I have been keeping a journal (it just sounds more grown-up than “a diary”) since I was thirteen years old and have hung onto every last one of them, so naturally, this means that I have two giant suitcases crammed with various scrawled-in notebooks, ranging from cheap spiral-rings to fancy hardcover composition books I felt like splurging on.  Several years ago, I spent a rather productive afternoon going through them all and labeling them with dates–from the first entry in each one to the last–but have neglected to do so since about 2017.  Therefore, it took quite a bit of rummaging to find the little notebook I brought with me to Turning Point back in March 2020, but find it I did, and was genuinely shocked to see that there were almost no entries.  I honestly thought I did an endless amount of journaling while there, immersed in a brand-new set of life-altering experiences that surely needed documenting.

This assumption is mainly because, during the few times I was in detox lockdown, there was literally nothing else to do except write and read.  Many people spent days in their cots, sleeping (noisily) and only dragging themselves out for mandatory meals, but I have never in my life been able to sleep during the day–no matter how much medication I’m on, no matter how sleepy I am, no matter how jet-lagged I feel.  At detox, I would write pages and pages in my journals describing the clients, or detailing alcoholic epiphanies and recovery goals, all of which I embraced until the next time I tumbled headfirst into the hole.  It stands to reason, then, that being in rehab should have prompted the same flurry of prose, but it didn’t.  Perhaps it’s because we had a set schedule, perhaps it’s because I kept myself quite busy, but there was still loads of free time in which I should have been journaling.  

Here’s what I wrote on Wednesday, March 4, my fourth day into rehab, when I was not yet permitted to have a cell phone or leave the premises without a chaperone.  I was resistant to the system they had long-established for new clients, and not at all accustomed to the fact that this is where I would be living for at least one month.  Much like people who have mental breakdowns and find themselves involuntarily committed to a psych ward, I was certain that I Didn’t Belong There:

I am getting weary of being in this house, despite this only being my third full day (not counting Sunday, when I arrived).  Outside it is dazzling, sunny, exactly the sort of morning in which I would strap on my cheap bicycle helmet and pedal around the Seawall.  In all honesty, I don’t feel as though I need this “stabilization” period, despite there being a blanket policy for one and all at Turning Point.  This is certainly not my first time in recovery [I think I meant not my first attempt at sobriety, because I had never checked into a rehab centre before], and the overall circumstances that led me to this recovery house were hardly the most extreme or the most damaging.  While it’s true I have been going through cycle after cycle this past year in an honest quest to be 100% functional, I am not in peril, nor do I need monitoring.  

Quite incredibly, the next entry was the morning of Wednesday, March 11, 2020.  As we all know now, this is the day everything went upside-down, inside-out, sideways, backwards, perpendicular, diagonal, and even somewhat octagonal.  The official announcement by the World Health Organization had not yet been made that this virus was now declared a worldwide pandemic, so with zero foreshadowing or forewarning of what was to happen later that day, I was feeling extremely optimistic, nicely-adjusted to Turning Point and eager to keep going with it all.  My ten-day restrictive period was officially done as of that morning, I could have my phone back, I was allowed to attend community meetings and groups, and I had even made a dental appointment and submitted a request to visit home that weekend because I missed my cat so very much.  Oh, and my partner too, I suppose.

March 11, 2020, before breakfast:

With this first day of true freedom at Turning Point, I am starting to feel sane.  Healthy.  Hopeful.  Happy.  In fact, during and after my walk through the neighbourhood this morning, I realized that a complete change of environment will be extremely fundamental to my overall wellness and long-term recovery.  

Five years, I have spent in the West End…the longest time I  have ever lived in any one apartment.  The area is a bit depressing now, overrun by many DTES [downtown east side] migrants who have sullied the streets, alleys, and public spaces.  The energy there is exhausted and exhausting.  The proximity to the sketchball liquor store is absurd.  I need out of there, and it’s my goal once I get out of rehab.

To say things didn’t work out is a grotesque understatement.  While it sounds as though my part of the West End was getting dodgy even before COVID, nobody had any idea of how intense everything was going to get.  However, I remember very clearly how I felt that sunny March morning, and how I had accepted rehab wholly and was prepared to put in all the work, even if it meant staying past my initial thirty-day goal.  I remember the hope, the positivity, and the pride I felt at doing this for myself.  I remember thinking that I should have done this before, but everything happens when it does for a reason.

I remember all of it, all of the good feelings, all of the excitement I had over how my life would be transformed going forward.  And then two days later, I was in a taxi going home sine there was no reason to stay anymore.  The systems and programs  that were set up at the recovery house had imploded literally overnight.  I went home, perplexed and offended, and the rest of that year became a surreal, indecipherable smudge.  

  *   *   *   *   *

The first seven days at Turning Point were all about adjustment.  I was the only newcomer that week, while the other clients had been there for a while.  We had a pretty set schedule, and if memory serves, it looked something like this:

7: 30 – 8:30 – Breakfast 

8:30 – 9:00 – Medication

9: 00 – 10:00 – Group check-in

10: 00 – 11:30 – Chores [we signed up for cleaning and maintenance tasks]

11:30 – 12:00 – Medication

12:00 – 1:00 – Lunch

1:00 – 3:00 – Open time / scheduled counselling appointments 

3:00 – 4:00 – Writing class [or art therapy, or women’s / men’s group, or yoga]

4:00 – 5:00 – Group counselling

5:00 – 6:00 – Dinner

6:00 – 7:00 – Open time

7:00 – 9:00 – On-premises AA / SMART  meeting / community groups [if allowed to leave]

9:00 – 9:30 – Medication

9:30 – 11:00 – Hanging out, bedtime, reading, maybe watching a movie if everyone agreed on one.

I began to really enjoy the routine, although it was tough to keep myself from feeling frustrated during the open times when others were able to leave the house to shop, go for a community-centre workout, hit a meeting, or simply whatever they wished.  I quickly realized with some surprise how, when not working full time, many of my leisurely hours at home had been filled with drinking, looking at nonsense on the internet, watching TV or movies, or simply leaving my place and going wherever I pleased, including the gym.  Having restrictions wasn’t something I was accustomed to. 

This doesn’t count detox, which, as I’ve mentioned before, is a different experience altogether. You’re locked in and also restricted, but you’re also going through a fairly agonizing, medically-supervised medical withdrawal.  It’s like the most deranged all-inclusive vacation ever, in a sense: outfitted in hospital pajamas and a robe all day long, shuffling about, doped up on withdrawal pills, choking down nearly-inedible fare, utterly isolated from the world outside.  Many patients could sleep it all off, but some, like myself, bounced back quickly and filled in the few days with crossword puzzles, jigsaw puzzles, reading, journaling, taking epsom salt baths, hanging out with others, or getting group acupuncture (i.e. everyone had needles jammed into the same “detox” points in their heads and ears) for the one time per day a practitioner came to the facility to administer it.  

I was never anywhere close to being as ill as many of the others who came into Vancouver Detox. I remember one particular fellow who had drunk himself into crippling chaos, and could not stop his violent, Parkinson’s-like shaking and rivulets of sweat for at least three days after arriving, no matter how much medicine and how many nutritional supplements they pumped into him.  A typical afternoon at detox, where time shuffled along so slowly it seemed to go backwards, was lying on my cot and writing in my journal while a girl across from me alternately wept and vomited blue Gatorade into a trash can.

Rehab was different in that I wasn’t physically sick at all.  Nobody was.  We had already withstood withdrawal and were there to make over our minds and lives.  

Everyone there was extremely kind and welcoming; there were no cliques, there were no bullies or self-appointed leaders, and people shared their stuff with each other.  One girl, who was frighteningly tough but very dedicated to her recovery, loaned me an excellent Prince biography I had never read before, one that focused on his early years pre-stardom.  I was always thrilled to meet a fellow Prince admirer.  Since she never wore anything except skater shorts, I noticed almost right away that she had a huge KISS tattoo on her calf consisting of the original four members.  Being a lifelong KISS fanatic, and thinking we could now have some excellent conversations, I commented on it with enthusiasm.

“Yeah, I don’t really listen to them,” she replied.  “I just kind of liked the way it looked.”  

This was so bizarre, so nutty, so disrespectful, and yet so amazing to me–to get a tattoo of a band on your body just because you like their aesthetic, yet you couldn’t name a single song on their debut album, never mind tell you in chronological order who their lead guitarists were over the decades, or what the original title of “Beth” was before producer Bob Ezrin made it over into the shmaltz-fest it is now.  I didn’t even have a KISS tattoo, although I had wanted one when I was about twelve years old.  Just the logo.  Nothing more than that.  

Since clients signed up for cooking duties on a week-by-week basis, I signed up for the next week, March 8 -14.  Breakfast was just sort of a continental-style affair where coffee, tea, toast, muffins, and cereal were laid out for people to take, but lunches and dinners were cooked from scratch in the industrial kitchen.  A menu for the week was already planned out, and it was up to the cooks to do with it as they wished.  There was a giant binder with laminated recipes for most of the things that were to be served, but if we felt like adding flourishes, we had complete freedom to do so. 

I always feel like adding flourishes.  This didn’t mean, however, I could dump half a container of chili flakes and cayenne into the food as is my wont, but I was at liberty to season, spice, enhance, embellish, and improvise as I saw fit, only to serve my homemade concoctions to a group of at least twenty-five.  I do love cooking for others, provided there is just a measure of gratitude extended from the recipients.  I was greatly looking forward to getting into the kitchen an hour before meals were to be served, and familiarizing myself again with the satisfying tasks of preparation and creation.  Cooking is something I do and did every single day–even at the dankest depths of my most alcoholic wretchedness–and getting back into the swing of it would add to the overall therapeutic process. 

It appeared as though I would be sharing culinary duties with a fellow named Adam (note: I am not using real names here), a very grouchy, very finicky guy who had been dumped by his boyfriend not long before arriving, and never cracked a single smile.  And I mean, not once.  Not during group check-in when people were hilariously honest and supportive, not at a single one of my witticisms or amusing anecdotes, not even when another client, Reese, did his stupidly accurate impressions of Beyonce.  The corners of his mouth didn’t lift at any time.  I imagine Adam had Seen Some Things, but mostly, I think he was just thoroughly and unbearably depressed.  Depression and substance abuse are warring siblings, and this is how it always has been; always will be.  

Another client of note to whom I became fairly close was a young girl named Mackenzie.  She was about twenty-six, and unbearably beautiful: long, buttery-blonde hair, flawless skin, a perfect little upturned nose, guileless blue eyes, slender body with nice perky boobs (yes, of course I noticed), and was so comfortable in and accustomed to her own natural loveliness, nobody was intimidated by it. In addition, she happened to be very sweet, very bright, and very insightful, so we made fast friends. 

She also had this peculiar habit of wearing rubber galoshes all day, every day.  Didn’t matter her outfit: a miniskirt, leggings, jeans, pajamas…Mackenzie would clomp around in those boots as though they were a delightful pair of bunny slippers.  

I eventually learned–both while in rehab and for some time afterwards–that she was very, very lost.  Came from a family on Vancouver Island that was well-to-do, and they had just helplessly watched her stumble and fall on repeat for years.  When she was good, she was very, very good; when she was drinking, she pulled antics that startled even me.  Like most of us who become enslaved to alcohol, her poison was vodka, and vodka is the drawbridge to the kingdom of imminent demise.  Once you agree to cross that threshold, it’s a long, calamitous descent to the rock-bottom of the well (and then through a few trapdoors beneath it) where days and weeks evaporate into instantly-erased watercolour paintings and true disintegration becomes your normalized abnormal. To escape, it’s an even more unspeakably dismal ascent…if you even make it at all.  

The first week, then, went by without much of an issue, merely getting used to my circumstances.  While I couldn’t access my phone or leave the house, I was allowed to use the old-school landline phone downstairs, and was even allowed to have visitors who could eat with us if we asked permission.  My partner swung by a couple of times to hang out on the porch with me, and had lunch with us that first Saturday morning, March 7.  Everything seemed to be going well all around.  We did have signs in the communal bathrooms talking about “coronavirus,” as we all casually referred to fucking COVID back then, but it seemed to be nothing more than reminders of basic flu hygiene and etiquette: wash yer hands, cover yer mouth when you kaff, use hand sanitizer if you must.  Up until then, all that people had heard of in regards to the coronavirus was that it was a really bad flu that had attacked several seniors’ homes, first in Ontario, and now in the Lower Mainland.  The olds had been quarantined as a result, but this wasn’t anything to really think too hard about. It was a bad flu, we should be aware of it, but most people weren’t at risk of getting savagely pummeled by it.  

Elderlies, with their preexisting comorbidities and weakened immune systems–and for whom pneumonia is a leading cause of death–were the most susceptible and vulnerable to its presence.  Not us. The oldest person at Turning Point was in their forties (not me, incidentally).  The youngest, twenty.  Why on earth would we be painted with the same brush, have to take the same safety measures, have to exercise the same degree of caution, and submerge ourselves in the same degree of fear as the residents of a senior-care facility?

Ha, ha.  Ha.

It wasn’t until Sunday, the 8th of March, that alarm bells started going off for me and I began to grow increasingly sour in mood.  Nothing to do with rehab, nor restrictions (which were just a couple of days away from being lifted), nor sobriety, nor even my intolerably-snoring roommate, who sounded like a diesel truck plummeting into a crevasse over and over again.  No, it had everything to do with Adam and the fact that I was paired with him to make meals.  

That very first lunch I was scheduled to cook was chicken curry.  Since I don’t eat chicken and was sure that at least a few others would appreciate a vegetarian version, I insisted that we make a chickpea curry as well.

“I dunno, that’s going to be too much food,” he whined.

“There’s no such thing.  Whenever there’s leftovers, it goes into one of the fridges and gets eaten by the next day.  What are you talking about?”

“It just seems like…a lot of work.  Let’s just make the chicken curry.”

“Adam,” I said, attempting to access what very little patience I innately possess, “I don’t eat chicken.  I’m sure a few people here won’t want to eat meat, either, or would like another option.  If you want to make the meat version, I will gladly make the vegetarian one.  This is no trouble.”  Already I hated him and wanted to quit.  Of all people to be paired with for cooking duties, which is usually very pleasurable and relaxing for me, it was this kvetching knucklehead.  

“What if we don’t even have enough stuff?”  he said, wrinkling his nose.   

“We have enough stuff, are you kidding?”  I really had to hold it together here, and walked him to the back pantry area.  “Everything is here.  Look at this huge tin of chickpeas, for god’s sake.  Tons of tomatoes.  Tons of spices.  Endless rice.  I’ll throw bell pepper in there, we have plenty of that, too.  And Shannon is going shopping tomorrow, so…what is the problem?”

He sighed, and probably folded his arms.  “I guess, then.”  Eye roll.  “I don’t even really like curry.”  

Nobody cares, Adam, you absolutely sniveling shit.  

Then: 

Remember, Nadz, he’s most likely depressed and he’s here to help himself.  Just like you are.  Just like everyone else here is.  Compassion, okay?  Compassion.

“Fine then,” he huffed.  “You can make it, I’ll just watch or whatever.  Gawd, I wish I could order everybody some sushi and be done with it. I don’t even know why I signed up to do this.” Then he raised an eyebrow at me and asked me what wasn’t even to be the worst question of the week:

“You do know how to make rice, right?”

Fuck compassion. 

To be continued (with the final bit)…

(Reach me at nadya@nadzvera.com)