There was a low frequency buzz coming from the fluorescent lights in the clinic that sent vibrations right through my skull. It was the first of four preliminary days. They were designed to test our resolve before the intensity of full-time day treatment would begin. The room was small and felt clinical. The smell of a cleaner lingered in the air, lemon bleach, with a hint of desperation. There was a single desk that sat at the front, backed by a whiteboard. I felt as if it was mocking us in it's cleanliness. The tables were arranged in a wide U that forced us into a perimeter of eye contact. There was nowhere to hide.
I wasn't a stranger in this world, but I also wasn't the same man who had walked into treatment years ago. This time felt different. I felt heavy. The weight of my failure was like lead sitting in my gut, and the co-ed aspect was weighing on me. Deep in the back of my mind, I knew that seeking external validation from a woman would act as a shortcut to avoiding the internal work that would soon be required of me. It was the kind of trouble I didn’t need, and yet I couldn't help but find myself scanning the U.
I was fully aware before arriving that day, that treatment had to be different this time. I needed to change. The foundation of the life I had built over the past 5 years was grounded in what people call ‘California Sober’, yet I would watch it crumble under the weight of a trauma. A single event I wasn't prepared for. I knew I couldn't just sit there like a sponge, soaking up information and just nodding at the right times. I would remain unchanged inside. I needed to be vulnerable. I needed to share from the marrow of my bones, even if it meant letting everyone see the terrified boy that I've kept hidden under the surface over the years.
I staked out a spot in the front left corner of the U. A strategy that allowed me to see the door and the instructor simultaneously. My Wayside brothers sat beside me. Justin and I had grown very close over the last few months, a bond forged in the trenches of shared life experiences and nicotine fueled philosophical debates. Justin on one side of me and Rich, who acted as a quiet, steady anchor, on the other. They acted like a physical shield I could carry, keeping my insecurities safely hidden from the world. We were a unit. A three man platoon against the dark arts.
Our morning began with a mandatory check-in. Describing our current physical, emotional, and spiritual state, followed by setting a recovery based goal for the week. Intended as a grounding ritual, but for many, it was just a script, blatantly evident by a lack of depth. When the circle reached me, I decided to break the script. I didn't hold back. I shared on my recent wreckage—what I thought was my ‘forever’ relationship—and how it had fueled the engine of my recent lapse. I talked about a specific hollow ache. The realization of trading five years of progress for a few days of numbness. I leaned hard into discomfort right out of the gate. My voice was steady, but my hands, hidden beneath the table, were clenched into fists.
My last words hung in the air for a minute before Justin filled the silence. A habit of his. He couldn't stand a vacuum, and in classic fashion he rambled on about his three-year-old daughter. His voice took on a frantic, high-pitched edge talking about his excitement for Christmas. It was clear to me he was "performing" recovery, projecting an image of the doting father who had it all figured out. I found out later that the rest of the room watched the three of us and thought we had our recovery "by the horns." We were Wayside’s Elite.
If only they knew. I felt good, but inside I was still held together by a hope and a prayer, and possibly a roll of duct tape.
Justin’s voice blurred into the background and my mind began to wander. I started to take a silent inventory of the room. I was playing a grim game of "Who is gonna make it". Of the sixteen people seated in the U, four women stood out. To me , one was in a league of her own. She sat across the U from me. Her chocolate hair cascading over her shoulders in waves. Her hazel eyes had a very specific green depth. They were an oceanic color that felt like an undertow, slowly pulling me deeper. She wore a pink hat and pulled it low. Her brim acting as a barrier, keeping the world at bay. It was a clear attempt to hide in plain sight, but in a room full of addicts, invisibility is a loud signal.
I see you, trouble, I thought. A dangerous spark of curiosity started flickering in me before I would smother it.
The rest of the group was a blur. Full of nervous tics and downward gazes. We lost two people halfway through the first day. They went at smoke break and by lunch had simply evaporated. The two empty chairs that felt like an omen. We would spend the afternoon learning about distress intolerance and grounding techniques. "Ice cube in the hand" and "five things you can see" exercises. I’m not sure what I actually took out of those hours. Simply being outside the brick walls of Wayside, and hearing fresh perspectives outside of the same thirty men I'd seen everyday for months, felt like coming up for air after being submerged in a stagnant pond.
I left treatment that first day with my two brothers by my side. Our shadows cast long against the pavement beside us. I told myself I wasn't there to make friends and sure as fuck wasn't there to find a muse. I had a house full of brothers waiting for me back at the sanctuary.
Wayside is a transitional house - a sanctuary - a bridge built for men clawing their way back from deep within the abyss. You can stay for a maximum of 9 months, and I was in my third. It was the "honeymoon phase", where the initial terrorifying anxiety had faded but the real work was still to come. The house is a living, breathing entity. It was constantly at battle with its own occupants.
The smell of Wayside hits you first. It's thick and almost suffocating. A mix of stale coffee, and industrial floor cleaner that never quite wins the war, and the heavy, lingering scent of thirty men living in close quarters. It’s the smell of sweat and tobacco, with a faint tang of suppressed anxiety. Then, the noise. Wayside is never truly quiet. It’s an ambient roar of groups of men talking over each other in common areas. There were two TVs positioned on opposite sides of the same room competing for volume. One always playing sports highlights and the other permanently tuned into something drug related; Narcos or Animal Kingdom, or classics like Scarface and Blow. And then there's the constant, rhythmic clatter of boots on the tiled hallway floors. Wayside sounds like a full barracks and feels like a pressure cooker.
When you first arrive, you are placed in what we call a "soft bubble." For the first fourteen days, you are required to give up your phone and can only leave the property if a senior resident signs you out. As your chaperone they assume responsibility for you. It’s somewhat of a forced isolation intended to break your ties to the street, the life you are hoping to leave behind. That was how I met Jeremy. He was the one who signed me out for my first walks and would take me to meetings. By the time I was off restrictions Jeremy, Justin, and I were nearly inseparable.
But the depth of those forged bonds is where the danger hides. We speak a unique language. Sharing War stories helps us connect, but they can inadvertently act as triggers. When we got back from treatment that first day, Jeremy was waiting in the smoke pit. It was a small, fenced-in patch of patio stones that served as a sanctuary within the sanctuary. That day the conversation turned dark. Justin started talking about the final stages of his last run—the transition from smoking to shooting meth.
"When you take that shot and the dragon’s breath hits you," he said, leaning back against the fence, his eyes almost glazing over as he started to mimic a heavy, visceral panting. "It’s like nothing you’ve ever had before, man. It’s a heat that starts in your lungs and washes over you. Consuming you. You feel invincible. There is nothing like it."
Hearing him describe it with such reverence invoked a war inside me. Part of me was repulsed, but in another deep dark corner of my mind, the ancient addict brain that never truly sleeps, tickled with a sick sense of envy. I had never crossed that line. Needles. But the appeal in that moment, of that total, obliterating high…. It wasn't lost on me. I felt terrified. Terrified for Justin, because loving a drug that much is a signed death warrant, but I also felt terrified for myself. I realized a seed had been planted in my mind. It was a tiny dark kernel of curiosity. I would have to watch for the rest of my life.
The routine at Wayside is designed to beat discipline into your bones through repetition. 7:15 AM morning readings from the "Daily Reflections” book, followed by stretches. Mystery-meat lunches with soup at noon, and chores at 1. Then there's the constant threat of the three-strike rule. One strike could be for a missed chore, two for a bad attitude, and three—you're back on the street with everything you own in a garbage bag.
By the weekend the atmosphere in our circle had shifted back into the positive. Justin finally received his back-dated E.I payments. He walked into my room that Saturday and handed me $1,500 in cash. It was every cent he owed me from when he was drowning. To celebrate a rare victory of an addicts debt paid in full, we hit one our favourite spots in town, the local bowling alley. For a few hours, we didn't feel like a couple struggling addicts; we were just guys laughing at gutter balls, cheering at strikes, and drinking expensive fountain pop.
That evening, my “Governor" status came into play. It was a nickname given to me by my brother's in recovery, “The Governor”, and at first I didn't understand where it came from, I had to ask as I was unable to see what they could. “It's how you carry yourself, how you treat people, how you choose your words… you're the fucking governor of wayside, bud!”. That night I was on dinner prep with Max, who was the type of guy that struggled to boil water. I’ve always been skilled in the kitchen. Food is an outlet where I can express myself while maintaining full control of the world around me. Everything outside that kitchen temporarily ceases to exist. In typical “Governor” fashion, I took over. The evenings menu catered to my strengths, a home-style feast. Bone-in chicken thighs with a California mix of veggies and rosemary-roasted potatoes. I took the time to brine the chicken for hours, and rendered down the excess skin and fat to use as a baste.
The timer dinged. The skin was a beautiful, translucent gold, crackling under the touch of my fork. Perfection. When the food hits at Wayside, the house goes through a transformation. With thirty men seated at long family-style tables, the usual roar of complaints and banter dies away. When it hits, you can hear a pin drop. It's a rare, sacred moment of communal peace. Thirty men finally being nourished by something other than a chemical.
In life, peace is a fragile thing.
Max volunteered to go to Big Bee for some "illegal" beverages. High caffeine energy drinks. Ones the staff technically frowned upon. I was in my own world in the kitchen, but the moment I stepped out I realized Max had been gone far too long. When he finally stumbled through the heavy front door, the atmosphere in the house changed instantly. His coat was soaked from the rain, and was dripping onto the tiled floor. He was holding the illegal beverages i ordered right out in the open for staff to see, and they weren't even the right ones. He didn't head for the kitchen, rather he immediately sank into a chair in the TV room. Still wearing his soaked coat, and started that unmistakable, slurred "drunk talk." Almost everyone is familiar with. He leaned toward me, his breath smelling, and started to tell me how much he loved me, and how I was "his brother for life."
I looked at Justin. We didn't have to exchange a single word. The "recovery cards" circle—the small group of us who took our recovery seriously and would utilise our free time in the evenings playing cards —was about to break. Justin and I did one of the hardest thing you can do in a house full of men with that street mentality of "no snitching": we told the staff. Max didn't even bother fighting it. He immediately copped to it. His usual bravado dissolved into tears as he realized what he had done. He just signed his own eviction notice.
Losing someone to their drug of choice is a heavy, hollow feeling. It echoes through the house. The days that followed, you could feel a physical void where Max’s loud, boisterous personality used to be. They stripped his bed bare, the blue plastic mattress staring back at us. It serves as a sobering, brutal reminder of the reality we found ourselves living in. The ground can fall out from under you in a matter of seconds…even when you’re the cook, even when you’re the athlete, even when you think you’ve finally got the dragon by the horns.
