I Left New York to Get Sober. But Leaving Wasn’t Enough.

My dad drove an old GMC that barely ran. My stepmom Donna usually drove everywhere, so when he pulled it out that morning, I knew he wanted to take me to the train station himself.

The engine was loud enough that neither of us had to talk. He turned up the radio. Good Vibrations. I was too hungover to appreciate the irony.

At the BART station for the San Francisco bound train, he left the engine running and said, “You’re in charge of you, Nick.”

I forced a smile and shut the door.

I was 33. I’d grown up in California but spent almost a decade in New York working as a singing waiter, waiting for my big break. By then, I was drinking wine from a coffee mug before my shifts. My family knew I was struggling. But it wasn’t until Thanksgiving that they finally saw how bad it had gotten. I’d come home because I was afraid I would die if I stayed in New York.

Now I was headed to San Francisco to stay with Stephen, a friend in AA. After he brought me to a meeting in a church basement on Fell Street, he led me to follow a gaggle of gay men hooting and hollering down the street.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Fellowship. And for now, for you, it’s not optional.”

We crowded around a long table at Mel’s Diner, everyone talking over one another. I didn’t have money to order anything. Stephen offered to pay, but I told him I wasn’t hungry.

The man beside me introduced himself as Bob. He offered me the toast on his side plate. I shrugged, and he slid it over.

At this gathering, I got a sponsor and read the Big Book, but I was still taking prescribed Adderall and Xanax in private. Despite the support, six months later I relapsed and added meth to my laundry list of vices.

My downward spiral continued. At 34, after days without sleep, I crashed my mom’s Prius into a highway divider.

I eventually spent six days in detox, where a social worker found me a bed at Van Ness Recovery House, a residential treatment program in Hollywood. Kathy, the program director, slid the police report across her desk.

“Read the toxicology section out loud,” she said.

“Subject tested positive for methamphetamine…” I trailed off and tried to explain the amphetamines with my Adderall prescription.

“Nick. They took your blood,” she said. “This isn’t a pee cup at LabCorp.”

I kept reading. I’d been found laughing uncontrollably beside my mother’s overturned car.

“You could’ve killed somebody,” Kathy said.

“I know.”

She told me to ring the bell and tell the house.

“I can’t,” I said, fear twisting in my stomach.

“Your way hasn’t worked yet, has it?” she asked.

I wanted to run. Instead, I took the report into the living room and rang the bell. Everyone gathered on the worn brown leather couches, and I told them what had happened.

Then they told me about their own crashes, overdoses, and lies. It turns out, I wasn’t alone in spiraling.

For the next four months, I had to make my bed, attend meetings, and carry a packet of 750 feeling words. When someone told me to share feelings, I had to open it and name what was happening right then.

I now understand that in San Francisco, I’d gone to meetings but kept my secrets. By Van Ness, I was out of places to hide. This time, I stayed and told the truth.

I’ve been sober since May 2016, and I think about Bob now. He gave me what he had before I knew how to ask. In AA, there’s a word for that: service. And when I was ready, I learned to give it back to others, too.