First Steps
Part Five
By Gary Schneeberger
TheSchnays@cs.com

LEGAL STUFF: They ain't mine. I'm just playing with them. Please don't sue me.

"Hi, Chris."

What was the sing-songy chorus doing? Didn't they hear what he said?

"It's great to see you guys again. It's been -- what? -- a couple of months, I guess."

Carter couldn't see anything but the back of everybody's heads, but it was pretty clear from the smile on Chris's face that no one was giving him dirty looks.

Not an addict? That's what he said, wasn't it? What was he doing here, then? Why would anyone who didn't have to be here come here? And why weren't the addicts calling him on it?

"And I just want you all to know, even though I haven't been around for a while, that I love you guys. I love this place. I love this program. It did more than just get me clean."

Carter's confusion had succeeded where his will had failed, commandeering the frustration and fear that had fueled his tears, stemming the tide as instantly as a truckload of strategically dumped sandbags. He could already feel the moisture beginning to dry around his eyes, so he didn't bother trying to hasten the process by dabbing it away. He didn't bother continuing to ponder all the questions he'd had a moment earlier, either. All he wanted to know now was who the hell this Chris guy was and what the hell he was talking about.

"Well, anyway, my word is forgiveness. The quality of being able to give up resentment against or the desire to punish someone; the inclination and ability to overlook an offense or cancel a debt."

That was it? He was just going to dive right in? He wasn't going to explain --

"Forgiveness saved my life."

As a doctor, someone trained to analyze human physiology and then manipulate it to treat illness or disease, Carter should have been able to explain the way those words made him feel. There had to be a clinical, medical term for the sensation, the perfect warmth, that welled up inside him. He tried to isolate it, like he did with patients by running through the "where does it hurt?"
routine, but every time he found where it had nestled, it grew.

"Nothing is possible without forgiveness. Not love. Not joy. Not contentment. Not peace. And definitely not sobriety."

The warmth was behind his ribs ...

"It's the most important emotion written on any of these cards. It makes the good emotions, the ones you want to have, possible."

... enveloping his kidneys ...

"And the bad ones, the ones you need to get rid of, go away."

... inside his heart.

"You know the Lord's Prayer, the one everybody says at the end of these meetings? It's spelled out right in there: 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.' Do you think God would have put it in there if it wasn't important? He also put 'give us our daily bread' and 'deliver us from evil' in there. Basic human needs -- food and freedom. If forgiveness wasn't *that* important, do you think he would have included it in the only example he ever gave us about the kinds of things we were supposed to pray for, the kinds of things we were supposed to desire?"

The warmth was still moving, still expanding. What was it? Was it just some symptom of exhaustion he couldn't diagnose because he was so exhausted? Some sort of rare gastrointestinal or ulcerous reaction to the food they served at the center? Or could it be what Ed meant when he talked about how God could keep his fears from tackling him?

It snaked through his body like the Fentanyl did, like the nicotine did, but it was different, too. The physical sensation was the same, the slowly growing, slowly numbing warmth. But the emotional sensation wasn't.

No edginess.

"And the first person we have to forgive, not just to recover, but to really live, is ourselves."

No fear.

"Show me someone who uses, and I'll show you someone who hasn't forgiven themselves."

No guilt.

"Someone who is holding on to guilt."

Carter flipped the 3-by-5 card on the table in front of him over on its face, sending his last cigarette rolling across the table and onto the floor. He could feel that perfect warmth inside him recede almost imperceptibly. It was the fear, trying to break through the line again, a few yards upfield, lowering its helmet and its shoulder pads and making a dead run for him.

He blinked once, twice, his eyes heavy, before pulling focus to reread the definition there: "A painful feeling of self-reproach resulting from a belief that someone has done something wrong or immoral."

That was him, he thought, not in anguish but with resignation. Guilty. Guilty of being rich. Guilty of hurting his father. Guilty of not making it right. Guilty of disappointing his colleagues. Guilty of deepening the disappointment by lying to them. Guilty for Lucy.

Guilty of being a drug addict.

The warmth roared inside him, even more intense than before, more intense than warmth was even supposed to be. It was supposed to be heat, not warmth, when it felt like this.

He blinked again, his eyes too weary to cry anymore, and the field in his head was clear again. No helmets. No shoulder pads. Not as far as his mind's eye, tired as it was, could see.

And at that instant he knew. Finally, mercifully, he knew. Why he was in Atlanta. Why he was at the rehab center. Why he was in an NA meeting.

" ... so I hope that clears up any confusion for you newcomers about why I said what I said."

Chris was still talking, apparently explaining why he introduced himself as not being an addict.

But Carter didn't care. It didn't matter anymore why Chris thought he wasn't an addict, only why Carter knew he was. He wanted some of the forgiveness Chris had talked about, wanted some of the peace and relief that was written all over the faces of Rick and Ed and Nancy and Roger and the others. Could he really be forgiven? Could he really forgive? Could it really be as simple as just getting up in front of everyone, even if they were strangers, and talking about how you felt?

He looked at his watch. 8:55. He wouldn't find out -- at least not tonight. Emotions Monday was suddenly moving too fast for him.

"Well, I guess we have time for one more, if you talk real fast."

It was Rick.

"Go ahead and pick, old buddy."

Carter managed a small chuckle. Poetic justice. First time in 4 1/2 days he actually wants to talk about his problems, actually wants to admit what everyone from Benton to Dr. Grant had been trying to get him to admit, and the guy at the podium who has the power to let him do it knows every name in the room but his.

He reached under the table to retrieve his last cigarette, thinking ahead to the next morning's cigarette break. At least he had that to look forward to.

"Hey, John," Chris said, "in the back."

"Why don't you come on up?"

To be continued....