A New Hampshire Addict

Weaving Day- Michelle Shocked
Weaving Day-
Michelle Shocked

Sometimes there are little ghost towns with in the little villages. Small nuances, distorted realities of how life could have been. Burbs, set amongst small town chatter of even smaller small talk, discuss the ‘stuff that brings matter to life.’ Often, these shanties are often refered to as, rehabs. Tired stretches of road that hold a promise to the end of self imposed misery.

My posse frequents one such group of forgotten cottages , the Last House on the Road. The Last House is an old old old administration building. It had been part and parcel to an orphanage, that became a monastery and eventual, a catholic school. The drunks it current houses may know nothing of the vast history, other than, its tiny little well manicured cemetery devoted to townies, orphans from centuries past and occasional, nuns that have moved on to meet the maker.rehab recreation

I had attended a ‘low income’ rehab. I had no choice. I had no money. I had no insurance. I had no soul!

The day I entered rehab…after several weeks of detox and dubiously looking at what I had made of myself, in the non-breakable mirror; only one promise needed to by made and paid.

The action had not been to remain sober ’til my dying day. The plan had not been for a speedy recovery and devote myself to the betterment of addicts everywhere.

The promise had been simple:

I promise to pay back…Farnum Center…at least one dollar a day…until my room and board in recovery…has been paid back.

Honestly, the point had been simple, the sober powers that be knew most would not be able to ever pay…in full, what it costs to sober a dunk up and/or ween an addict off. To me, a dollar sign could never replace what rehab gives to those who are willing to let go of their will power. To be handed back a life. Whether you began your descent into the madness of addiction at 20 or 65! When clean and sober…everyone is returned to new born baby status. And, to be able to begin anew is a gift that has no price tag.

Back to the story at hand…the ‘promissory vow’ of one single monthly dollar in repayment, was the addiction counselor’s way of bringing the ‘small child’ back to adulthood. That by agreeing to payment…the addict has begun the teeny tiny steps towards making amends!

The State of New Hampshire has decided to revoke funding to ‘rehabs that tend to attend to the uninsured’! After next month, the 60 thousand dollars that aids to the functioning of non profit recovery centers…will be gone. Generally speaking, only the rich shall survive. After all, I’ve been ’round the recovery block a year or to…most who need the help the most…are not working, stable persons with insurance. Typically they are, unemployable but filled with talent, young people without support (because addiction is a family disease) and with holes in the bottom of their shoes.

How do I know? That had been me.

When I walk…meditate at the Last House…it helps me to not forget. The Last House is now part of a working farm which is part of a piece of N.H. Forest and Nature conservatory. The wonderful owners of the farm have allowed for the recovery center to take over some of the old and need of repair…buildings of history.

The dogs and I have seen crying young twenty somethings…suitcase packed…awaiting a ride…postponing the inevitable. Cabs from several towns over have sat outside the female housing unit…running in idle…again awaiting to whisk a recent ‘quitter’ away.

But…we have also seen small community gardens erected by persons that are participating in twenty eight to as long as you need, programs. We’ve passed groups of smiling faces on the dirt road that leads to the corn fields. They are happy, at ease and have a slight hitch in their ride. Their stride displays a promise to keep on keeping on…but is doing so with uncertainty.

My last day at rehab…we attended an outside meeting. The meeting hall filled with smoke. That should tell you how long ago I got sober. Coffee cups over flowed the card tables. Blue and gold velvet special message signs for special people… hung off the walls of particle board. It had been a lonely but lively room in a Unitarian basement.

As we, a crowd of graduates from the class of fall term 1995 Farnum Center, a plane flew overhead. It had a tailored lettered kite dragging behind…

nh is for quitters

‘We are here for you…Call today!’

Immediately, for I had been traveling in a pink cloud since the booze left my system, I realized that my conscience contact with my Higher Power…was receiving an answer.

The plane had been advertising a special for new car buyers. It need not have mattered. It could have been a sign for male enhancement. It had been a sign nonetheless.

The times have been rough. The times have been noteworthy. The days and nights filled with moments of being human…again.

The thing rehab promised me?

Life would be conducted sober and semi serene…It would not be easier!

Shit if I know what I would have done without detox and a program. I recall, at the time, my choice had been rehab or running a kitchen at a dude ranch in Montana with a bi-sexual couple…that wanted to make nice nice.

...there are some who say, you can look too hard.
…there are some who say, you can look too hard.

Shame on the state of New Hampshire. Shame on the powers that be. We have per ca-pita, the largest under aged addiction to alcoholism than any other state. Perhaps, New Hampshire will see their own sign. Perhaps, it will continue to come in the form of meth overdoses and prostitution and child abuse. Perhaps, the state will continue to have to pay for those addicts in other ways and forms.


Dear Persons Affected by my Rodmanism:

justifiable stupidity is best left to those who can't handle it!
justifiable stupidity is best left to those who can’t handle it!

It has/had been so long since I have been to a ‘meeting’.  So long has it been that my ISM’s are showing.

I.S.M.’s being: I, self, me.

I realized that my life’s six-pack had been lacking whilst playing a round of Around the World with the North Korean miniature basketball team.  Simply put, T.I.M.E. didn’t make me man of the second never mind ex-basketball player of the year.

T.I.M.E. being: Things I Must Earn

You maybe wondering what my specific Life’s Six Pack held…I had been wondering that as well.  I had left the note with the meaning to it all next to my A.A. meeting list.  After searching meaninglessly through vacant meanderings of memoirs four, five and six.  I found the patch of wordy scribble on the bathroom wall.

whatever happened to passing out n coming to?
whatever happened to passing out n coming to?

Rodman’s life’s six-pack:

1. Meet with someone saner than myself at least once a day.

2. Ask for help always!

3. Find a guide here on earth…even if it is the tattoo artist down the street.  Anyone as long as it is not me.

4. Read something devout and timeless filled with sage advice that does not change whether it is liked on Facebook or not.

5. Get a job that isn’t paid volunteer work.  Paid and volunteer should not go hand in hand.

6. Become a part of something that doesn’t revolve around ME!

my I.S.M.'s keeping asking me if I want to come out and play
my I.S.M.’s keeping asking me if I want to come out and play

I suspect that my ‘bad’ boy status has gone to my head once again.  I found myself directing, playing and…

what a minute…

that really happened!  I became the center of my own stage!

Here it is!  The gospel as spoken by Bill and Dr. Bob:

…I am running on self-propulsion.  I am the actor who wants to run the whole basketball game…as it were.

I am forever trying to arrange the referee’s, the players and the president of a cruel country.  If only my game strategy would sit still, if only the American people understood ‘ME’, if only my wishes were all coming true, my game would be the greatest game on earth.  Life would be great.  And, I could drink, drug and take down the statement ‘self will run riot’ in one false swoosh of a three pointer.

Why didn’t this happen?  I am great, I am kind and I put up with other people!

What the F-ck?  This didn’t happen and now I am in a shit storm of bad karma, as well as, ready to point fingers at everyone but my I.S.M behavior.

Not too long ago, when the world had stopped looking at my bad advertisement.  When the lights grew dim on my career.  When I had no choice but to look at myself.  I found this message inscribed on the inside of a Big Book:

“only the good die young…the rest go to A.A. meetings!”


D. Rodman

Peace begins with a blink of an I.
Peace begins with a blink of an I.