later I was hired at Federated Metals, and six weeks after that I moved into the boardinghouse in South Trenton. Mom was reluctant to see me go; we'd been sharing some really good times since I got clean, and my sister Brenda didn't care for the area I was moving into. I assured them both I'd be fine. For the first time in more than five years I was thinking about a life that didn't include drugs and alcohol.

Both Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous meetings were now a condition of my probation, which had been extended another year due to the charge that landed me at Project Pit Stop. The staff at the rehab recommended that I attend a meeting a day for ninety days. I thought that was a bit excessive, and fortunately Richard was willing to settle for three a week. Frankly I wouldn't have been terribly upset if he'd wanted one or two more. Hanging around my room watching television after work had become almost unbearably dull, and there wasn't much else to do since all my former haunts were drug involved. Anyway, I was familiar with meeting protocol because the Pit Stop hosted an AA meeting on Tuesday nights and an NA meeting on...