In 2014, I went to treatment in Prescott, AZ. After a long string of failed attempts at getting clean, it felt like my last hope, and for whatever reason, I felt a spark of inspiration when this opportunity presented itself to me. Removing myself from my environment felt fresh; it felt like an encapsulation of the idea that one can reinvent themselves in a place where no one knows them. This appealed to me deeply. My brokenness knew no bounds in those days; physical, mental, and spiritual sickness engulfed me daily. Despite little faith in my long-term success personally, something in me kept pushing, and I made a commitment to head north. I had no idea that these initial steps would form the path to redemption, healing, and restored sense of faith but I took them anyway; in no small part because I had nowhere else to go, nowhere to be, and nothing left to lose. It was all gone anyway.
The program I went to doesn’t exist anymore. Questionable insurance billing practices were the order of the day at this point in time; Prescott had virtually overnight converted into a booming epicenter of recovery homes and programs, second only to Orange County, CA, and South Beach, Florida. People flew from all over the country to be there, to get clean, to try and pick up the pieces and start a new life. That or someone/something compelled them to be there. You could usually tell the difference, even though in the end a beginning is just that, a beginning. It’s all we need – the hope is that somewhere along the line the motivation wells up within us to want it for ourselves – that we see evidence in front of us that disproves the notion (deeply held by addicts) that things will almost never change for us.
That’s what Prescott did for me. In the end, the therapy, the groups, while helpful, are things a person can get anywhere. What you can’t get anywhere is the universe aligning in a way to present you at exactly the right time with exactly the right people. That’s why it’s so hard to quantify success in mental illness and addiction; I’m not quite sure there’s any one thing a person can point to as the ultimate catalyst or cornerstone of healing.
I met so many good people in Prescott. I met young men and women experiencing true transformation: older people who’d known the horrors that we knew and who’d carved a path out – I met people filled with life and vivaciousness and hope and courage despite having no reason whatsoever to believe that their story could change when they got there.
Camaraderie. Friendship. Love. Compassion. Equally as important but seldom discussed in the same conversation: humor. Belly laughs. Absurdity. Fun. Nothing in my life rivaled this time up until that point as far as transformation goes. In the end, it was the community, the trust we built, the shared experience, and the true friends I made, and leaned on, that made all the difference.
Friends like Justin “Juce.” Friends like Matt. I lived and shared rooms with these men. I slept on the ground in sleeping bags on camping trips with them. I broke bread with them. I shared truth and authenticity with them. But most of all I laughed with them. The laughter made me feel alive. It instilled in me a hope, even if only for a fleeting moment at times, that this could be my life; levity, peace, and most of all: fun. That good times could be had without the need to be intoxicated. That depression and anxiety could be transmuted through friendship. That the dark days could become less and less, and that the sun could shine on my life once again, no matter how much rain had fallen on me over the past decade. Matt and Justin, and so many others taught me how to truly laugh and smile again.
It pains me to say, in my heart of hearts – the very core of my soul, that both men ultimately succumbed to their mental illness and addiction. Some years later, I learned that Matt had taken his own life after leaving Prescott, and Juce overdosed on Fentanyl. It hurts to think about. It makes my skin prickle and arises a tightness in my chest, I can feel my mental walls, my psyche build up in tension in an effort to displace that pain elsewhere. Store it deep down. Push it away. To this day I still haven’t really learned how to properly process it. It’s just a fact of life when it comes to these issues we face; sometimes the best amongst us still don’t make it.
Despite the pain that comes with their loss, I still look back on these times and smile. I’m grateful to have known them in those days. For the hope they gave me. For the realization that life didn’t have to be wretched darkness and pain, suffering, paramount and all encompassing. The levity their personalities brought into a process that was often fraught with difficulty, craving, and hardship. That time in my life wouldn’t have been the same without them.
And while I grieve their loss today, I can still find happiness in the memories. The laughs. I can rest in a sense of stillness that they hopefully found peace in their suffering that they couldn’t ultimately find on this side of life.
I love my friends. I’m grateful for the gifts they gave me. The hope they gave me. And the inspiration people like them give to those that suffer daily. I hope so much I can honor their memory, and that my life can be a testament to the simple fact that sometimes, a smile, a friend, a laugh, and some fun can be the foundation for a new beginning. Don’t discount the simple smiles you find on your dark days. There’s tremendous power in the “small” stuff.
Miss you, dudes.
Sean
