sitting with his elbows on the table "There was ecstasy at the party we went to I took some I was flying I felt so close to everyone, going through these long, meaningful goodbyes After that I took whatever I could find—E, LSD, mushrooms, and then " He looks up "Then crystal When I tried it, I felt—I felt better than ever before in my life." Once again, we gather in the large conference room, patients and family members, for the afternoon group session More chairs are brought out from a closet to accommodate fifty or so people; the circle stretches into a long, meandering oval that touches the walls A counselor leads the session, which starts, as usual, with introductions around the room—a room full of resentment and sadness and rage "I cannot think of anything other than my daughter I cannot let go of it I dream about it What can I do? This has taken over my life People tell me to let it go, but how does one let go of their daughter?" The speaker cries and cries Her daughter sits next to her, stone-faced When it is his turn, Nic says, "I'm Nic, and I'm an addict and alcoholic." I have heard him say it before at other sessions, here and in San Francisco and at a couple AA meetings I attended with him, and yet still it jars me My son the addict and alcoholic It fills me with a certain pride to hear him admit something that must be extremely difficult to admit But does he really believe it? I don't Not really Compared to those who gathered at the old Victorian in San Francisco, the crowd at St Helena is better dressed, though an aged woman appears as if she could have been, hours ago, a derelict on the street The group therapy begins with patients and their families sharing stories, sometimes commenting on one another's progress The aged woman shocks me In a gravelly voice, she explains, "I have a master's degree I'm a teacher A good one, I think." She stops and stares vacantly ahead for a moment "I was a good one Before speed." Like me, the addicts' relatives all seem simultaneously hopeless and hopeful Sometimes the pain in the room is nearly unbearable Without respite, we hear, see, and most of all feel with heart-tearing jabs the bleakness of the lives of people whose loved ones have become addicted to meth, though the "drug of choice" hardly matters Meth, heroin, morphine, Klonopin, cocaine, crack, Valium, Vicodin, alcohol, and, for most, combinations of all of these The people in the circle are different, yet we are all the same We all have gaping wounds Nic's friend Stephen speaks He describes his lifelong "dance" with alcohol—he was ten when he got drunk for the first time His wife cries continuously "We love you so much," she says to Stephen when it is her turn, "but I have heard your remorse before I have heard your promises I can't live this way." James's wife speaks about how he has plummeted from "the person I respected most in the entire world, my soul mate," to someone consumed with pills at the expense of everything else "He went from being the kindest, gentlest—" The counselor, in a quiet, even voice, interrupts "Try addressing him directly," she says "Talk to your husband." Looking into James's eyes, trembling, she continues: "You went from being the kindest, gentlest man I had ever known in my life to a stranger, yelling at me, listless, depressed, unkind, and unable to share any kind of openness and intimacy I keep asking myself " She begins to cry And then another, and another They tell their stories, address their loved ones, apologize, rail at them, and weep Our similarities are profound To varying degrees, we have spent years accepting and rationalizing behavior in our loved ones that we would never tolerate in anyone else We have protected them and hidden their addiction We resented them and felt guilty for it We have been furious and have felt guilty for it We vowed not to take their cruelty or deceitfulness or selfishness or irresponsibility any longer and then we forgave them We raged at them, often inwardly We blamed ourselves We worried—worried incessantly—that they would kill themselves Every addict's story has similar themes, too—remorse, out-ofcontrol fury, directed most often at themselves—and a sense of helplessness "Do you think I want to be this way?" a man screams into the face of his shaking wife "Do you? Do you? I HATE MYSELF." Both of them cry and cry and cry "I'm so proud of him for being here," a woman says of her heroinaddicted husband "But what happens next? I am terrified." An elderly woman whose sister, a lawyer, is addicted to meth, says, "I no longer give her money, but I buy her food and drive her to the doctor and pay for her medications." She adds, "She is incapable of making it across the apartment to the refrigerator." The therapist gently prods her "She is capable of scoring drugs but she can't make it to the refrigerator?" Then another parent interrupts "I felt the same way about my son until I realized that he couldn't get to school or work or a therapy appointment but he could get to pawn shops, get to his dealers, get whatever drug he wanted, get alcohol, break into houses, get needles —whatever was required It's a fairly sophisticated process to cook a batch of methamphetamine, but I felt so sorry for him, thinking, He's depressed He's fragile He's incapable Of course I should pay his bill if he winds up in the hospital Of course I should pay his rent or he'll be on the streets So for about a year I paid for a comfortable place for him to get high." A handsome woman with auburn hair cut short, wearing a silk blouse, cardigan, and wool pants, says that she is a doctor Deeply sad, she admits that for more than a year she conducted surgeries while high on meth She initially tried it at a party "I felt better than I had ever felt before in my life," she says "I felt as if I could do anything I never ever wanted to lose that feeling." She shakes her head "And you know the rest of the story I snorted so I could work all night I snorted when I wasn't working I knew I had a problem," she continues, "but I'm only here because a colleague threatened to report me if I didn't voluntarily deal with my addiction." Another patient berates her "You performed surgery while you were high! You should be reported You could have killed someone." The counselor turns to this patient and, without raising her voice, says, "Didn't you say that you had a DUI and you fell asleep at the wheel? You could easily have killed someone, too." Some stories are beyond my comprehension A small, jittery woman who almost disappears inside her bulky sweater and sweatpants remembers her son's last birthday "I was on crack," she recalls "I left home, left my son, left him with my husband For crack He's three." A woman with pale skin, limp blond hair, and misty golden eyes tells the group that a judge sent her husband to this program as an alternative to jail Her husband, a GI with buzzed hair and a shortsleeved shirt buttoned up to the collar, sits rigidly on her right He stares blankly ahead She says that, high on meth, he attacked her, banged her head against the floor She managed to dial 911 before she blacked out Later, when it is his turn to speak, he thanks God that the court allowed him to try rehab instead of jail "I still cannot believe that I attacked my wife, who I love more than my life," he says "But now I understand my problem I'm graduating next week and I'm looking forward to coming home and beginning a new life." His wife will not meet his eyes She looks horror-struck There is a coffee break Sitting in the cafeteria, Nic, indicating the woman's husband with a flash of his eyes, tells Karen and me that the wife would be safer if he were locked up "He is one scary motherfucker," Nic tells us The meeting resumes More heartbreaking stories, more tears At the conclusion of each session, the counselor always asks if anyone has anything to say before the group adjourns Family members often say how proud they are of their loved one and how much better he or she seems Fellow patients sometimes cheer on the ... So for about a year I paid for a comfortable place for him to get high." A handsome woman with auburn hair cut short, wearing a silk blouse, cardigan, and wool pants, says that she is a doctor... sharing stories, sometimes commenting on one another's progress The aged woman shocks me In a gravelly voice, she explains, "I have a master's degree I'm a teacher A good one, I think." She stops and stares vacantly ahead for a moment "I was a good one... "I left home, left my son, left him with my husband For crack He's three." A woman with pale skin, limp blond hair, and misty golden eyes tells the group that a judge sent her husband to this program as an alternative to jail Her husband, a GI with buzzed hair and a shortsleeved shirt buttoned up to the collar, sits rigidly on her right