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4. Nancy My Dad, Abused in Treatment
12-Step
Horror Stories
True Tales of Misery, Betrayal and Abuse in NA, AA and 12-Step Treatment
Rebecca Fransway
Compiler/Editor
This book is here courtesy of See Sharp Press and Rebecca Fransway, Ed.
My very first experience with alcoholism treatment and 12-step programs was
frightening and intrusive. Today, I would have the confidence to speak up immediately
against the verbal and emotional abuse I witnessed. But at age 21, I had not yet learned to trust my own judgment in
the face of disapproval. I was afraid of my own feelings, my own anger, and I think it's that very quality which allows
the treatment industry to roll over so many people.
My father had been in treatment for alcoholism at a VA hospital. The year was 1975. Several of our large family -- I,
my mother, my sister and her husband, and three of my brothers, loaded into mom's station wagon and we drove to
the West coast town where the VA hospital was to visit Dad.
Zoomers was what Dad called the mentally ill patients who were housed near the alcoholism treatment wing of the
hospital. Some walked up and down the concrete paths. You could tell they were zoomers because of the way, due to
medications, they paced, heads down, traveling the walks. They wore orange, foam-rubber slippers. I would glance
here and there, anywhere but at their faces. Although Dad was not a zoomer, I would feel, by the end of the day, that
they might be receiving infinitely better treatment than an "alcoholic" would in that hospital.
I don't remember much about the lunch we had in the cafeteria, except that we were hungry, and talk seemed
different with Dad sober. He didn't talk very much.
After lunch, we had to hurry back to the ward with Dad, because there would be a meeting, a family group. He had
invited us here at this particular time specifically for that group. Immediately, I was nervous. I did not like the idea of
sitting in a group of strangers and talking. What would we talk about? Dad? How could we sit and talk about Dad with
strangers? I told Dad I'd go, but that I did not want to talk. He said that would be okay; we didn't have to say anything.
We were herded into a sunny day room. There was a wall with windows open to the spring day, and there were a few
bookshelves lined with paperback novels and hardcover books with titles that sounded religious. On the wall were
charts; some looked like chore lists, and others discussed "alcoholism." About 30 folding chairs had been placed in a
huge circle, and the chairs were soon filled with a motley assortment of folks, some of whom Dad had already
described to us. There weren't enough chairs, so more were brought in. Folks settled in. The energy of the room was
frenetic. I would come to recognize that energy in later treks in and out of such rooms. (In fact, in the recovery
subculture, such gatherings are called the rooms.
The facilitator of the group, a man in his thirties I'll call "Rollin," sported a clipboard and intense, quick eyes. I had
never been in a therapy group. I did not realize what was happening was attack therapy until Rollin and the others
began to attack people.
He'd start out asking a person how he or she was doing. If she said "fine," or words to that effect, Rollin would say
bullshit! and then the attack would begin. The word bullshit flew about the room quite often, along with defensive
explanations, angry diatribes, tears, and much melodrama. I became petrified, because it was apparent that Rollin
picked people for group focus out of the blue, and that to say you were okay was the wrong answer. My mind quickly
began to search for something I could say was wrong with my life that would be okay to tell these people. The fact
was, I worried about whether my own drinking was abnormal, but no way would I say that in this verbally abusive
situation.
Besides, I was not drinking at the time, was going to community college, making good grades, dating a nice guy, and
really did feel fine most of the time. But now I felt hot, close, sweaty, and embarrassed to be there and see Dad there.
Rollin, and then some of the others, began to yell at one man in particular.
"Bill" had been sent to the VA alcohol program while awaiting sentencing for manslaughter. He had been drinking and
driving, and had killed an innocent person. He said he could not remember the accident. Bullshit!, Rollin nearly
screamed, a lock of brown hair flipping over his eye. that's pure bullshit! You remember -- admit it! You remember
everything about that accident -- admit it! Bill's head was hung. Others joined in. I was reminded of the flock of
chickens which we had while I grew up. When chickens are under stress, and one of them gets hurt, the rest move in
and peck it to death.
While Bill was being verbally pummeled for not remembering the accident he caused while driving drunk, I realized
that, according to the information about "alcoholism" hanging right there on the wall, blackouts, in which the alcoholic
has no memory of events taking place while drinking, were supposed to be common occurrences. Why did they not
believe him? I did. I wanted to speak up and defend him. But suddenly that felt unseemly. After all, he had killed
someone. Yet the death surely was an accident. Was alcoholism a disease or a willful behavior? If Bill had a disease
in which blackouts were common, why were they yelling at him?
I was confused and frightened. I decided I did not know enough about what was going on, so I said nothing. Later my
dad told me he didn't think Bill remembered anything about the accident either, but that attack therapy consisted of
tough love designed to crush people's egos. It was big egos, he said, that stood in the way of alcoholic recovery.
They harangued Bill for quite awhile, then Rollin continued around the room. Folks' personal thoughts, feelings, and
lives were pried into, and the accusation bullshit flew freely.
I knew this behavior was all wrong, but I didn't know why. Years later, I would understand that my fear and discomfort
were correct, healthy emotional responses to the intrusive verbal abuse know in the recovery subculture as tough
love. In that group, and in many alcoholism/addiction treatment centers, as well as 12-step groups, people's
emotional or ego boundaries are deliberately violated in the name of tough love.
I had, at that time, fairly good boundaries. But over the next few years at AA meetings I would be taught that my own
judgment was not to be trusted, and that if I wanted to stay sober and not end up like my dad, I would need to be
rigorously honest and confess my character defects, which included anger, dishonesty, and fear. "Dishonesty,"
besides lying and cheating, means failing to admit to group members personal weaknesses and failing to reveal
family information. Not only would my own healthy boundaries be torn down, but I would join in tearing at the
boundaries of others.
Rollin's eye finally landed on me. He asked questions about my dad. How did I feel about Dad? Wasn't I angry?
Rollin's eyes flashed fanatically. He looked intelligent and scary, as if he really did know everyone's deepest secrets,
and was only asking to test your honesty. Problem is, I didn't have any feelings concerning Dad that I wanted to talk
about there, right in front of them and him.
Nervously, my eyes darted to my brother, Mike. Rollin noticed. He took a new tack. I see you glance at your younger
brother often. Are you worried about him?" Smiling, trying to be pleasant, I felt myself turning red. I wasn't worried
about Mike; I'd just needed a familiar person to look at, and Mike was nearby.
Yes, I guess I do worry about him.
Why? pried Rollin
I felt about for words, terrified. I'm sure my voice shook. I . . . when I agreed to sit here, I really didn't know what this
was. I'm sorry, but I would rather just listen and not talk, I finally burbled.
Rollin nodded. Then, he excused me and my whole family, including Dad, from the group. It was done in a
supercilious way, which I would later come to call the Recovery Dismissal: Well, we certainly wouldn't want to
interfere with your day. Recovery is for those who want it. Have a nice visit.
I left that room knowing those people thought there was something terribly wrong with us just because we were part
of Dad's family. Whatever that might be, I had no inkling. I thought we were as good as anyone else.
Upstairs, Dad showed us where he bunked with several others. The room was like one in any other hospital ward,
with six narrow bunks, though a little warmer perhaps, because the people who lived there weren't really sick (or
were they?) and had the time and energy to decorate the walls and to enjoy little pillows, afghans, and photos from
home, as well as their own clothes.
Some, however, were required to wear orange uniforms as punishment for infractions, such as running away, refusing
to do their KP duties, or not showing up at the scheduled meetings. Other punishments included shaved heads. I
noticed one woman in the group whose head was shaved, and she wore an orange uniform. Dad told us she had fled
the ward, gone downtown, and gotten drunk. She was not allowed back unless she submitted to having her head
shaved.
I asked Dad if they ever did anything like that to him. He said that for the first two weeks he was there he was required
to wear a sign around his neck, scrawled with the words, I'm Important. Because he had once held highly responsible
jobs as a hospital administrator and served no local school boards, the counselors decided that wearing such a sign
would be the best way to attack his ego. I got angry.
You know what, Dad? This place is awful! You should get out of here. you should come with us right now! These
people are crazy!
But Dad wouldn't come. He had lost everything and would have needed to live with one of his grown kids until he got
on his feet. In his mind, he was better off getting back on his feet in the VA program, and making a new life without
becoming a burden to us.
I left there with the distinct impression that for all their big talk about recovery, such treatment centers provide little
more than humiliation for drunks.