Dogged [creative non-fiction] by Clayton Smith

  

 

Content Flags [addiction]

 

         If all my loved ones did what I wanted them to, I wouldn’t have become an addict. Unfortunately, they had the annoying habit of doing what they wanted to do and ignoring my unspoken desires. Consequently, I found myself on one hot summer morning in the Adirondack Mountains of New York state riding in the “Crazy Van” with five of my fellow addicts on our way to the gym. The van was one of those white non-descript passenger vans – full-size, not a mini-van – that you often see with the words “Something or Other Bible College” written on the side. In our case, the name was religious – Saint Jude Retreat – but the other passengers and I were anything but bible-thumpers. We were just folks who had lost our way, gotten too heavily involved with our drug of choice, and were now trying to extricate ourselves from our predicament. Most of us were there voluntarily, but some were court-ordered.

         John was a meth head, one week into his recovery; he’d slept the first four days straight when he arrived at our group home, coming down from his final bender. Cheryl was a fifty-something-year-old alcoholic, host of a TV morning show in Atlanta, beautiful if only because she’d spent two hours getting ready before leaving her room. Alvin was a cranky 68-year-old university physics professor who had developed a lasting liking for pills after a cycling accident. Kyle was a 23-year-old heroin user, fresh from the streets of Las Vegas where he’d recently been held up at knifepoint and had responded by shooting the other junkie. Jess was a “loud, large, and funny black whore” (her description, not mine), trying to clean up her cocaine habit. I was a 41-year-old self-employed portfolio manager, father of four young kids, bipolar-diagnosed, but fervent non-believer in psycho-babble, trying to get sober. We were a motley crew.

         “Fuck, I’m sick of trees,” said Kyle. He was longing to be back on the city streets.

         “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, Kyle. It’s not like they give us oxygen or anything,” Alvin grumbled.

         “Would y’all shut up? I’m tryin’ to visualize my workout!” barked Jess, laughing so hard it turned into a coughing fit.

         John nodded off, and Cheryl stared out the window, no doubt thinking that she should be on set being doted on rather than surrounded by us buffoons.

         We arrived just after 8 a.m. The gym was in a strip plaza, sandwiched between a dirty laundromat with three washing machines and four dryers, one of which was out-of-order, and an abandoned dollar store with boarded-up windows. When we got out, John, Jess and I lit up smokes while the driver, Bob, a diminutive retired sheriff and night-watchman at our institution, fumbled with the rusty lock.

         I’d been on “retreat” for a little over two weeks at that point, with another four to go. It felt good, not drinking and throwing up daily; I started to feel healthy again, even though I was smoking a pack a day. After working out on the six rusty old Nautilus machines for an hour, it was time to head back to the treatment center and start our day of doing nothing other than studying some quasi-religious, non-12-step program designed to cure us of our addictions.

         The van and the airless, low-ceilinged storefront acting like a gym had made me feel claustrophobic, and I decided to run back to the rehab. About 5k in, I came across a small abandoned settlement of five or six houses. I wasn’t worried. I hadn’t yet encountered any bears, though I had jumped over some fresh scat on the dirt road. There were no people around, but suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a husky-sized dog rushing towards me. For a runner, a loose dog can be just as dangerous as a bear, and you can’t run fast enough to get away from either. As I’ve done hundreds of times, I turned and ran towards it.

         “Get out of here! Go on! Get back!” I snarled, raising my arms.

Usually, that will keep dogs at bay. I think it confuses them. Not this one: He just slowed his advance a bit, lowered his head, and started wagging his tail. My heart was in my mouth, and my body was adrenaline-tense, but thankfully this one was friendly.

         “Hey, boy.” I rubbed his head and scratched his chin and then turned and carried on running. The dog followed, keeping up and staying about ten feet behind.

         I figured he’d turn around by the last house, but he kept following me.

         “Go on back, boy,” I encouraged him, stopping to push him away.

         But no matter how many times I tried to shoo him away, he just kept following me. Oh well, I thought, not my dog, not my problem. I kept running.

         The companionship was welcome, and I found myself having fun. From the look on the dog’s face, it was enjoying itself too. It was hot: not hot like Death Valley, where you can fry an egg on the blacktop, but hot like a muggy August day in Ontario where unoriginal people repeat, “it ain’t the heat, it’s the humidity.” Regardless, heat is heat; both kinds dehydrate you. The dog was panting; I started to feel concerned for him. The attachment had formed.

         I could see a lake ahead through the trees on the right, so I ran over to it, thinking he’d follow and take a drink. He was too interested in the plethora of smells in the forest. I got frustrated, waiting for him. Didn’t he know he was thirsty? Didn’t he know he could die without water? Didn’t he know I always knew best? Jesus, I just wanted to finish this run and have a cigarette. I angrily ran back and dragged him by his dirty red collar to the lake.

         “Drink,” I ordered him. “Drink! Come on, you stupid dog, drink.”

         He took a few slurps, as if only to appease me, and ran back to the forest.

         I still had about 5k to go, so I started running again and called him to follow me. We were quite a ways from his house, and now he was my responsibility.

         We entered the town of Wells, NY, and although it has a population of only 600, some cars were on the road. I grabbed his collar and walked/ran bent over on the sidewalk so he wouldn’t bolt out into traffic and get hit.

         Yvonne, the large, good-natured, ex-Québécoise cook, drove the dog and me back to the house where I thought the dog lived. A large, bearded, dirty-looking man was slumped in a lawn chair in the front yard, drinking a beer, when we pulled into the driveway. I opened the van door and stepped out, planning my sentimental good-bye hug for the dog and my “you’re welcome” speech for the man. However, the dog jumped out and ran to the man, never looking back. Neither the man nor the dog said anything; they just walked into the house.

         I stared out the window on the way back, reflecting on my adventure with the dog. I marvelled at how quickly my relationship with the dog had progressed from unattached joy to controlling frustration.

         Back at the retreat centre, I sat on the porch, lit a smoke, and stared out across the lake. I thought of my kids and my wife and how I’d burned myself out, looking after them and trying to be the “best that I could be.” I opened my Saint Jude Retreat Guidebook to the dog-eared page where I’d left off. The chapter was entitled “Letting Go and Living Your Own Life.”

         Ha, I laughed at the irony and thought how great it would be if my reflections on an encounter with a mangy Adirondackian mutt and a poorly written, spiritual-but-not-religious, self-help-for-addicts manifesto could solve and resolve all the relationship challenges that had plagued me since childhood. I was almost arrogant and narcissistic enough to believe I’d stumbled on some cosmic truth that could not only heal me but also be shared with other addicts to cure them. Now, a decade and a half later, I realize that good relationships exist on a diet of give-and-take. Altruism isn’t usually a disinterested and selfless concern for others. It’s often the opposite: the invested and selfish concern for others. I hadn’t burned myself out giving selflessly to my family; I’d depleted myself while seeking to fill my need-to-be-needed hole.

         I’m not sure I’ve changed much, although I’d like to think I have (we are rarely able to see our faults in the present.) I keep trying, and, yes, I still keep looking for life lessons neatly packaged with pretty bows, so I don’t have to work too hard or get too messy. 

           

---

Clayton Smith assumes many identities but is trying to get to a place of non-Clayton, a state of being where it is a pure point of consciousness, experiencing the world without filters. Glimpses of this state indicate it is hard to maintain - personas keep reasserting themselves unbidden. Masks, such as 1st year Sheridan Creative Writing and Publishing student, father of five, spouse, son, brother, roofer, middle-aged (already?) heterosexual male keep inserting themselves between this entity and its environment. The journey continues.