Christmas in Jail

Every little bout of sobriety teaches you something, they say in AA, you can't help but learn from every failure.

I think of this when I learn that my old friend, Kirk, has been back in jail since early November. He'd bragged proudly and happily about his new apartment across the river - didn't mention he'd been evicted from the old one. Lost his latest new job a month before but led us all to believe he'd been unfairly fired. Was thrown out of his newest band for being drunk and disorderly on stage. And finally beat up his current girlfriend. At her wits end, she'd finally called the police and let them talk her into pressing charges, leaving her brave, broke, and homeless. A musician friend one who'd seen it all before, came to her rescue and took her in, giving her a much needed chance to sort out her life and her next move. I listened to this with a heavy heart, saddened but not surprised. Of all the symptoms of addiction, relapse may be the hardest to overcome and the most heartbreaking. To see someone whole and on their way to healthy then watch as they self-destruct and crumble is at first excruciatingly painful but after you've seen it a half dozen or more times, it's just numbing. You're forced to detach for own survival. Alcoholism, I read years ago, isn't a spectator sport. Sooner or later, the whole family gets to play.


I've never seen the inside of a jail cell and next to a rehab center, I know it's the safest and best place for him, but I can't even begin to imagine spending Christmas in jail. It's too sorrowful and depressing to think about. I visualize small, windowless cells and orange jumpsuits, strip searches and cots chained to blank walls, bad food served on tin trays. And a hollow, self pitying emptiness.


Addiction is a disease and a demon. The longer is feeds, the more it demands. Eventually there's never enough and it kills its host and wounds as many innocent bystanders as it can.


To the precious few who seek or stumble into recovery, Merry Christmas.
To those who haven't, rest in peace.


To my friend Kirk, who I love and am letting go, I hope you find a better way.