Dispatches from Treatment #1

Sneaking out a post from the recovery centre

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Photo by sanjiv nayak on Unsplash

In one of the funniest news stories I’ve read lately, a pigeon wearing a micro-backpack (yes, backpack) was nabbed trying to fly contraband into a prison courtyard in British Columbia.

Here in treatment, where phones and laptops are forbidden, my long-time friend and creative blood brother, Steve Pratt, is my pigeon. Through an elaborate smuggling operation (Canada Post), sheets of foolscap are transported from me to Steve and transferred from analog to digital. He generously inputs my pigeon-scratch scribbling into his computer. In exchange, I have promised him copious amounts of homemade beef jerky from the fancy in-house store here.

It brings me endless joy that the high-end shop in this treatment centre - which offers everything from barista bar macchiatos and inspirational books and jewelry to fresh-baked goodies and branded hoodies - is called Rascals. It’s an old name choice in a place full of people with crazy pasts, trauma, and crushing addictions. “Get in here for some gummy bears, you little rascals, you,” like the bunch of ragamuffins and scallywags we are.

I use the words ‘fancy’ and ‘high-end’ to describe Rascals because everything here is of that calibre - something foreign to me from past treatment centres I’ve attended for a tune-up. Allow me to give some quick context (I’ll try to keep it short, Steve. There is a Rascals bag of gummies in it for you.) *Note from Steve - Jordan, you Rascal, you!

A while back, I posted some thoughts on the disease of alcoholism, which resulted in an overwhelming response from people with the same struggles in their families. And throughout the years, I’ve had to get back on track in a few treatment centre tune-ups. These places - like restaurants and toilet paper - vary in quality. You get what you pay for. The goals of recovery shouldn’t change because of the quality of the venue.

But, I can tell you from experience, they do.

I’ve been to places where men - many fresh from prison or court-ordered - are crammed 8 to a small bedroom of bunk beds. There were a few handouts about sobriety, but daily activities mostly included vaping, fighting, and watching Vin Diesel movies in the common area. Not the most healing atmosphere.

Photo by Rubén Bagüés on Unsplash

I had forgotten that some time ago, my counsellor and I filled out a long-shot application for the few fully funded spots offered by what’s known as the best treatment centre in Canada. The kind of place a movie star slips into. The kind of place that costs a 4-year university tuition. The Harvard of Recovery, in my eyes at least.

Three weeks ago, I got the call. A funded opportunity. I won the lottery and I’m happy as a sober clam.

I’d like to acknowledge how unfair it is that people of means get the best treatment. This is true for everything worldwide. But I’ll tell ya - after the dues I’ve paid, the people I’ve hurt, and never giving up on the magic psychic shift to sobriety - I’ve earned the wellness major leagues, man.

I could tell you about all the PhD and Masters-level therapists, counsellors, chaplains, and staff that have similar pasts and dig deep, making me learn and laugh about my own stuff.

I could go on and on about the daily 2-hour TED-talk-level lectures from big names in recovery that come in and enlighten us with university-quality dives into concepts of surrender, grace, spirituality, biology, ancient philosophy, and stoicism.

I’m tempted to tell you about dinners of BC wild sockeye salmon, braised short ribs, Thai coconut prawn soup, and pulled pork with homemade applewood BBQ sauce on freshly baked pretzel buns… but that would be boasting.

I want to mention the meditation, yoga, contemplation maze, big gym, island nature walks, Indigenous smudging ceremonies and mindfulness groups, but there’s no time.

And no offence to bros of the past places, but it is so refreshing to be surrounded by people my age that are serious about recovery. Moms and dads, business professionals, artists, nurses, construction workers - all talking deep shit in leisure time. Last night, I talked long into the night, sharing experiences with a man and woman, later finding out he’s an airline pilot and she’s a surgeon.

The point being, this is mature recovery. And maybe the bigger point is that this disease hits all walks of life; those dealt a bad hand or a couple crossed wires in the brain area of addiction.

Yes, it’s tough living with many difficult personalities, and this is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done, to unlearn my life. It’s as hard as trying to pull the starter cord on an old lawn mower when you’re just a kid, which is kind of what i’m doing right now.

I’d love to write more, but the pigeon backpack is full.

That, and in a few minutes the next scheduled event begins our evening. It happens to be the greatest 2-word combination I’ve ever heard.

Mandatory Charades.

[Special thanks to Steve Pratt for taking the time out of his busy schedule to type, edit, and always make my stuff that much better.]

*Note from Steve - Jordan, it’s an honour to help get The Chase out into the world, and so proud of the hard work you are doing with a really tough disease! I hope the pigeons deliver more backpacks of creative contraband soon.