Stark Raving Sober.

1988

Justine’s therapist once told her, “You sure know some interesting people.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

It was Oct. 20, 1988; Justine’s last planned drunk, the night before she was going into treatment for the first time for alcoholism at 22.

Twenty-two. That was way too young, she thought.

But she was doing it for her sister who was also “in the program” as it was called.

So Justine’s last drink was appropriately enough later at a George Michael concert in Atlanta, GA and she didn’t even get to get drunk because she ran out of money.

So unfair.

Justine’s friends dropped her off after breakfast following the concert where she almost got stampeded back at her garage apartment where she lived alone.

The next day she would drive several hours to her sister’s house in Florida where she would spend the night then be taken to Charter-By-The-Sea in St. Simon’s Island, Georgia.

Justine loved the beach but dreaded the trip. After trying to get around telling her bosses the truth and pleading for them to hold her job, the insurance adjustor convinced her to tell them the truth, the hardest thing she had to do, especially considering that her bosses were drunks themselves, though not dealing with it.

They were famous for their liquid lunches.

One of her former foster fathers and his new wife laughed when Justine later told them she was going to tell them she was going in the hospital for a month to get her colon cleaned out. Justine didn’t see the humor in it at all at the time.

Justine had arranged for her former foster dad o take care of her cat while she would be gone the 30 days, a lifetime it seemed to her.

She was more upset about leaving her cat than anything. Her job only paid $5/hour though she loved it and her bosses had assured her that they would hold her job. She did the job of two people but got paid for one so who would want it?

The drive to her sister’s house in Jacksonville, Florida seemed to take forever. She was driving her former foster dad’s 1983 Ford Escort he had given her. Turns out that make and model turned out to be one of the worst cars you could own as evidenced by its numerous trips to the repair shop.

Justine finally arrived at her sister’s where she and her new girlfriend greeted her only Justine was too oblivious to notice that the two were a couple. After all, her sister had been with men her whole life and had not come out of the closet to Justine yet.

Justine’s sister’s new girlfriend’s name was Suzanne and, as it turned out, was also “a friend of Bill’s” and a rehab counselor. She seemed nice enough, although a bit masculine for Justine’s tastes.

Oh well, Justine wasn’t the one dating her.

They all went out to dinner, then relaxed in the outdoor Jacuzzi after Justine met her sister’s platonic male roommate who was a refugee and hardly spoke English.

This came in handy when bill collectors called and Justine’s sister would have the roommate not being able to hand the phone over due to the language barrier.

Justine didn’t sleep much that night and morning came all too soon.

At the “butt crack” of dawn Justine, her sister, and Suzanne got up and made the brief trip to Charter with Justine alternately sleeping off and on while Suzanne and her sister talked.

The place was nice, Justine noted as they pulled into the parking lot.

But, where was the sea?

She would find out later there would only be one trek to the beach and it wasn’t within walking distance.

Clever name to entice patients, she thought, wryly.

She was immediately taken to Detox where her sister and Suzanne said their good-byes, her sister slipping Justine a present to open later.

Justine thought Detox was a bit extreme. Almost embarrassing considering she wasn’t going through DTs (delirium tremors) but it was routine apparently.

They asked her a series of questions, to which she pretty much scored 100 which was not considered a good thing in rehab. Then they put her in a tiny room like one in a hospital across from a raging old woman who was going through some serious DTs.

This lasted for three days when Justine was finally moved onto the unit to join the other patients.

But not before she got to have some delicious meals, her first featured cheesecake for dessert, her favorite.

“This place is all right,” she said to herself with a smile.

She cried off and on for the time she was in Detox and wondered if she truly went through any kind of withdrawal. She didn’t feel physically addicted to alcohol, though mentally, hell yes.

Now she was being led to a bright day room with a TV, few magazines, only recovery books, and lots of windows. The furniture was plastic and the floors were bare.

Minimalist to say the least, but nice.

She noticed the cluttered ashtrays as she spotted three-lined slogans in framed on the walls.

“First Things First.”

“Think Think Think.”

“Easy Does It.”

Justine had a college education but none of these sayings made any kind of sense to her.

“What the hell?” she asked herself as she turned to see a crowd of male and female patients making their way toward where she stood from down the hall.

Panic set in. Justine was afraid of people and didn’t know how to deal with them sober.

Now a group of about 39 of them were headed right toward her.

Jason, the group chaplain and employee of the place who was also in recovery, told her they were just getting out of a group session.

She found a chair and sat down, awkwardly as one by one each patient filed into the day room, some taking out cigarettes to smoke, others looking down.

Most of the guys introduced themselves to her while only a couple of women did.

They weren’t what she expected but then again she didn’t really know what to expect.

Alcoholics and addicts come in all shapes, sizes, races, and personalities she would soon find out.

These patients were all pretty nice. She would find out later a couple of them wanted more from her than patience and understanding.

Her radar always attracted the sickest man in the room as evidenced by her history. She guessed it was because her father sexually abused her for 14 years, leaving his handprint on her soul, forever insuring her that she would never be happy.

The next day Justine was consumed by packets of information, workbooks, introductions, schedules, and homework out the ass.

Her roommate’s name was Mary but she was leaving the next day.

Justine met the doctor, an elderly man also in recovery who liked to call all the female patients, “Sugar,” though he meant them no harm.

“Work the steps and you’ll be just fine,” Mary told her the day she left.

Justine didn’t know what that meant.

What steps?

Oh, she vaguely remembered seeing something on the walls of the day room but they were over her head.

None of this made sense to her.

Now she had the room to herself but not for long. Soon she got another roommate, although briefly who wound up going home early. She just couldn’t hack it.

Then Justine had the room to herself for the remainder of her stay which she preferred anyway.

She pored over “the Big Book” as they called it which was the textbook for recovery. It was written the year Justine’s mother, also an alcoholic, was born. Some of the jargon was so archaic she could hardly get through it but, being a speed reader, she quickly got through the huge book and started reading “the 12 and 12” otherwise known as “The 12 Steps and 12 Traditions,” the companion to “the Big Book.”

She got through that one pretty quick, too and proceeded to start working Step 1 in the workbook.

This was going to be a piece of cake, she reasoned.

I can fly through all this, Justine told herself.

Her first day designated to present her Step 1 to the group, whichever everyone had a turn doing, was coming up fast but she wasn’t worried, really.

She quickly ran through the questions and answers to her fellow patients and put down her notebook, satisfied.

“Well, that was fast,” one patient said.

Justine didn’t see the problem.

“I don’t think you were very honest,” said another.

Justine was incensed. How dare they? They didn’t know her.

The counselor agreed with the patients much to her chagrin.

Justine didn’t care. She was just here to get her sister off her back anyway. She wasn’t interested in getting sober, especially at 22. She always swore she’d never wind up like her mother but she surpassed her.

Justine knew she’d drink again. It was just a matter of time. She couldn’t fathom never drinking again. That was absurd, she thought. She couldn’t imagine it, not even close.

After the group session Justine thought she’d retreat to her room but was quickly informed that it was exercise time which was foreign to her.

They all headed to the gym where the choices were the pool or workout machines. Justine chose the pool but not before getting lassooed into being tested for her physical fitness next to an elderly patient who figuratively ran circles around her on the exercise bike.

It was embarrassing. Justine was skinny and didn’t consider herself out of shape though she did have uncontrolled asthma and allergies.

She headed to the pool then relaxed in the steam room and Jacuzzi by herself which is what she preferred anyway.

Most of the patients were older than her, only a couple were around her age.

There was Becky, a doctor’s snobby wife, Sam, a married drug addict, Steve, also a drug addict who looked like a hippie, an elderly woman named Dana who liked to drink alone, another guy who sold his wife’s wedding ring for one rock of Crack, which Justine couldn’t fathom.

They would all tell their war stories in the day rooms, at meals, in groups, on smoke breaks, and one-on-one on outings which only included meetings.

Now it was dinner time and Justine was looking forward to a nice meal, having suffered through arts and crafts for which she had no talent.

The food at the treatment center was fantastic and she actually looked forward to breakfast which she would skip at home by herself.

Days consisted of group sessions, exercise, one-on-one counseling, meeting with the chaplain to do steps 4 and 5 at different appointed times, outside meetings, free time, and naps.

Justine never got anything out of the counseling sessions, having been in therapy off and on since 12, but she played along. Her counselor was also “in the program” and was a good ole Southern lady, gorgeous and soft-spoken. Justine couldn’t picture her a raging alcoholic but then her perception was skewed.

Another counselor was a grandma and had money. When an African-American patient came in, the counselor seemed to not have an affinity for another race.