To live without hope is to cease to live. (Fyodor Dostoevsky)
***This article is a chapter from my memoir which I am trying to get published.
‘Shellshocked’ was how I was accurately described during my first week at Hope by Fiona, an astute client from England. The carpet had well and truly been whisked out from under my feet. It took several days to adjust to my new physical and mental environment. Checking into rehab was a real ego-deflator. That soon returned in force. My pride, almost certainly, was severely dented in the process.
My initial plan was to stay for four weeks and spend the final week of the holiday in Bangkok, before returning to China. It wasn’t exactly the cleverest of plans. When Mark, one of the English lads I befriended, heard my idea, he burst out laughing and said: “Have you told Brett this?” Brett was one of the counsellors known for not mincing his words and calling you out when he thought you were spouting a crock of shit, which, I soon discovered, was a regular occurrence in rehab by just about everybody, myself included, which may come as a shock to nobody. Needless to say, I hadn’t informed Brett, so, based on Mark’s reaction, I knew that I’d best pay for, and stay, the full five weeks until August 16th. Good work Mark.
On the first morning Henk, the boisterous manager of the facility, and a beautiful blonde intern, Dutch possibly, entered my room to say hello and carry out a search of my bags (standard procedure). I was instantly annoyed with Henk for accompanying the blonde (resentment 1) as I fancied my chances. Self-delusion…perhaps. I guess happy endings don’t come at the beginning.
Some people have been known to turn up at rehab with supplies to ease their stay. Neither surprising nor shocking. Valium and Xanax were removed from my bag, never to be seen again (resentment 2).
By mid-morning, I gingerly trudged off to the first group session already questioning my sanity and decision-making. It wouldn’t be the last time during the next month. Doug Sutherland, a Scotsman, led the first session. Despite the language barrier, I had no problem understanding him (I jest!). It was an enjoyable session with around thirty clients in attendance. More than anything, it allowed me the opportunity to size up the motley crew of troubled souls that I’d be spending the next month with.
It soon became apparent to me that addiction doesn’t give a damn about your age, race, gender, creed, religion, nationality, or sexual orientation. It doesn’t care if you are rich or poor, male or female, tall or short, bald or ginger. It cares even less which football team you support. Addiction could be described as a cancer of the mind and soul, rotting both of them and your body in the process. It obliterates everyone in its path unless the necessary steps are taken to smash it into remission.
The sumptuous grounds of Hope Rehab, including an outdoor swimming pool and gym, are spacious with plenty of places to relax, walk, and chill out in peace when you’ve had enough of listening to the lies and bullshit being spouted by clients. Euphoric recall was a common occurrence. It was fascinating to observe egos being flexed, and tall tales being spun. An addiction to lying and self-delusion may well be the most common feature of all addicts/alcoholics. Of course, I’d never be guilty of such…
The environment was relaxed and friendly. Occasionally, a Salierian spirit invaded as moods shifted, exposing vulnerabilities. As some clients struggled, their hostile demeanour threatened to poison the atmosphere. To their full credit, the staff remained vigilant and dealt with any issues promptly. It appeared to me that they were also mindful of cliques and unhealthy friendships forming. The staff were professional, well-trained, relaxed, and approachable. I formed the opinion that the vast majority of the employees enjoyed working at Hope, which is always a good sign.
The schedule was well organised. Each day commenced with morning exercise at 6.30 am. You could choose between swimming, yoga, gym, cycling, or jogging/walking at a nearby park. I usually went for a morning walk and listened to a podcast. If I was feeling bored, patient, or especially tolerant, I’d listen to Mark ramble on about his latest woes. I enjoyed his company.
Breakfast fit for a King was served every morning after exercise. The food at Hope Rehab was delectable. The skinniest addict, often lacking in nutrition as a result of drugs, didn’t take long to put on a few pounds at Hope. Others needed that gym from over-eating.
Morning meditation was usually led by Alon, the diminutive yet mesmerising Thai, Co-Founder of Hope. Paul leads the session on Mondays but it’s Alon that most of us remember! I’m pretty sure that almost every man (and some women) left Hope in love with her, or her voice at least. Just being in her presence was calming. She is a gentle soul. I used to love the meditation sessions with her and the individual outdoor yoga sessions weren’t bad either. I could even develop a love for baseball, the most boring sport in the world, if Alon was leading practice.
A laugh was nearly always guaranteed during the morning meditation session. The majority of clients (during my time at Hope) had difficulty sleeping at one stage or another. This could happen for a multitude of obvious reasons. Therefore, if we were having a mediation session where we needed to lie down, you’d be guaranteed plenty of snores (and farts!) However, the most amusing moments came courtesy of Ben from London. He’d had an extreme fondness for cocaine down through the decades. As a result, a hole had developed in his nasal passage. Let’s just put it like this; if Ben was hired to referee a game of football he wouldn’t need a Fox 40. During meditation, after he inhaled up his nostril, a whistle sound could be heard during the exhale. It always made us chuckle.
Meditation is the single most important habit that I developed during my time at rehab. I have barely missed a day since leaving Hope. I downloaded and subscribed to Headspace, an app for meditation, during this period, and occasionally organised night meditation sessions using it. The sleeping issues that some people were experiencing had not gone unnoticed, and I thought that this may help to alleviate it. I slept like a cat most nights so it worked for me at least. The emphasis on exercise and mindfulness at Hope, as part of the recovery process, really stood out when I was researching rehab facilities. They are, without a doubt, the main reasons I decided to go there.
A daily gratitude session concluded the early-morning activities. This would be led by one of the counsellors. Clients would take it in turn to share something they were grateful for that day. One of these sessions stands out in my memory because of an exchange I had with Brett Walker. After sharing what I was grateful for, he questioned me as to the reasons behind it. Someone had recently resolved a contentious issue and apologised for it. I relayed this story to Brett and said that I was grateful to that person because I would not have been able to do what they did. He simply looked at me and said, “That’s your pride mate!” The message was loud and clear. I needed to get over my pride and not allow it to get in my way in the future. More than anyone else at Hope, Brett seemed to have a real ‘hard-on’ for issues concerning pride. He harped on about it on multiple occasions. The lesson was not lost on me. I listened carefully and reflected on his words. As a result, I nicknamed him Marcellus Wallace (Pulp Fiction), for it was he who insightfully declared: “Pride only hurts, it never helps.”
A morning break was followed by the two-hour daily group sessions before lunch. We explored a different topic each day. These sessions were always led by two of the counsellors. Initially, they were enjoyable. However, by the end of the five weeks, I had completely bored of them, yet never missed a session such was my enduring love for tedium. Ofsted, in their uselessness, may have concluded that they needed a bit of differentiation. Upon reflection, it was my outlook, attitude, and mood that changed, rather than the overall quality of the sessions. The excellent session led by Yu Riko and Fabi on the topic of ‘Relationships’ stands out in my memory, as well as a compelling session by Doug and Joel in which they role-played a scenario, following its possible outcome and potential consequences through to the bitter end.
Brett called me out one day in front of the group, essentially accusing me of spouting ‘Horse manure.’ Me? Never! We were discussing rock bottom moments. When asked for mine, I claimed the loss of 5000 Euro on the Germany bet at the World Cup. I have no idea why I picked that one. Brett instantly said, “No, I’m going to challenge that.” It was a poorly thought-out answer, more than a lie (perhaps this is the lie), but he was spot on. During the break in this session, I bumped into him outside and confirmed that he was right and that I hadn’t cared for a second when I lost that money. It barely registered an emotion. After the game, I casually went for a walk down to the lake beside our house. Brett responded: “Of course, you didn’t care about the money mate.” He was right. With everything else going on in my life at the time, I was beyond caring about money.
Clients had two counselling sessions (1 hour) a week with their assigned therapist. A one-hour mindfulness group session each week was followed by individual meetings (20 minutes) with Paul Garrigan, the Irishman who directed the Mindfulness Program at Hope.
Twice a week, clients were treated to a traditional Thai massage, which was all respectable and above board for you gentle folk with minds of smut. Afternoon trips were organised to various places of interest nearby. There were AA and NA meetings onsite two evenings a week and one on a Saturday morning beside the beach. A lad from Scotland shared his life story at one of these and it had a powerful effect on me. It was particularly insightful stuff. I was taken aback by his words, most likely because it was the first time I’d heard someone share so openly in this way.
Once a week we’d watch a Ted Talk and discuss its contents. An excellent talk by Gabor Mate on addiction stands out. It was during one of these sessions that a spiky Khazak took umbrage at the words of Fabi, the outstanding Brazilian Psychotherapist. This tetchy encounter certainly livened up the proceeding that evening.
Every Saturday morning we were treated to ‘Vinny’s Hour.’ This was a spellbinding talk by Mr.Vinny Winit Wonsejullarat, an absolute legend, from Thailand. I nicknamed him Joe Pesci. (My Cousin) Vinny stands tall at around 5ft and is a cool customer. A man with a colourful past steeped in alcohol and drugs, Vinny’s talks were memorable for their insight, compassion, and humour. They were loved by (almost) everyone; what a legend he is. I had a few private counselling sessions with Vinny at the weekends, and always learned a lot.
We’d watch a movie each Saturday night with Vinny. ‘Searching for Sugarman,’ the inspirational story of the relatively unknown, yet famous musician, Sixto Rodriquez, was one of my picks, for I wanted my mate Pete to watch it. He is also a talented musician and I hoped it would inspire him. If anyone is ever struggling to understand the meaning of the word ‘Humility’ then I recommend that they watch this movie. In my opinion, Sixto is the human personification of humility.
The twice-weekly Refuge Recovery (voluntary) meetings became a firm favourite of mine. This program is now known as Dharma Recovery because of a controversy surrounding one of its founders. I suspiciously eyed Mark eagerly heading off to one of these meetings in my first week. For some completely bizarre reason, I thought that Refuge Recovery was some sort of organisation to save dogs and that clients at Hope volunteered to participate. Around this time I knew a few people in Shenzhen who were volunteering at dog shelters and refuges, and I merely put two and two together and came up with minus forty. When I asked Mark about this ‘Dog Group,' he laughed out loud, before setting me straight. I’m sure he probably walked away shaking his head, thinking that I was a right ‘Thick Paddy!’
Refuge (Dharama) Recovery has nothing whatsoever to do with the salvation of dog’s souls. It is the Buddhist-inspired path of recovery from addiction. A perfect example of the completely bonkers conclusions the mind can arrive at. Meetings begin with a twenty-minute meditation. This is followed by a short reading from their recovery book, which is steeped in Buddhist principles such as ‘The Four Noble Truths,’ and ‘The Eightfold Path’. Group sharing concludes the session. In Rehab, these meetings tended to be very powerful with particularly raw material shared by attendees. I concluded that the meditation at the start of the meeting was the main reason for this. Of course, just like the dog story, it’s entirely possible that I was wrong. Just before the outbreak of COVID-19, I started a Dharma Recovery group in Shenzhen. This didn’t last long because of the virus and my subsequent relocation to Vietnam. Later in 2020, I started a weekly online DR group which continued for around 6 months. It is an excellent program.
The end-of-week ‘Process Group’ sessions were always interesting. These were conducted in smaller groups of around eight people. Clients shared their thoughts and feelings about events/dramas of the week, and how the process was going for them. I came to enjoy these sessions. I always found them amusing, and baffling, because it seemed to me that the reality inside the group rarely matched how I perceived events and people outside the group. To me, process groups often felt like a game of cat and mouse, with a lot of play-acting going on. I started to question my judgment even more. During my very first process group session Brett was going through his usual line of questioning, with some interesting answers being relayed back by clients. Then he pointed at me and asked why I was here. Good question, I thought. I’d been wondering the same. I gave him a brief synopsis of my previous ten days and some of the events of the previous months. I recall being pretty animated and agitated as I spoke. His face told a story. He simply smirked and said, “Yeah…you definitely belong here.” His words were reassuring because I had started to second-guess myself and wonder if I was completely out of place.
Alongside Brett that day was Fabi Platinetti. I had more dealings with her after I left rehab, through Hope’s weekly aftercare Zoom meetings, than I did during my five weeks at the centre. I recommended her to a number of my friends and family who subsequently availed of her psychotherapy services. They all, without fail, speak very highly of her talents. As I got to know Fabi in the years after Hope she admitted that, based on my performance in the group that first day, she thought I had no chance. Her view was understandable for I was pretty demented in those early days at Hope. Years later in Chiang Mai, Henk, in that ridiculously loud and animated Dutch accent of his, greeted me with the hilarious words: “Wow, you look really good…because you were completely fucked up when you arrived at Hope!” Priceless. Accurate too…so unlike Henk!
Sometimes a client would share their life story in one of these process group sessions and we’d feedback on our thoughts to them. On a few occasions, I correctly identified (or so I incorrectly believed) the main issue in a person’s life. It was quite easy. Some people would rattle on for about twenty minutes blaming everyone from the postman to their dog, and everyone in between for their current woes. In the end, it was usually the person that they didn’t speak about once who they had the biggest issue with. Now, some of these life stories, I couldn’t help find amusing. I probably shouldn’t have, yet my own emotionally raw state at the time didn’t allow much compassion to seep in.
The majority of clients, I believe, were honest and genuine, and it was a pleasure providing positive feedback and encouragement to them. The life story of one client, in particular, really stands out for I thought it was utter tripe from start to finish. Complete and utter fantasy…Walter Mitty-Esque. I concluded that the main addiction I was listening to was ‘Lying’ and ‘Self-Delusion.’ I suspected that no major issue with drink or drugs was ever-present despite claims to the contrary (I still believe this). A ten-year-old could have lied more convincingly. I may have been completely wrong of course. The cynic in me wanted to rip the person’s story to shreds, to cross-examine, to expose the lies and obvious bullshit, as well as the glaring inconsistencies, just like in a court case. Yet, what would I have achieved? Well done Eugene, you’ve just exposed that _____ is also completely fucked up. Does that make you happy? Of course, that’s in hindsight. At the time, compassion and empathy were sorely lacking.
I settled in seamlessly in the first two weeks and even started to enjoy the process, particularly observing the outlandish behaviour and antics of some of the clients. People’s personalities changed overnight. It was fascinating to observe these developments. There were plenty of mini-dramas being played out and childish outbursts. A few clients, one a scouser (no surprises there), were kicked out for disappearing off into the night and bringing booze back to their rooms. It could be a bit of a mad house one day, while the next, it felt like being back in kindergarten such was the level of immaturity on display. I had to remind myself that I was not exactly the Dalai Lama myself. I knew well that I tended to be a self-righteous prick, full of judgement, and supreme arrogance. It just seemed to me that, at that moment, I appeared mature. I knew full well that the overwhelming evidence from my time outside the walls of Hope painted a much different picture.
The rehab experience taught me that there are a lot of very messed up people in the world who have suffered horrendous abuse and extreme trauma. Listening to people share their stories helped me put my troubles in perspective. I soon realised that there is always, always, somebody in a worse position in life than you. In one form or another, rehab delivered a daily reminder of this. Perspective. Perspective. Perspective. I took note. One meeting was particularly intense and raw. It sparked a period of deep reflection.
The poor physical shape some of the new guests arrived in was pretty shocking; one lad could barely walk unaided for his first week because of the effects of alcohol. Many sad and shocking stories left you in no doubt that alcohol and drug abuse, as well as process addictions, is the stuff of nightmares. I was taken aback by the amount of young Ozzies and Kiwis (New Zealanders) at Hope with an ICE addiction (Crystal Meth).
I met some colourful characters during my time at Hope. Pete from England, and sheepish Chris from Wales, both good musicians. There was Sean*, an intelligent Ozzie, the first I’d ever met. Joe, a solicitor from Devon, was a very bright chap, hilarious too, that is when I could decipher his broad accent. Then there was Murphy who knew everything; when my team won on quiz day, I made sure that he knew that too! In fairness, he was a good lad, and a very talented artist as well. Danny and Gavin, two big lads with bigger hearts. Kool Karl had been around the block and had stories to share. Fiona, an Englishwoman who I enjoy listening to. Her no-nonsense, bullshit-free, turn of phrase at Hope was refreshing. Morag, another wonderful lady whose company I enjoyed. Stunning stunning Sophie, with that cheeky smile, and sad eyes that betrayed hidden pain, often arrived late and left without a word. Just one thought of her makes me smile. I hope she, and all the rest, have found peace and joy.
There was a lot of peacocking and lying in rehab. I had an interesting conversation with Ant one day about this topic. He genuinely maintained that he’d never lied to anyone in his life. It was an admirable claim, and while I reluctantly believed him, I was still shocked. A spot of clever detective work finally uncovered a silent skeleton hidden in the closet. Just before the conversation ended, I asked Ant just one more question: “Have you ever lied to yourself?” He smirked, before agreeing in the affirmative. Every alcoholic and addict has… quite possibly along with everybody that has ever walked the face of the earth. You have to get up very early in the morning to get one over Lieutenant Colombo Leonard!
Somedays, it was hard to figure out who was crazier: you, the other clients, or the counsellors for putting up with our nonsense. I concluded that all the clients were disturbed in their unique way. In hindsight, it’s obvious that most, if not all of us were experiencing varying levels of stress and felt vulnerable and insecure. People merely resorted to what they knew best to hide this; be it humour, sarcasm, lying, using their intelligence, or isolating.
I remember telling Doug in an online counselling session after I left rehab that I realised that I had watched all the counsellors like hawks during my time there. I was fascinated by their behaviours, how they spoke, sat, acted, and who they interacted with. Some interesting dynamics were observed. I was quick to pick up on when they also were feeling tired and low and surprised Yu Riko one day by this. It’s possible that I felt very vulnerable around them so it may well have been another case of, ‘Know your Enemy.’ I’m also naturally inquisitive and it’s possible that I thought that I may learn more from them than the other clients.
One of the most fascinating aspects of rehab for me was the absolute paranoia that a large portion of people seemed to experience. I was right at the top of that list and regularly felt that the counsellors were plotting and taking decisions just to piss me off (what ego). I am that important after all. Ego overload in Room 101. I knew that this was madness but just could not fully shake off the idea. It was so refreshing to hear other clients share similar thoughts. I’d walk away happier, thinking that we’re all crazy, it’s not just me.
By the middle of the second week, I was at the top of the pink cloud and thought the whole process was a piece of piss. Too easy. The fall came days later; it was swift and brutal. I remember the exact moment when my time at Hope went from happy-go-lucky to depressed and unhappy (inside at least). At the start of week three, I remember walking across the lawn towards my room. A group session had just finished when all of a sudden out of nowhere, I was hit with a tidal wave of guilt about not going to New Zealand with Kim. I have no idea why out of all the horrible memories, that particular one floored me that day. I fell into a depression thinking about it and it stayed until my final day. Pink cloud, no more. Hello darkness my old friend.
As time wore on I became a lot more frustrated with myself, and what was going on around me. I had been expecting miracles. With no visible progress made, I became angrier but tried to repress it and keep it well hidden. Self-doubt resurfaced and boiled over. The characters I’d previously found funny started to grate. Fresh resentments developed and simmered. I found myself getting angry over stupid, unimportant decisions, even with Alon. How could I? I had to apologise to her one day about this. This wasn’t easy, but it was an important step.
At times, I felt like I was turning into a dry drunk; moody, irritable, and cantankerous. By week three, I was aware that I was starting to isolate a lot more than previously. At the same time, I was doing a lot of writing and planning. This turned out to be vital. I realise that every day I was in Hope, I was mentally planning for the day I left, and what I would do thereafter to maintain my sobriety, no, to maintain my sanity. I’m not sure that everyone was engaged in the same level of preparation. I knew that I was in a fight for my life. The last chance saloon. I was thoroughly baffled because I had been expecting everyone else to be experiencing the same level of desperation as I had. My judgemental mind told me that it was missing in many other people’s eyes. I may have been wrong. I didn’t think so. I still don’t. I thought that some people were treating rehab as a mini-break from drink and drugs and had no intention of quitting for good. It’s entirely possible that this was the case, and that many clients at Hope at the time, had not fallen to the depths that I, and many more before me, had. Despite these frustrations, I made sure I made it to every single activity and session. I couldn’t understand people paying big money to go to rehab and then skipping sessions by feigning illness and fabricating pathetic excuses that a fourth-grade student could have bettered.
Around this time, during a therapy sessions with my counsellor, I remember amusingly claiming that “There are a lot of Prima Donna’s and Princesses about this place!” (and that was just the men) He laughed and agreed. I kept thinking to myself I’d love to stick Roy Keane, the infamous former Manchester United and Ireland Captain, into Rehab for a few weeks to see what he would make of the clients (and counsellors). I’d say he would have ripped everyone to pieces for showing a lack of belief, desire, commitment and determination. He would have quickly cut through the bullshit and rooted out the spoofers. Roy wasn’t known to mince his words or suffer fools easily so it would have made for some process group. This thought used to amuse me greatly.
It was only much later that I unearthed the bitter truth about what I most resented about these Prima Donna’s and Princesses. For long periods of my time at Hope, my pride was such that I was unable to approach the counsellors for help or to tell them that I was struggling. I resented the attention that these people got through their immature behaviour. I needed some of that attention but couldn’t lower myself to resort to such antics, or worse still, ask for help. One evening stands out in my memory which perfectly sums up this resentment. I had booked a session with Vinny but it had to be cancelled at the last minute to make way for one of these Prima Donnas who was having her latest meltdown. This infuriated me, and I sarcastically asked Vinny: “What happened? Did her dog die?”
Joel Lewin, a bald Spurs fan, was my fated counsellor at Hope. This relationship was extremely frosty (on my part) and complicated throughout my whole time there. It’s time to explore this in greater detail...
To be continued...
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*Rest in Peace Sean.
