I had changed.
I had been through rehabilitation.
The memory of the shakes and tremors that had wracked my body during the first few days at the centre flashed through my mind. I remembered the nausea, the sleepless nights, the way my body had fought the absence of alcohol.
Slowly, I stepped away from the door.
I had made a promise.
To myself.
To my wife.
To my daughter.
Fighting against every fibre in my body that screamed for a drink, I turned around, got back into my car, and drove home.
As I turned into the cul-de-sac, I saw Lucas and the other children waiting outside.
A smile spread across my face, and the tightness in my chest eased as my tense body finally relaxed.
I wasgrateful for the second chance at life I had been given.The urges still came sometimes, but I learned how to control them.
After doing some research online, I downloaded a sample tracking form. Every time an urge surfaced, I filled it out carefully. It helped me analyze the situation that had triggered it. I wrote down what the urge felt like, whether it was emotional or physical, and rated its intensity.Then I would write down the strategies I used to overcome it—avoidance, distractions, talking it through, or simply walking away.
I showed the chart to Silvia during one of our sessions.
“This is impressive,” she said, after scanning it. “I also see that you had other ideas and jotted down painting and hiking as distractions.”
I nodded.
I had recently enrolled myself in painting classes, and surprisingly, I was enjoying them. I continued scheduling weekly appointments with Silvia as well. Those sessions helped me face my grief and guilt in ways I had never allowed myself to before.
“What do you think about AA groups?” Silvia asked me during one of those sessions.
“I’ve never thought about it,” I admitted honestly.
“Do you want to give it a try? It’s the same as what you did at the centre.”
She handed me a piece of paper with information about the meetings. I folded it and slipped it into my pocket, telling her I would think about it.
Back at the centre, group sessions had always made me uncomfortable. I had never been good at sharing my feelings with a room full of strangers and preferred one-on-one conversations with Silvia. Other than greeting people, I rarely spoke, and seeing the same faces every day in the hallways only made it harder. But as I stood in my kitchen that evening, staring at the paper in my hand, I decided to give it a shot.
I drovetoward the church in Duncan, a town about ten minutes away from Cowichan Bay. The meeting was being held in the church hall.
As I approached the building, my palms began to sweat.
I had never been the religious type, but something about entering that hall and sitting down in one of the empty chairs brought a sense of peace.
My shoulders relaxed slightly.
Two men from the centre, whom I recognized, brought a slow smile to my face. I had often seen them at the gym where we played basketball or tennis together.
“Hi guys,” I said during a break while standing in line and pouring coffee into a paper cup. “How are you both doing?”
“It’s tough being back home and not at the centre,” Carter said. He was a middle-aged man with a wife and two children. “These meetings are helping me a lot.”
“First time for you?” Brian asked. He was a construction worker in his early thirties.
