I recently read Dreamland: The True Tale of America’s Opiate Epidemic which has spurred my interest in all things drug and addiction-related. I don’t drink, smoke, shoot up, or whatnot. I’m sincerely aiming to live to 160 AT LEAST, and I figure avoiding some toxins until we can easily replace physical parts, such as aged skin, is a good idea. I also have a personality that stops anything (including people) cold turkey. (A great though sometimes damaging attribute). Addiction has always thus been a theoretical, mystical concept to me.
So a crystal meth group was likely to be unusual if not uncomfortable given the subject matter I know nothing about. I thought I would say I’m here in support of a family member. I showed up to a community center with a cafe in the back. A massively tall black man, probably in his 60's, greeted me and gave me Valentine’s day chocolate. A stunning guy with incredible hair and a smile to make the Jonas Brothers envious plopped down on a chair and set his motorcycle helmet down. Two attractive hips (non-Portland, more LA) hipsters chatted in the corner. Two middle-aged pudgy white guys sat down. A lovely Italian woman in her 50’s, I’d say, waltzed around to greet some people. A young bubbly woman, rather a Kelly Clarkson look-alike who was pregnant, also came in. A cute gay Mexican boy, probably just over 20, joined the group. There were about 20 people in the room. Don’t meth addicts have “meth mouth”? Don’t look, well, trashy? Not in khakis and a pair of New Balance sneakers? If someone asked me, “What do all of these people have in common?” I would have replied, “Well, they are physically present in California.” The answer, “They are all crystal meth addicts” would have been the very last thing I could conjecture. This made me think of some of my other experiences in these past months. It’s easy to guess, perhaps correctly, that someone is homeless, or Muslim because she has a burka on, or maybe in the sex business because she wears fishnets and carries a little paddle, but it’s damn difficult to fathom who’s an addict. Every age bracket, the color of skin, and sexual orientation were represented, it seemed.
The meetings follow “the Big Book” from Alcoholics Anonymous, a tome the size of your most dreaded textbook. A few times, people would place their hands on the book. The 12 steps do have reference to God and the meetings start with a prayer. Everyone knew the prayer and recited it with gusto. Then introductions started, although it was patent everyone knew each other on a first-name basis except the visiting gay couple from back East. The leader asked to have people raise their hands if they’ve been sober 1 month, 3 months, 6 months, a year, 2 years, and up to 20 years. There were a few hands raised for every time frame. It was surprising to see the range.
Before people comment or share anything after they’ve been called upon, they say, “My name is so and so, and I’m a crystal meth addict.” It’s oddly refreshing to observe this. It’s just “out there” and everyone owns “it” so well and receives the ardent applause after this small announcement. Imagine if we walked around with such direct ownership of the state. “Hi, my name is Bob, and I’m heartbroken,” or “Hi, I’m Susie. And I’m a racist,” or “I’m Adam. I’m insane and might kill someone. ” Man. That would radically change the world. People share various stories in the meeting, and then there is a portion of time when leaders, the sponsors, and/or more senior members, call on others, asking to share. Many stories and comments were raw and so articulate that I felt a bit suspended in fiction fantasy or in a warped South Park episode. No, this is pretty standard, I was told.
An elderly black man talked about his time starting meth in his 30’s while helping HIV patients get their treatments. He recalls a time when he thought, “I can’t die. No, I can’t! Then I can’t get high again.” Imagine fearing death because you’re depressed you can’t get high again. I was stunned by that line. And that, “I had a patient seconds away from death while I was holding his hand, his parents and two siblings around him, and I all I was thinking was, ‘When the fuck am I out of here so I can light up.” The gorgeous Jonas guy, two years sober, called his sponsor that morning. “I felt THAT Matthew crawling out. .the beast is always there, but so is this fellowship.” The bubbly woman was hoping to soon get her young daughter back. Child protective services removed the daughter. The lovely Italian woman told about her period of shame when she would drink to “get clean from the meth,” which people applauded for in emphatic understanding, and scream at people in the park. She stills sees these people in the park five years later since those “fits.” Many people mentioned their sponsors and how cherished the fellowship is. “You can’t do it alone,” is a repeated phrase and not one said in a defeatist manner. Rather, it has a knowing “can do!” tone which seemed heartedly embraced. I was surprised to hear how many lunches, outings, travel/trips, fellow group attendance, and such sponsors did with their assigned fellow addicts. The meeting closes with another cherished prayer and a final ask, which is: “Is there anyone who can say, ‘My sobriety is in danger right now unless I speak up right now.” The mugs, by the way, are in the cafe and represent an addict's anniversary of sobriety.
Overall, I felt this was a humble, raw look at how to open humans of all backgrounds can be with one another. It’s remarkable, too, to consider that AA chapters around the globe are supported pretty much on their own as a giant communal nonprofit. (The Treasurer read that the total now in the chapter's bank was $74.67.) I thought more about this when considering how much the federal government spends a year on drug rehab. (Not prevention, just rehab. It’s more than 20 billion annually. I looked it up.)