# "Rad" First time submission, a story from my addiction memoir



## bradt4309 (Feb 23, 2011)

*LIGHTHOUSE* 
 	     I give Carol a hug. I feel sick, but a little excited; not sure if its early signs of withdraw or a desire to quit, am I scared, nervous? I really cant tell you the last time I felt any emotion. Only pains or pleasures. I turn toward the doors of what looked like a mini prison and began my first real attempt at sobriety. When I reached the front door to the detox area, I had to press a button and look into a dirty old looking camera in a box. I hear the buzz, pull the handle and enter.


 	It's dark, dreary and humid. I'm immediately greeted by a round black man who grabs my one garbage bag of clothes and passes it to the front desk lady. He searches me, she searches the bag. I sign my name at the desk and sit down. “Bradley Tucker” hollers the front desk lady. I get up, grab the clip board, sit back and fill out the mountain of paper work.  


 	My legs begin to ache and quickly I lose patients with the whole process. Every second in this chair feels like an hour. Hello? Can I get my room? Why do they make appointments? Can I get some medication? 45 minutes later she calls my name, hands me my bag and directs me to the room. It was an extra small dorm room with two single beds. She said “it's lunch time” and exits the room. I put my bag on the floor near my bed and head to lunch.  


 	The front desk lady sees me looking both ways confused, and points in the direction of the cafeteria. I'm a six foot two, skinny, white, twenty four year old from the suburbs. I am still wearing what I slept in, pajama pants and a hoody, with some flip flops, my hair is a mess, no hats allowed. I don't care at all, I don't think I've showered in four days. It's cold as shit in here, “burr. . . goose bumps.” I see the cafeteria sign. I make the right through the double doors. What awaited me was not like what is on television or in reality shows. I was all alone, half everyones age, and was the only person there on my own accord. I entered myself into a rehab ran by the Salvation Army called _Lighthouse. _What I didn't know was Wayne County judges will often allow non-violent inmates the option to do their time in _Lighthouses _drug rehabilitation center. I didn't know I had other options. No one I knew had any knowledge either. Are you fucking serious, I entered a rehab, in Detroit, with two hundred and fifty black inmates. I trip on my own feet, make a noise, and the entire room stops and looks up. . . and stares. . . then goes back to eating. What am I doing here?

 	Being that this rehab was ran by The Salvation Army, a non profit organization, the food serve looked way worse then anything Ive ever encountered. Even homeless drug addicts and starving inmates struggled to keep down the soupy formation slopped on our plates daily. Many of the juices and milk cartons tasted a hint of sour. I finally got to the front of the line, grabbed my food and sat down. My first bite was followed by a gag reflex, so I spent the next ten minutes playing with my food and trying to make sense of what was going on. After, I went back to my room in the detox area of the rehab, grabbed my soduku puzzles and went to town.


 	The detox center is in place to give a drug addict three to seven days to go through withdraws while being watched over by under qualified medical staff. The staff provides clients, of the rehab, with the minimal medication, mainly a med that keeps blood pressure down. Extremely high blood pressure being one of the many symptoms of withdraws. Other than the obvious rules, such as no weapons or drugs, respecting the staff and other clients, the detox only requires that we are out of bed by five thirty a.m. and are in the cafeteria for all three meals. Since most of the people were twice my age, and from the urban areas of Detroit, conversations were non existent. The rest of the time is spent reading or staring at Jerry Spring or some other show on CW50, a local black entertainment channel. I spent most of this time in my own head, trying to deal with the pains of no dope, trying to deal with where I am, trying to deal with the disaster I have mad of my life.  


 	The detox only expected us to exist. After three days of doing nothing but eating and trying to sleep, the staff allowed me to move into the rehabilitation area of _Lighthouse._ Thank God, I am going stir crazy. Those three days couldn't have gone any slower, but the hell of withdraws is beginning to dissipate. The desk lady grabs my garbage bag of personal items and leads me down the hallway to my new room. The room has almost the same set up as the detox, two dressers and two single beds, but this room had a single shower and small sink in it. After meeting with one of the social workers, I was given a pile of papers describing the daily routine and what was expected of me. No more sitting around watching the time go by, we are expected wake up at five thirty a.m. and after breakfast our day is full of groups meetings, classes, smoke breaks, chores, lunch and dinner.


 	I go back to my room, and meet my roommate for the first time. I am greeted by a six foot five lanky black guy, we shake hands, “I'm Brad” hey man “I'm Legs.” So many thoughts were running through my head, can I trust him? Why is he in jail? He seems friendly enough. What if he killed someone and got off on manslaughter? I cant just ask the guy. We go about our business making small talk to be polite. He tells me a little more about how the place is ran, and I, in turn, try to take everything in. After about an hour I follow Legs to my first group meeting. He walks with a gangster limp down the hall. There are probably fifteen guys in the room, with no authority figure to be found. Everybody takes a seat. One guy seems to take control of the meeting, “who wants to read?” Several guys get up, grab the laminated sheets, and sit back down. I sit silently in the corner counting the tiles on floor. Legs says “We have a new guy today, Brad introduce yourself.” I look up, are they taking to me? “Oh, hey my names Brad.” Simultaneously the whole room responds “Hi Brad.” I am uncomfortable. What are we doing? “Welcome to Alcoholics Anonymous.” Huh AA? I am not an alcoholic. I don't even know if I am a drug addict, my life is a little out of control, thats all.


 	After all the opening readings, some weird prayer and any clean day celebrations, the group began the meeting. Random people shared their feelings about the topic of the day, and how it relates to their recovery. One of the rules of AA is that everyone must share. Emotionally, I was in no position to share anything. Not only was I surrounded by people I couldn't identify with, but I felt if I spoke the waterworks would begin. I was not about to put myself out there like that, not in front of these people. After the majority of the group shared, it came to me. What do I say? I'm not an alcoholic. Since I wasn't comfortable using this phrase, I said “My names Brad, I'm an addict. I'm gonna pass.” Everyone responds “Thanks Brad.” Phew, I wipe the sweat from my forehead. We stood up, formed a circle, held hands, and close the meeting with the _Our Father _prayer.  


 	After the meeting we went to the yard for our smoke brake. This building is still a huge maze to me so I follow Legs and the others down the halls. Walking through the double doors I'm greeted by a familiar site . . . a basketball court. I sit down on a bench, light up my cigarette, and observe my surroundings. Besides the freedom to move around freely this place reminds me more and more of a prison. I see groups of inmates huddled together, while others shoot some dirty brown basketball at the hoop. The yard is pretty large and faces the expressway. It's enclosed by a twenty foot barb wire fence. I get a sick feeling in my stomach. Just passed the bar wire fence is a expressway sign that reads 75 to Detroit. My nausea is brought on by this sign. That sign used to mean I'm five minutes from dope. I took this route hundreds of times, and it seeing that green sign immediately triggered the urge. “I can't sit out here.” I put out my half smoked cigarette, and head to my room.  


 	Even in our rooms we are expected to be working on homework, reading, etc. I cant even put thoughts together. All I can think about is my mom. I begin to sob uncontrollably. I go to the shower to wash away the tears. After all the meetings and dinner and smoking we go to the last group of the day. It's called an open talk. I am not in the mood to hear some guy talk about his drug and alcohol use. How is this supposed to help anything?  


 	Legs and I roll down the maze of hallways toward the gymnasium. Every patient in the rehab was there. We all sit down and open with another prayer. Following the prayer a man heads to the front of the group and opens with “My name is . . . and I am an addict.” At this point I am a little more comfortable with where I am. I think that this allowed me to actually hear what this man had to say. I think this was the first time I can remember having feelings since I picked up heroin. The fifty two year old black man followed his introduction by telling MY STORY. I couldn't help but cry, and I wasn't the only one. Many of the bigger, tougher, criminal types were following suit. How is it that a man so different than me has such a similar story. I'm a young upper middle class white kid. He was the opposite. Whatever he said that evening reached me deep down. This meeting was the first meeting where I began to understand how NA/AA can help. Prior to this encounter I believed that NA/AA was a place where addicts and alcoholics meet others like them and go use with them. How could putting a junkie with a bunch of other junkies, make junkie not use junk? But this open talk did something different for me, it gave me hope. It was only a glimpse, but it felt good. My mind began to open slightly, and started to notice that I saw myself in many of the inmates.  


 	The meeting ended, and we headed to bed. Legs and I get to the room and talk a bit. It was an exhausting emotional day. I was ready for bed. The lights go out, my eyes close, and seconds later I fall into a vivid using dream. I wake from my sleep in the middle of the night to the sounds of someone pouring liquid into a garbage bag. As my eyes adjust to the darkness I see the outline of my roommate at the end of the bed. What the hell is he doing? “You alright man?” I asked. “Yea, I'm fine, just draining my leg.” I quickly turn on my light and sit up. Legs doesn't walk with a gangster lean, he only has one leg! This is my roommates nightly routine. He drains the fluid from his leg. My routine consisted of waking up disgusted.  


 	The next day came and I started to get used to the daily routine of meetings. I spent most of my time with Legs and he introduced me to a few of the other guys. I wasn't looked at as a punk kid. These guys would get pissed at me for being so young. I frequently heard “Take this shit seriously” or “Get this shit now while you're young” or “Don't be like us man.” Legs and I had a few minutes in our room, so I took the opportunity to ask him about his leg. “Legs, how did you lose your leg, if you don't mind?” He seemed very open to talking about it. His story went something like “I was at a coney in the D and some guy came in and shot up the place, I took three to the leg.” This would be one of the three versions I would hear of how he lost his leg. Drug addicts and criminals make a living off of their lies. We are such good liars because our animal instinct to survive hides our shame of lying. Humans, in general tend to give their lie away, through body language, eye contact, etc. A drug addict will look you straight in the eyes, and make you believe.


 	It's Easter Sunday, and I have no tears left. Today is a little different then the average day at the _Lighthouse._ All patients had to report to the gymnasium for Easter mass. I have gone to church for most of my young life, and also attended a Catholic middle school. Most of my friends went to expensive Catholic high schools. My feelings on church are far from positive. Church feels cult-like to me. Chanting and holding hands, it makes me uncomfortable. I go to mass because I have no choice. Walking into mass, I was surprised to see a huge projector. For the next three hours I was forced to watch a black preacher talk on a huge monitor. During the mass random guys would say “Hallelujah” and “Praise Jesus.” I sit and sit some more, changing positions every five seconds. I'm not going to sit here all day. I get up, sneak back to my room, and lay my head down. Fuck this man, fuck church. This stupid place isn't doing anything for me.  


 	My eyes pop open from my nap to see Legs standing over me. “Why'd you leave?” “I'm not religious” I said. “Well, after lunch we are going to play some basketball, you play?” “Hell yeah” I said, with a smile on my face. I've played basketball all my life and have always loved the challenge of playing black guys. I haven't played any ball in a while but I'm a very competitive person. I grab my grungy street shoes out of the garbage bag and head to the gym. Many black athletes get caught up in the streets and end up not fulfilling their potential, so even though these guys are older, I am assuming they can play. I also assumed I would be out of my element, but my competitiveness ended up taking over. I ran the gym that Easter Sunday, with a fury off three's, reverse lay ups, steels, and passes. All the guys on the sideline were cheering for the skinny white boy. I love the feeling of dominating a game, I love the feeling of a crowd cheering for me. For two hours, I forgot where I was, I forgot about drugs, I forgot about life and just played. I felt like a kid again. I felt happiness, a feeling I forgot how to have.
 The game came to a screeching halt with one blow of the whistle. The childlike exuberance displayed moments ago by all, washes away. The patients of the _Lighthouse_ are again faced with their real life problems.


 	A couple days go by, and despite the one or two highlight moments, the _Lighthouse_ was wearing on me. Tired of the food, tired of the routine, tired of the meetings, tired of everything. I am impatient, I want my life back. I grabbed my cell phone, which I snuck in, and sent a text to Ryan's girlfriend Lea. “Get me outta here, surrounded by blacks, going crazy.” I checked myself in, and I'm going to check myself out. I don't recall any specific incident that brought me to the breaking point. Maybe it was my impatience, maybe I was unwilling to do the work. Maybe I didn't go to the right rehab, there has to be something better then this. Truthfully, I just wanted heroin. I wanted to forget this whole experience.  

 	A few minutes later Lea responds “ be there in 30.” Fuck yea, gonna get high! My body and mind already feel better. I am re-energized. I grab my personal property, throw it into the garbage bag, and head to the front desk. The secretary lady says “Can I help you?” “Yeah, I'm leaving” I say. “Well you know you still have twenty one days left right?” “I don't care, my ride will be here any minute. I am leaving.” I sign my release and wait outside for my ride. Moments later Ryan and Lea pull up, and I get in. As we drive away I bitch and moan about the awful experience. We pull up to the expressway on ramp, and make the likely turn toward the 75 to Detroit sign, rather then going home. Ryan runs into the projects and Lea and I wait in the car, doors locked, and windows up. The doors and windows are not locked because we are scared, it's just a habit white people learn growing up. If you are in a bad area look straight ahead and lock your doors. Actually I felt more comfortable with the dope boys in the projects then I did at the _Lighthouse_. After all, I am one of the ghetto's best and most regular customers. Ryan comes walking back to the car, and we speed away onto the express. Lea fills the glass rose with chore boy and a rock and hands it back to me. I take the biggest hit that my lungs can hold. The exhale of smoke fills the car and is accompanied by a woo woo woo and a massive head rush. I light up a cig, and release my dope from the keno ticket wrapping paper. Looking to the ground, I see a piece of paper. I tightly roll it into a tube and intensely snort the dirty sand. The drip hits the back of my throat. Everything is better now.


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