A true friend never gets in your way - unless you happen to be going down.
Anonymous
Choices people make and circumstances in their life sometimes conspire to teach lessons in the most difficult ways. Finding myself in prison was both the worst and the best thing that ever happened to me. Following the path of my addiction put me there, and a court-ordered drug program set me free.
For two hours every day over a period of nine months we would meet. Weekly we broke up into small groups of six to ten women and went through a process of intense intervention facilitated by one of the five counselors.
Each of us received individual treatment plans based on our entry interview. We wrote papers, read books, watched videos, did our homework and passed our tests, but what counted the most toward completing the program was class participation. .
The significance and depth of each woman’s story differed vastly. We came from all walks of life, spanned every racial, religious and age boundary. The one thing we all had in common was we were addicts. Whether it was alcohol or drugs addiction, addiction had become an overwhelming, destructive force in our lives.
I had always thought my life experiences were unique but after listening to the other women’s stories, I knew I wasn’t alone. Realizing that was powerful for me. We shared things about ourselves that no one, no matter how close they were to us, would ever have known. Some of our experiences had never been said aloud.
My primary was a black woman who carried herself proudly, head high and poised. When Carla Davis spoke, her words were strong and direct. She moved around the classroom with the gracefulness of a rose swaying to a summer breeze. I was grateful in so many ways that she was my primary. I admired her; I wanted to emulate her and devote myself to helping people. Unfortunately I was sitting on the wrong side of the desk.
I was nothing but a number to the prison system, but Ms. Davis always treated me with respect and spoke with words that allowed me to maintain my dignity. Her advice was given with the wisdom of a thousand scholars and she could identify and sympathize with my internal turmoil over my biracial son. Her kind, caring eyes never left my face when I would go on and on about my problems. Sometimes I’d look up and see tears brimming over her bottom lids, ready to slide down over her high cheekbones the next time she blinked. Tissues were always a part of her desktop decor.
Nine months later it was graduation day. A person from each small group was selected for having improved the most. I glanced around the room, silently tallying who had opened up the most, had shared their deepest darkest feelings and worked the hardest.
Before I completed my mental score sheet everyone was clapping and looking at me. My name had been called. I stood up and moved slowly to the front of the room in disbelief. When I raised my head and looked into Carla’s eyes tears were once again brimming over her bottom lids. She stretched out her arms and wrapped them around me. Her hug was as loving as if she were my own mother. She whispered in my ear, “I am so proud of you, you’ve earned this.”
When the day finally came to walk out of prison I was convinced once I was on the other side of that fence I would never look back. I would put that part of my life completely out of my mind. It hasn’t quite worked out that way. In my day-to-day living I still hear Carla giving me advice, and when I become a little shaky in my recovery I just think of that day and the warmth of that hug and it gets me through “one day at a time.”
Christine Learmonth