Life is Different

Continued from A New Life - Part IV

During my first two weeks at the Salvation Army's Adult Rehabilitation Center (ARC), I was restricted to the facility and surrounding property. I was immediately given a Work Therapy assignment in the adjacent Thrift Store - but when my first weekend arrived, I realized I had a lot of time on my hands.

When I had been in jail, in my boredom I made to-do lists, including one of books I wanted to read once I got out. When I didn't know of a title, I wrote a description of the type of book I would seek, such as, "a book describing Christianity from a scientific perspective". What I had in mind in that particular case was not Christian Science, but traditional Christian doctrine presented in a manner that would be palatable to the modern reader who takes for granted a scientific viewpoint of the universe.

As a youth, I had accepted at face value the doctrine and theology I had learned. Then, in my high school and college years, I had welcomed the common objections to Christian doctrine with enthusiasm, having already abandoned the Church. I had outgrown my childish understanding of spiritual matters, and had never bothered to seek out a more complex understanding. Now, for the first time, I found myself wishing vaguely that I could find a mature faith - an adult conception of God.

After all, I was in a Christian-based rehab, where I would be expected to attend religious programming, including Chapel services twice per week. I wanted to believe in Christ, not only in order to feel more comfortable at the ARC, but because I found myself drawn to Christ's teachings, as I understood them. I just couldn't get past the idea of a bodily resurrection - the idea that this Jesus person was the Son of God and actually rose from the dead. If the resurrection story was not true, then what, if anything, in the Bible could be believed?

One boring weekend afternoon I paid a visit to the ARC's library. I wasn't looking for anything in particular - just something to distract my mind from my troubles. The books were mostly donated, and had been stuffed onto the shelves randomly. As I browsed the mishmash of paperbacks and outdated encyclopedias, I came upon The Case For Christ, by Lee Strobel. This book caught my eye, given the questions that had been occupying my mind. I pulled it from the shelf and read the back cover. Mr. Strobel was a legal journalist who'd been an atheist prior to becoming a born-again Christian. In The Case For Christ, he would discuss how it was indeed possible for a reasonable person to believe what Christians commonly believed about Christ.

This sounded like exactly what I'd been hoping to find. Here was an educated, professional man who had formerly considered himself an atheist, and who now believed in Jesus Christ, yet retained his rational, analytical worldview in all matters.

I sat down at a table in the library and began reading. Although I found Strobel's writing style to be kind of annoying, the subject matter intrigued me, so I breezed through the book in one sitting. Strobel retraced his journey from atheist to Born-Again, interviewing experts from various fields (e.g. history, literature, psychiatry, and theology) as he nullified many of the common arguments against Christianity.

Among his assertions:

1) Jesus' biographies (the biblical Gospels) can be trusted and have been reliably preserved for us.

2) There is credible evidence for Jesus outside his biographies.

3) Archaeological findings have enhanced the New Testament's credibility, and no discovery has ever disproved a biblical reference.

4) Jesus was not "crazy" when he claimed to be the Son of God.

5) Jesus' death was not a sham, nor his resurrection a hoax.

6) Jesus really was seen alive after his death on the cross.

7) There are many other supporting facts that point toward the resurrection.

Strobel's book didn't answer all my questions, but it started me on a personal course of reading, beginning with many of the authors he cited. More importantly, it revealed to me that there were issues in Christianity to which I hadn't given a fair amount of consideration. As this fact dawned on me, I began to have a powerful spiritual experience - the culmination of years of seeking. Christianity involves a leap of faith, to be sure, but that leap was not as monumental as I had previously assumed, and the realization of this struck me hard.

There is an old proverb: When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. I was ready, I believe, to hear the message, and begin a new life in Christ. I had finally been humbled enough by my addiction to become teachable.

The same day I read the book, I turned my life over again to Jesus Christ, reciting a similar prayer as I had with the State cop, but this time earnestly, and with urgency. I began to feel a warm glow, a sense of protection and purpose, as I never had before. I had read accounts of spiritual experiences, in such works as William James', The Varieties of Religious Experience, and A.A.'s Big Book. I'm sure that's what happened to me, and I have a much greater appreciation for the phenomenon after having been through it.

My life continued to be full of struggles and stress, yet I can honestly say I've never felt seriously discouraged since my experience in the ARC. Some of the initial excitement has subsided, but it has been replaced with ever deepening faith and confidence.

Posted by Bill at 09:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Regular readers of this blog are aware of my ongoing struggle with caffeine addiction. I've sunk so low that my days are spent consuming mass quantities of that hideous substance known as Diet Mountain Dew.

Until six days ago, that is.

I'm pleased to announce I've gone nearly a week without a drop of caffeine. This is rather exciting to me, as caffeine was the last substance on which I was dependent. Sure, I've gone longer than six days without caffeine -for over a month on a few occasions - but that's why I'm informing the whole blogosphere of my intentions this time around: it's an extra incentive to stay quit.

Also, I haven't blogged in eight days, as one loyal reader (my wife) pointed out, and I couldn't think of anything else to write. Perhaps it's the withdrawal symptoms (mental sluggishness, drowsiness) that have kept me from posting for so long.

If I'm feeling up to it, I'll probably have another My Story installment in a day or two.

Posted by Bill at 08:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm not much of a sports fan, but I always enjoy seeing a local team doing well. It's especially fun to watch this season's Detroit Tigers, who have unexpectedly dominated the entire league. Tonight I watched them take out the Red Sox, 7-4, to end a five game losing streak.

The Tigers have only won the World Series once in my lifetime (in the stellar 1984 season). This year certainly looks promising . . . a Series in '06 would be all the sweeter considering how poorly they've performed in recent seasons.

It was fairly cool outside this evening, so I kept the AC off, let the fan blow a breeze through the house, and watched the last few innings. If only Ernie Harwell had been on the radio, it would've been the quintessential Michigan summer night.

Posted by Bill at 10:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Most experts on the matter believe that a genetic predisposition is among the factors contributing to addiction. Not everyone finds this easy to accept, however, as is discussed in this post at Addiction and Recovery News.

Posted by Bill at 12:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm very pleased to report that my two-week-old nephew was finally released from the hospital on Saturday. He was going downhill for his first several days, and ended up on a ventilator due to his difficulty breathing. He's much better now, thanks to the medical staff of Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, MI, and all of you who kept him in your thoughts and prayers.

Posted by Bill at 12:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Continued from A New Life - Part III

After a couple weeks in the slammer, I was granted a personal bond by the court, following my preliminary hearing. I was facing charges of Impaired Driving (2nd offense), and Possession of Cocaine. This was, without a doubt, the most legal trouble I had ever been in.

During my stay in the pokey, I'd had plenty of time to mull over my options for what to do when I got out. But I didn't really need to ponder very much - I knew I needed to go to one of the Salvation Army's Adult Rehabilitation Centers (ARCs). I had a friend in the recovery community who'd recently completed the six-month ARC program, and he was in the best shape I'd ever seen him in. I figured if the ARC could help this friend of mine, it could help me as well. But, with no job and no place to live, my options were limited anyway. I needed a free roof over my head.

I drove to the ARC (legally - I still had my driver's license, as I hadn't been sentenced yet) one morning for an intake interview. After asking me a series of questions to determine that I was, in fact, in dire straits (e.g. without employment, housing, medical insurance, etc., and preferably had already tried short-term treatment, as I had twice), the intake coordinator instructed me to call him every morning after 8am to check for an opening. This being winter, the facility tended to stay full. In the summer, many potential clients preferred to sleep on the streets.

While I was waiting to get into the ARC, I stayed with my parents. They took me in temporarily, on the condition that I stay clean, attend AA meetings, and diligently seek other living arrangements. In the past they had allowed me to live with them (provided I payed room & board - they didn't want to completely enable my addiction), but by early 2004, I had worn out my welcome. They felt, and I agreed, that it wasn't in my best interest to retreat back home anymore. I would guess they were also a bit apprehensive about the prospect of a crackhead with fewer than thirty days clean moving in. At any rate, I'm grateful they let me crash there for a few weeks until I got into the ARC program.

One day in early February, a bed became available. The intake coordinator told me it would be held for me until the next morning. I was relieved - not only to be accepted into the program, but not to have more time with which to second-guess my decision to check in. Looking back, I think I would most likely have relapsed if I hadn't put myself in the protective bubble that was the Salvation Army ARC, Romulus, MI. I wanted to stay clean more than ever, but the urge to use drugs was intense and relentless.

Despite having been clean for about five weeks, I was still feeling rough when I checked in. I'd had time to recuperate physically, but I was in the doldrums mentally. I tend to be at a low point in my mood cycle in the winter (I'm susceptible to Seasonal Affective Disorder - S.A.D.), and my circumstances weren't exactly helping to cheer me up.

I met with my assigned counselor on my second day at the facility. She proved to be a pragmatic, no-nonsense type of lady. Over the course of my stay, she came to be the staff member I trusted the most. At our initial meeting, I expressed a mixture of hope and skepticism regarding my prospects for the future. I felt I was doing everything I could do to get on the right track, but I didn't know if my best efforts would be enough. At various times in the past I had "worked a good program" and had ended up relapsing anyway. My pattern was to start off enthusiastically, then gradually go back to old ways of thinking and behaving. I told my counselor I didn't know if it was rational to expect anything different this time.

The odds were against me. I was beginning to appreciate a cliche I'd been hearing around AA for years: "I know I have another relapse in me, but I don't know if I have another recovery in me."

Posted by Bill at 11:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Continued from A New Life - Part II

This post consists of some memories of the two weeks I was held in Wayne County Jail. This was technically at the beginning of my recovery, although I didn't have a very strong sense at the time that I was getting better. It felt as though I was trapped at the bottom, and might finally be down for the count.

As is noted somewhere in AA's Big Book, "How dark it is before the dawn!"

I wrote this entry in bits and pieces over the past couple weeks. I had a hard time staying focused on these memories - being relatively recently, the pain and misery are still fresh. I hope to get the next installment of this series up soon.

Being processed into the jail is a particularly miserable experience. The ground floor includes a large, rectangular room with about fifteen or twenty holding cells around the perimeter. In the center of the room is an office for sheriff's deputies, who orchestrate the movement of incoming and outgoing prisoners as they are shuffled from one spot to another. All of these cells are overcrowded during my time there. The benches lining the walls are stuffed with men sitting shoulder to shoulder. Those not fortunate enough to find a spot on the bench sit or lie on the floor, which is dirty and strewn with the remainders of lunch: bits of bologna and bread, crushed juice cartons, and sandwich baggies. Each holding cell contains one stainless steel toilet, usually overflowing with toilet paper and feces. Many prisoners are still in their street clothes and haven't been thoroughly searched, so contraband is plentiful. I occasionally catch a whiff of marijuana. I don't mind that; what bothers me is to see guys with cigarettes. I haven't had one in the three days since I was arrested, so the urge to smoke is powerful.

My first two nights are spent in "quarantine" on the top floor. There are a dozen of us, and as many bunks. I'm told that we are lucky not to be sleeping on the floor, as is often the case due to overcrowding. We stay in the quarantine cell while we wait for the results of our TB (tuberculosis) skin test. Also during this time, we are interviewed by a deputy to determine where we will spend the remainder of our time, based on demographics, prior incarcerations, et cetera.

I am assigned to the "new" jail, built in the early 1980s to accomodate the ever growing population. (Not Detroit's population - the jail population). In the new jail, which is connected to the still operating old jail, prisoners are housed in units called "rocks". My rock is 6 North. It consists of a common area with tables/seats bolted into the cement floor, a shower, a toilet, and six two-man cells. A glass-enclosed booth for deputies is opposite the cells, and overlooks our rock as well as 6 South.

There is an extreme cold spell in the Detroit area in the winter of 2003-04, and the jail seems not to have much of a heating system. 6 North is especially chilly since it's situated in a corner of the building. And wouldn't you know it, my cell is on the end, so two of the four walls border the frigid Michigan winter. I keep my thin, county-issue blanket wrapped around me at all times. One night I can actually see my breath.

Ordinarily there would be a television hanging from the ceiling in one corner, but ours was taken out for repairs prior to my arrival. Its absence is the singlemost cause for complaint among the inmates. Some consider the lack of TV to be cruel and unusual punishment. I feel the harsher cruelty is our exposure to mold which covers parts of the ceiling.

During the daytime, our cell doors are opened, and we are free to hang out in the common area. There is always a card game in progress, as well as chess, and sometimes dice. Nobody has real dice, but someone has fashioned a pair out of compacted tissue. Nothing like jailhouse innovation.

Another trick I learned is how to do a prison tattoo: 1) Make "ink". Small, eraserless pencils are for sale - separate the graphite, grind it into a powder, and mix it with toothpaste. 2) Using any sharp object you can find, carve the desired design into your skin. 3) Now, simply rub your ink-paste into the cut, and wait awhile before washing. Voila, you are branded with a classy new status symbol!

I opt not to get any skin art. In fact, I don't take part in very many of the typical 6 North activities. Although I speak at length with some of my "rockmates" over the next couple weeks, I spend most of my time by myself. I don't plan to make any new friends here. I sleep about twelve hours a day, including naps. I pace the length of the rock, wrapped in my blanket. I write letters with my stubby little pencil. I meditate. I pace some more.

I try to get my hands on some reading material. A library cart pays a visit to our rock one day, and I manage to get a copy of John Hersey's The Single Pebble (very good), and the latter half of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. I've seen the movie, so I'm able to jump right in to the action.

Both books get me choked up a various points. I'm not usually a very emotional person, but I'm certainly in a vulnerable state due to my circumstances. And, in addition to having to contend with nicotine withdrawal, I am going through symptoms of anti-depressant discontinuation. I haven't been able to convince the jail's medical staff to let me have my Paxil. So, as the days go by, I become increasingly loopy. I feel lightheaded and dizzy, and my thoughts race. Paranoia begins to set in. I start borrowing scraps of paper (I have no money in my account to buy my own) on which to record the details of every conversation I have with deputies and other jail employees. With my dull pencil, and resulting achy hand, I scrawl backup copies in case the originals are confiscated. In flights of mania, I make lists of short story ideas and books to read if I get sentenced to any time.

One of the worst things is not knowing how many charges I have pending against me. When I speak with my parents on the phone (our rock has one, for outgoing collect calls only), they say they haven't been able to get a straight answer from anyone. As the date of my first court appearance draws near, a vague sense of dread sets in. A big part of me wishes I could stay indefinitely on 6 North, where at least I would be fed and protected from the evil dealers on the streets.

At night, after we've been locked into our cells, and I'm sitting against the cold wall of my upper bunk, I sometimes have a sense of calm and clarity. Each of the walls facing outside has a tall, narrow window of frosted glass, through which pale, yellowish light from the adjacent parking lot shines. I feel almost as though I'm not in a jail cell at all, but a chapel. I begin to feel as though I'm safe in the world; as though I will make it through whatever the future has in store for me.

Continue to A New Life - Part IV

Posted by Bill at 09:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)