Saying the Wrong Thing

Years ago (2000) I got arrested for a little bit of marijuana. I was placed on probation and sent to drug counseling groups. At the time I was a badge-carrying Federal Agent (Dept. of Commerce, but it sounds cool) and was working 65 hours a week, which made it difficult to attend the requisite number of Narcotics Anonymous meetings. My probation officer allowed me to attend the much more common Alcoholics Anonymous meeting instead- these would be counted towards my "recovery goal."
I didn't tell my officer that my serious problem was with alcohol, not pot, and it was only dumb luck that I wasn't arrested for drunken driving instead of drug possession.
She suggested that I "get a few beers" if I started having pot cravings. I was also prescribed Valium and Zoloft by a State Shrink, which my real doctor changed to Xanax because "it's safer". (After my probation was over Doc told me to go ahead and smoke a little- he's no fool)

So... in order to quit pot, I should drink more alcohol and start taking pills? This sounded crazy to me, but I knew better than to mention it to my officer. I went to my very first Narco Anon meeting the next day.

There were about twenty shaky individuals gathered in a dank church basement. I could tell from their ashen skin and Auschwitz physiques that most of the attendees were crackheads and/or junkies. I hadn't done cocaine or heroin for many years by this point, but I'll always be able to ID a junkie or cokehead on sight. This is a self-preservation skill that should not be underestimated.
They are to be avoided- even if you love them, avoid them until they get clean- but suddenly I was surrounded by them.
This sucked.
There was a sour smell of death and filthy crotch in the room.
Drugwhore smell.

Some guy that was probably 40 but looked 60 introduced himself. He was an addict and had been clean for a million years. He showed us his poker chips.
Pretty fucking unimpressive.
I wondered if they used poker chips at Gambling Anonymous meetings, but knew better than to ask.

He asked the group to introduce themselves.

And they did.

Oh my, such dull and tragic tales. Of course you stole from your family, of course you got HIV from fucking for crack, of course you lost everything until you found Jesus- blah-the-fuck-blah.
Booorrinnng....*yawn*
Who'd you kill?
Your infant was still-born because you poisoned it with heroin?
Lost a hand to gangrene?
Of course you did- that's what happens.
How's your liver, Lemonhead?
Not so good, I'm guessing.
Six months to live? Goddamn, but you've got one hell of an optimistic doctor- I'd give you six weeks, tops.

So it was my turn to introduce myself and tell a horror story. At this point in my life it'd been years since I did any hard drugs- I didn't "get help" or find Jesus or any of that - I simply stopped snorting coke and sniffing smack. For me this was easy- so easy that I wasn't prepared for how hard it would be to quit the booze- but that's another story...

Hi, I'm Allan and I'm a marijuana addict...it occurs to me that saying "I'm here for less than one gram of pot that I didn't even know was in my car" was not the kind of story I was supposed to tell, so I ad-libbed a bit...actually I just flat-out lied. My story:

I living with my wife, her elderly mother and our three beautiful
kids - I had a good job, the future was bright- but I had a secret
marijuana habit. One night , I thought the family was attending a church
function -drugs had led me away from Christ at this point, of
course, so i did not go. I was so consumed by marijuana that I would rather smoke joints than pray with my family. ( OOOooo, goes the room)
Well, they came home early and I had to quickly hide my pipe under the sofa
and run for the breathmints. (A note on meetings: just mentioning "breathmints" will cause a loud murmur of "uh
huhs" and "that's right"- it's like a secret addict in-joke or something )
Later that night, the smoldering pipe caught the sofa on fire and the blaze
killed my entire family. I was too stoned to help. I don't remember any of the
details- must've been the dope.

The whole group was almost in tears by the time I finished. One emaciated woman told me that she had heard about me on the news and prayed for me every night. Another addict asked me if I missed my family. Of course I missed them, but with Jesus' help I will see them again.
Amen!
Big Group Hug and Serenity Prayer!
I was afraid that I was going to get lice from this Group Hug, but crabs are better than five years in prison, which was my suspended sentence.

I do not mean to make light of the millions who have been helped in groups like this- but for me it doesn't work. I see the whole process as a game that they want you to play - all the rules are very clear and as long as you remain patient and stay on script, you'll be fine. Whatever you do, NEVER be honest to anyone in authority about how you feel- this was my experience. It's not like that for everyone - I hope.

One Honest Hippie guy made the mistake of telling the truth. He was also in for a minor pot bust and couldn't understand why the State deemed a three-joint a week habit to be the moral, legal and ethical equivalent of two-bundle-a-day crack usage.
After all, he said, there's vast amounts of hard data proving that weed is not nearly as harmful as other, legal drugs like booze and cigarettes. It's just a flower that grows wild. It doesn't make you violent or crazy and it shouldn't even be illegal in the first place...AND ( HE LOOKS STRAIGHT AT ME ) it sure as hell doesn't get you so high you can't tell THAT YOUR HOUSE IS BURNING DOWN!

He knows I'm lying. I know he's right. Of course he is.

Of course he also just "resisted treatment" , which will violate one's probation. He was removed from the class in much the same way as a mis-behaving child is removed from tour in the Wonka factory, never to be seen again.

Me? I hate the drugs portion of our legal system but I know it'll fuck you around if you don't play right, so I did. I limited my drug abuse to State-supplied Vodka (in Virginia, the State runs the Liqour stores) and prescription pills and I stayed clear of pot for 18 months.

I gained twenty pounds. I became even more angry, depressed and withdrawn than normal. My blood pressure became alarmingly high. I develope an unexplained neuropathy in my left arm that made it impossible to play guitar- or even tie my shoes and after losing my Fed job (Bush Cut) I was managing a fucking retail shoe store for chrissakes- in short , my life had hit bottom.

My Probation Officer would tell me how great I was doing at our monthly meetings- yay, no dope in my urine! I'd get drunk alone and cry every night, but I kept that to myself. Yeah, I was doing great. Sure did me good to stay away from that horrible marijuana, even if I had to drink myself half to death to do it.
If I felt blue, there was always a new pill to try. I felt Blue a lot during this period. Like Picasso,I was.

But I got through it. I never once told the truth at a meeting or to my Probation Officer.
If I had , I'd be buried in a convict's grave next to Honest Hippie Guy.

There's no moral. That's just the way it is.