This story is true. I've chosen to leave out specific details about the people involved to protect their anonymity. It should also be said that I was hurt by some of the people in this story, therefore, my recounting of the events is probably skewed. However, I've attempted to write the most objective story as I possibly could in all fairness to everyone involved. Mistakes were made. I cannot know a man's motives, his intentions, or his heart. Maybe I shouldn't, but I have and will attempt to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. This is a story about despair and hopelessness, salvation and redemption. It's about helpers and those who need help. I'm writing this story because I am looking to make sense of something that happened to me. I'm not out for revenge or retribution. I've been hurt, angry, and confused about all of this for years, and frankly, I don't know that I have really processed through this experience. Like many moments in my past, sometimes the memories haunt me and sometimes I'm filled with overwhelming joy and gratitude.

I was listening to the podcast: 'The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill,' and it was like someone opened up a faucet of thoughts, feelings, and memories. It all came rushing back. The specifics are almost entirely different, but not completely. The thing is, and maybe more will be revealed as I write, I can't quite put my finger on why my brain heard that story and immediately drew parallels, but it did. The only way I can figure it is best summed up by United States Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart in Jacobellis v. Ohio: "...I know it when I see it." There are some personalities we cross paths with who are unforgettable. There are a handful of those in this story. One in particular, that to this day, I don't know if I respect or hate. I also cannot say if it was willful ignorance and good intentions, or pure evil I encountered. I know for sure I'm dealing with some level of 'Stockholm Syndrome.' It's confusing and strange. I can go from absolute anger and hate to a deep and true desire to reconcile.

There is a strange place I wandered into as a new Christian recovering from addiction. Somewhere between trauma and forgiveness; whilst knowing the depths of my own depravity, hypocrisy and sinfulness. In the pursuit of healing and clarity, the aforementioned characteristics make for confounding bedfellows. I've prayed and prayed for discernment and wisdom, and I'm not sure I've found either yet. Maybe that's why I was so compelled to write this. Then again, maybe it isn't.

It all seemed too good to be true. A year away from society would be a welcome respite from the world I was coming from. I traded the car I was driving to my drug dealer, packed my things into a couple paper bags, and slept on my parents' couch the night before I checked in. I was strung out bad this time. 31 years old and strung out.

I was thin. Emaciated. When I ate, which was rare, it was usually a scoop of peanut butter or a donut and chocolate milk.

As I write this, 7 years later, I still remember what it was like. The smells are still vivid. Cigarettes, stale meth smoke, and heroin lingered in the air like a putrid demonic stench. It turns my stomach to think about. I was barely human. It came out of my pores as I was sweating, trying to clean up my room. I was staying in a house a few miles from where my family lived. What was said, the timeline of events, exactly how it all went down those last couple days is a haze, but I'll never forget the smells.

I don't remember if I slept the night before I left.

I called a friend a few days earlier and he had sort of taken me hostage until I made it to treatment. It was very strange. I called him for help, and he just came and got me. He didn't leave my side until I was checked in to rehab. This man saved my life.

I was smoking meth off of a piece of tinfoil as we pulled around the corner from the rehab. I was in a strange place. I don't recall observing my surroundings in any real detail. All I remember was I'd never been to this city before, and I had no idea how we had gotten here. My brain was still sluggish from the heroin I had done earlier. It was a flurry of sound, and sweat, and anxiety. I was an absolute mess, but I was resolute in my decision to go into treatment.

I think it might be important to note I still feel utterly disturbed when recounting these last moments. However, I think it is very important to lay the foundation as to my state of mind when I went into this place. Although, it my be hard to read these ugly details, they are important. While I know these lines may be difficult to read, I promise they were far more difficult to write.

I wasn't drug tested when I arrived. Thank God for that. There was a standard, I learned later, that you had to 'test clean' upon arrival to treatment. This is because withdrawal from alcohol and benzodiazepines (Xanax) can cause serious seizures and be fatal. This treatment center wasn't built for that level of care, so most would need to detox before arriving. It was also used as a tool to test for willingness.

The scene was so strange. I don't remember how it all went down exactly, but I arrived with my bags in tow and was seated at a table bolted to a concrete slab. There were a row of these subway tables running parallel to the sidewalk. When I sat, the street was to my left. Across the street a group stood and smoked cigarettes and talked. To my right were various patio style tables and chairs scattered across the concrete. There were guys everywhere. It was like a little beehive. There was a flat wooden roof stretching over the entire concrete slab. Further to my right there was a black Labrador tied to one of the polls and a doghouse.

Then they started. One after another, introducing themselves, shaking my hand, "what's your name man?"

"welcome home," "you have everything that you need?"

Over and over and over, the same questions and statements. They all looked me right in the eye. Everyone seemed sincere. I was reeling from the drugs, and it all was quite a blur.

I feel the need to add another warning in here. There is cursing in this story. I am only going to use it when necessary, however, it is very important for the reader to get an understanding of the vernacular. There was a whole language of its own in this place, and cursing, was a part of it. I will not use it for dramatic effect, or emphasis, I only use swear words in direct reference to the way people spoke. I'm trying to paint the clearest picture I can while reflecting on the crazy psychology of it all. Language, behavior, thinking, speaking, everything had a life of its own. Frankly, the vast majority of the men there were from very rough backgrounds and swearing comes with the territory. When you're unhinged and addicted to serious drugs, living under bridges, in jails and institutions, you learn to express yourself like the trolls and demons. You become a creature, and creatures do not speak the 'Kings.'

I had been to treatment before. I had been to jail before. They are not the same, but they do have similarities. No matter where you wash up, you are kind of always ready for anything and on edge. This was all unexpected. I think the best way to say it is I was disarmed immediately. When one wanders amongst the monsters of this world, he so arms himself. Multiple personalities, defenses, hiding, secrets, pain, suffering, pure unadulterated terror, borderline psychosis, lying, violence, cowardice, and evil make up the armor we wear upon entering into new situations. I was disoriented, still intoxicated, and burned out, but I was still watching everyone closely.

Directly in front of me was the house. This place sits on an entire block with multiple buildings. We always called it 'the house.' The main house sat on the corner of a 'T' style intersection. From the front looking directly across the street was an incredible view of a harbor. It was quite literally a house. Two stories, white with blue trim. The concrete area was set in the back. I found out later this concrete patio gathering area was called 'the Pit.'

There was a short staircase leading up to the porch with railing that stretched the width of the building along the back. There was a white podium seated directly in the center of the deck area. Behind it was a bench. There were two doorways. One on the left and one on the right. Each doorway had a short staircase in front of it. Both had screen doors. I couldn't see the second floor from where I was sitting because the roof of the Pit blocked my view. I could see the stairs leading directly to the second floor to my right. It was an external staircase. It was obviously old. The paint was cracked and faded.

I was staring directly at the doorway on the left side of the house trying to get my wits about me, shaking hands, and responding as politely as I could to each man, when the screen door popped open and out came a man. He came down the short staircase as the screen door slapped shut behind him.

He was a short square man with broad shoulders and short arms. He didn't look very old. Maybe in his early forties. His arms were covered in tattoos. Back then I would have said he was 'sleeved out.' Meaning the tattoos covered his arms like shirt sleeves. I saw right away this was not professional tattoo parlor ink. It was prison art. Prison tattoos don't have any color. They have a greenish black hue. Usually, they have skulls, demons, nude women, and symbols. Again, "you know it when you see it." He had dark short hair, kept in a messy crew cut.

I watched him as he sort of bounded down the steps energetically. He came over and sat down directly across from me. He looked directly at me with cobalt blue eyes that didn't seem to blink. I remember thinking there was a familiar mischievous twinkle in those eyes. He shook my hand and introduced himself without breaking eye contact. I remember this moment clearly. Relief washed over me and I realized this person saw me as a human being. It was surreal and authentic. I wasn't a patient in that moment, or a client, I wasn't just another body to be cycled through in 30 days. This man looked at me like he cared, understood me, and was sincerely interested in what I had to say for myself.

I don't remember the details of our conversation. I do remember he never broke eye contact with me. I'm sure I lied about the details of my using, and especially avoided telling him that I had been doing so up to the moment of my arrival. He knew what was up.

He said, "So you'll probably be dope sick for a few days right? Like the flu."

I said, "yeah," not really knowing how severe my withdrawal would be.

"I don't want any whining, okay?"

I chuckled and agreed.

Then he laid out what my life was going to look like for the next 9 to 12 months.

"Alright, so the program is 9 to 12 months no contact; could be longer, could be shorter, depends on the person. No letters, emails, phone calls, visits, of any kind. Your family needs a break from you. We got you from here. You'll be up at six every morning and in bed at ten every night. There's no hanging out in your room and 'chilln,' no naps, TV, newspapers, no books except for approved AA literature. Everyday you'll have groups, classes, and 12-step meetings. This is a social model program with 100 men. If you can follow directions you'll be just fine. Can you handle that?"

"Sure," I replied.

He had one final question.

"Are you willing to go to any lengths for your sobriety?"

"Yes." I said solemnly.

He had me fill out some paperwork, I said goodbye to my friend, and I was in. That was January 7th, 2015.

I was in. Immediately, I was escorted into the House by a young man. He looked like he was about 17 years old. It was so weird. He told me that he'd be searching my stuff for contraband. I don't remember our conversation exactly, but I remember him telling me that he was an intern there. I thought that was interesting.

I had lost all real sense of personal privacy. I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I had to drug test in front of people, shared small rooms with criminals, been stripped searched, even my secrets didn't stay that way for very long.

After I was all searched and checked in, someone took my belongings to my room for me and I was sent to get a haircut. No long hair, no beards, no mustaches. I didn't know all of that when I sat down. They sent me to a house across the street from the main one. Another crazy looking Victorian. It had tall white pillars between the first and second floors and a string of windows along the bottom and the top. The building was white with blue trim and looked to be about the same age as the main house. As I walked across the street with my escort we went up a long wheelchair ramp along the right side of the building to a door. Inside we went and to my left was a hall. Along the right side of the hall were commercial grade washers and dryers. To the left was a long table. The hall lead into what looked like a living room. To my right was a small room with two windows and sure enough there was a barber chair right in the center.

My escort also happened to be my barber. He was different from the guy who checked me in. This guy had nautical tattoos on both of his forearms. They were not jailhouse or prison tattoos. He was shorter with blonde hair. And this dude had the craziest lazy eye I have ever seen. My barber. I pretended to ignore it and proceeded to describe how I'd like my haircut.

"Just leave it kind of long on the top and clean up the sides."

He only nodded.

I wasn't really watching what he was doing. But, before I knew it I realized I was getting a buzz cut. Number two all the way around.

I wasn't even mad. I realized it wasn't an accident, and I knew he heard every word I said. This was my introduction to "you ain't runnin' shit around here." Still makes me laugh to this day. He was a good guy and ended up being one of the faces that would appear in this place for treatment more than once.

It was a Wednesday. The handshakes continued, it was a warm and overwhelming experience. I asked everyone how long they'd been there. Some of the answers were unbelievable. Three years, two years, four years! I was shocked. I remember thinking that was probably a good thing.

Then, suddenly, someone yelled, "Primary, go eat!"

The sound of all the metal chairs on the cement was deafening. Everyone started to migrate towards the right side of the house down the long driveway to the sidewalk. There was someone by my side the whole time. Chatting me up.

We walked in pairs along the street. I don't remember who walked with me. The whole heard of men traveled down the street. To my right, were the harbor view properties. A sign hung from a two story house. That was one of ours. As we continued, we passed a Swedish church on the corner of the next block.

As we crossed the street towards another large single story building, I got an important lesson. My walking partner pointed to the stop sign on the right of the crosswalk and said, "always go around that stop sign, we don't cut corners." This would be one of many many rules I'd learn about here. My world was about to dramatically change, and I couldn't be happier.

I was dying for some type of structure and discipline. I welcomed all of the order and the rules. I was 31 years old and had been living in the middle of utter chaos for many years. I was exhausted. I had spent so many years aimless, without sails, rudder, or map; I was dying for some direction. My spirit was crushed, I was literally starving, for food and for friends. I spent years pursuing pleasure and my very own heaven-on-earth, that I ended up in Hell. This place was very strict, and it felt like heaven.

We walked up a narrow walkway lined with nautical style rope and post decorative garnishes. The building itself looked like an elementary school on the outside.

To the right of the walkway was an open space that was paved with bricks. It ran into a large wall with two cement seats against it. The wall was the back of an autobody shop next door.

The walkway took us through a rod iron gate where we hung a left and there were 2 coatracks on either side of the door. No hats allowed in the "Barts." That was the name of the large commercial cafeteria.

The floor was vinyl with huge round plastic tables scattered throughout. Chairs encircled each table. Everyone lined up on the right wall and waited to use the bathroom. We all had to wash our hands. At the end of the wall facing out was the serving window. There were a handful of guys in white t-shirts shuffled around busily. I remember the noise was crazy. Every one was chatting away happily. There had to be 60-70 guys in there.

When I came out of the bathroom, someone yelled, "new man to the front!" Everyone started clapping and pushing me to the front of the line. They were letting me eat first. I was mortified, and I'd never felt so welcome anywhere in my life.

After dinner, we marched a few blocks up the street to another building. Two by two. Everywhere was always two by two. This was by design. One was never left alone with his thoughts for too long. Those thoughts were out to kill us.

We marched up to an AA meeting. There were people from the outside there along with our group. We clustered together on one side of the room upstairs. The building looked like it used to be an old church. Everything was old and made of wood. There was a small kitchen where we could grab a cup of coffee.

Everyone milled about outside of the building, smoking, waiting for the meeting to start. It was here I was briefed.

"Best you just listen. This is about sharing experience, strength and hope, of which you have none, so keep your mouth shut and sit in front."

Fair enough. I didn't have much to say anyway.

I don't remember the meeting, but it was warm and by candlelight. The meeting ended and we marched back to the Pit. It seemed like all 100 men were there milling about, sitting in groups, talking, and laughing. Some guys were across the street smoking. I didn't really care to sit and chat at the moment, so I took my place at the driveway by the street, turned and faced everyone and yelled, "new man needs a ride!" My first few weeks I'd be on 'New Man Status.' Never alone, and if I wanted to go across the street, I was required to turn and yell for a ride. Boy was that humbling. That was the whole idea. This was another one of many lessons I'd learn there. If I didn't seek humility on my own, I'd be humiliated.

We all sat around and chatted. Someone yelled for clean up, and like ants, everyone grabbed chairs, tables, old cups, books, brooms, and starting putting everything away. We all circled up, and someone made a few announcements about the next days, things that needed correcting, and I don't remember what else. We all placed a 'foot in' for all the alcoholics and addicts still suffering. We said the Lord's prayer, and headed off to bed.

I was coming off a bad run doing heroin and meth for I don't know how many consecutive weeks. I was completely exhausted, my spirit was sick, my body was badly broken, and my mind was reeling. I'll never forget, that after my head hit the pillow, I slept the deepest dreamless sleep I'd had in years.

As I reflect on my time in this community, I often wonder what others would think about it. I’m not even exactly clear how I feel about it. I can say a few things for sure. The time I spent in treatment and for a couple of years afterward changed the trajectory of my entire life. I learned valuable lessons, made lifelong friends, and became a Christian, (a miracle in and of itself). I learned about generosity and grace at an extraordinary scale. I learned empathy as I wept with those who were around me. I’ve seen firsthand the spirit of God sweep through a community and change lives forever.

I also witnessed how cults start. I have languished about using that word for literally years now, and for obvious reasons. I want to be as precise as I can, and all indications are yes, I did belong to a cult. It’s hard to draw a line between the treatment center and its culture, and the extension of that treatment center I belonged to after I left. For all intents and purposes, I don’t believe anyone tried to form a cult or hurt anyone, spiritually or otherwise, but there was a cult and people were hurt. Be it negligence, hubris, or naiveté, those are the facts. I believe one man was responsible. More on that later.

I saw many men get saved. Men who are still strong Christians today. I saw many men walk away from the faith. More realistically, I saw men confess what they really believed once the social pressure was lifted. Hundreds and hundreds of men went through this place. Many recovered, many did not, some died, and some are still lost as I write this.

The treatment plan was more like gorilla warfare. When I arrived, I had been through several other rehabs, and this place was like none of them. The overarching theme was that everywhere else had it wrong. They were keeping people sick. We had arrived at, “the Harvard of recovery centers.”

I heard that quoted more than once when I first arrived. Frankly, it filled me with confidence. There had to be some truth behind a claim like that, right? It is amazing what statements like that will do to a culture.

“My guys have more recovery in one year, than people with five outside of here.”

“You only have to do this one time right, and never go through this again.”

“I guarantee you’ll get better if you do what we say.”

Bold statements in an arena where the statistics were not in their favor. I think at the time, most treatment centers were wildly successful if they had a 20% success rate of five years or more of continuous sobriety. At the House, I was told there was almost a 90% success rate. I saw no evidence backing up this claim, but I believed it. It made sense. I needed it to make sense. I was desperate and willing to do anything to get better.

I think this is what made it easy to overlook some of the red flags that arose during my time at the House and afterward. To be honest, I was never looking for red flags. I trusted everyone completely. I gave myself over to the program and its leadership. My commitment only grew stronger as I got better. Even to this day, I don’t realize how crazy some of this sounds until I describe it to someone who wasn’t there.

There were a few things that filled me with dread. We had a group twice a week on Mondays and Fridays. It was officially called ‘Resentment Group.’ We called it ‘Group,’ and it was clinically noted as ‘Conflict Resolution Group.’

When you’re brand new, you are required to attend a tiny version of this group before you go to the big one. I think it was about two weeks. It is a well-known axiom in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous that “resentment is the number one offender.” Meaning, unresolved disturbances, grievances, guilt, bitterness, grudges, were the primary motivating factor when an addict or alcoholic picked up again. I couldn’t say if this was for certain, but it seemed logical. What is true, are men that ended up in this treatment center were not emotionally well adjusted. What’s more, and what I can say for certain, is many of us had resentments that were decades old, slowly eating away at our spirits. Were they the cause of relapses? I don’t know. Did they contribute to what created an alcoholic or an addict? Absolutely and without a doubt.

What is a resentment? I got many lessons.

“Anything you think about more than once.”

“Picture a soda bottle, with all the little, tiny bubbles. Each bubble is something small that frustrated you over time. More and more of them gather and pressure builds. Either one day the bottle explodes, or you can slowly open the lid and release the pressure.” Group was important. To release the pressure.

“Imagine you have a backpack on. And all day long you gather resentments in your backpack. Little pieces of shit. The bag gets so full that not only is it breaking your back, every time you turn around you smear shit on an innocent bystander.”

“Have you ever gotten up, and just started the day angry? Someone pisses you off, and it keeps getting worse from there. Then someone says, ‘good morning,’ and you hear ‘fuck you.’ That’s what resentments will do to you.”

These were the lessons I learned in my first two weeks. I would go on to hear them many many times while I lived there. I would teach those same lessons myself.

I remember my first Resentment Group. Someone yelled, “Everyone go to group!” All the guys got up and somberly walked down the driveway along the right side of the house out to the sidewalk. There we turned right and walked a short distance to one of the other Houses. This was another big Victorian. The colors were really just multiple shades of grey. Picture 50 men all in a herd going through a single doorway. It was a bit of a controlled scrum. There was not chatter. No laughing. Everyone was strangely somber. Serious. Over the threshold to my right was a staircase going up to the second floor. To my left was a huge living room. To the far left was the street side. There were windows across the front of the room. Couches lined the walls in the front. Sort of in a horseshoe shape. To the right was a large archway and in the middle of the room were rows of chairs. Cloth chairs with wood armrests and feet. Like 90’s conference room style. Lining the right wall were more chairs leading into a smaller entry to the kitchen. Lining the wall in front of the kitchen and the left side of the room were more couches.

I was directed to the front left couch with the other new guys. By this time, we had learned that the new guys had assigned seating everywhere. Everyone took their places elsewhere. The room was full. The wood floors creaked as everyone settled. The air was thick and heavy. No one really made eye contact. A sign in sheet made its way through the room. Someone yelled, “let’s pray in!” I don’t remember if it was the Lord’s prayer or the serenity prayer. And then we sat in the silence.

We were literally crammed in there.

The program director came in last. He bounded in and sat on the couch in the front of the room. Dead center. He looked over at us, the new guys, and individually asked us all:

“First time?”

We nodded.

“New guys are off limits.” He announced to the room.

I remember thinking that was a curious statement.

“Let’s do resentments.”

And it began. I was in shock.

It was an ordered chaos. Each man went and rattled off the things he was angry at.

“So and so, it pisses me off when you…!”

That was the format. I came to learn later, the general idea was to express what you were upset about and attach a specific feeling. It was clear, the resentments were usually directed at individuals. Some behavior, action, or statement. It was loud. Not everyone was loud. Some yelled. Furious. Others were more measured. It was scary. Somebody called me out for something. The director stopped him and reminded everyone that I was off limits. My heart was in my throat. I didn’t even know these people yet.

Everyone in the room went. There was another theme developing. Everyone’s focus was directed at a single individual. This guy was getting called out by everybody. I felt so bad for him.

“So and so, it really fuckin’ pisses me off the way you act around here. You ain’t about shit!”

“…it seems like your building a case.”

“I got so angry when I tried to give you help and you battled me!”

It was strange the way they spoke.

These phrases were part of the colloquial vernacular there. They would become arrows in my quiver too.

Then everyone was done.

The director had chimed in at various times to prompt individuals to:

“Do some fucking work right now,” or,

“Time to get honest,”

“Get your shit above board.”

He asked everyone to take a deep breath and then it started again.

Only this time, the tone was completely different. The first guy stood up and began apologizing to each person who had called him out for something. It was so weird.

Never in my life had I heard a group of men be so honest with each other.

“I apologize for what I said to you man, the truth is I’m just really insecure and I was trying to get attention so I can feel better about myself.”

What! And so it went, all the way back around the room. Apologies. Honesty. It was remarkable.

You could feel the air in the room begin to lighten. Postures changed. The tension died down, and we were done.

I remember walking out of that house and reeling. I felt like I was on drugs again. I was sweaty and confused. I immediately did what I do, and retreated into my thoughts. We were walking to lunch, and as always, my thoughts were interrupted during our usual march.

The guy who had gotten absolutely lambasted by everyone in the room ran up to me. He was quite overweight. Hispanic. Brown hair and eyes. Apparently, he was ex-military. An Iraq war veteran who’s life had spiraled out of control when he came back from active duty. We had chatted briefly before, and he had shared those details with me. There were 100 or so guys there, and I’d only been on campus for two weeks, so I’m sure I didn’t even remember his name.

“Hey man, I wanted to talk to you about what happened in there.”

“Oh really, what about exactly?” I lied. I knew exactly what he was talking about. This was the pariah. I felt like I might acquire the scarlet letter just being near him. I knew he was an outcast. He wasn’t “about it.”

“I know you’ve never been to group before, so I wanted to let you know that those guys were helping me in there.”

He was trying to soften the blow, I thought. Trying to make sure I’m not scared away.

“I needed my brothers to point out things that I don’t see, they’re being my mirrors.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

I was completely uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if I was even supposed to be talking to this guy. From what I saw, he was in serious trouble and I didn’t want anyone to think I was in cahoots. He continued as we walked.

“Sometimes you get a lot of help in group, everyone has a group like that.”

“Not a chance in hell I’m going through that.” I thought to myself.

Call it judgmental or mean. It was both. But, when you get into situations like these, you must learn the social structure right away. You must observe everyone’s behavior and catch on quick to what is and isn’t accepted, or your life would be miserable. In jail, you’d get beat up for breaking the social rules. On the street, you had to learn how everyone operated to ensure you got what you needed, and nobody was trying to come after you for anything. Call it a survival mechanism.

I asked him, “Why do you call it help?”

“Well, when your brothers are pointing out things to you, they’re helping you, giving you help.”

“Oh I see.” I said.

What I thought was, “got it, we call it help when you get yelled at.”

That’s exactly what it was. Sort of. Like many of the sayings, slang, idioms, etcetera, there was a well intentioned design behind it. “Help,” was supposed to be exactly that, help. However, as these things did there, it had a life of it’s own.

That is the crazy thing about social model and peer to peer feedback. Things would travel through the community. Jokes, sayings, slang, euphemisms, even actual physical behaviors. We had communal vocabulary.

There were many times, when you’d cross paths with someone looking glum and dejected, myself included.

“What’s up dude?”

“I got a bunch of help in group today.”

or, “I just got a bunch of help from the program director.”

We had many euphemisms for this process.

“Getting laced up.” One of my personal favorites, although it was discouraged by the staff to make a joke about getting help or group. It was a big no no. If you did, you were sure to get a bunch of “help.”

One common theme in this story, is this program was about as well-intentioned as one could be. Everything had a purpose. Was it all within the ethical bounds of counseling and the other regulatory bodies? Certainly not. That is where the tension lies. Was some of this over the top, too intense, did it cause problems? Yes, for sure. Did it help people? Yes it did. I’ll get into this more, but where it really got ugly, was when we were no longer in the confines of treatment. It was a weirdo socialistic spiritual commune, and it helped save my life and the lives of many others.

There were other groups on Mondays and Fridays. Sometimes, we’d have a “come above board group.” Those lasted for six to eight hours. We’d have to break for lunch and come back and finish. These groups were basically a giant confession. I won’t get into all the details, but some crazy crazy stuff would come up in there. People wanting to leave, sneaking into the office to call their girlfriend, the guys in second phase talked about porn and selfish desires.

Now, if someone else, “brought you above board,” the consequences were always greater. Secrets were treated like cancer. Straight chemotherapy. Nuke the system. If it was ever found out someone had secrets and others were keeping those secrets, there was hell to pay for that.

There was pressure on everyone to participate. If you didn’t have something to say, you’d better come up with something. Time to get honest. We all got pretty good at this after three or so years. Sometimes it was honest, and frankly, it was refreshing. It felt good to be free of all your secrets after so many years. Being honest about the day-to-day weirdo thoughts that go through your head as you recover generally get a good laugh.

It was in these groups that I saw the directors really do something special. I hated these groups. We all did. But, what I can’t get over was when someone would be honest, on their own, and would put it all out there, the directors would show them so much mercy. They wouldn’t yell, or embarrass, or shame. They’d simply relate, sometimes we’d all have a laugh, and move on. Don’t get me wrong, there would be consequences, but often they’d be mild, and the guy would be held up for his honesty. It always made me cry. I’d never felt safe to be that honest in my life. With anyone. Ever.

There were times when they’d embarrass and shame. That’s for sure. But never with the most damaged, weakest guys. They’d usually embarrass the heck out of the macho cocky guys. But the guys who were awkward, shy, and generally traumatized were handled with love and grace like I’ve never seen. It was so admirable.

The directors weren’t perfect. They weren’t particularly pleasant all the time. They made many mistakes, and were blind to many things. But the way they handled broken men was truly remarkable. I have great disdain for both of them, but often, [1]“the least of these,” were cherished and cared for.

[1] Matthew 25:40