Appeal Denied

1 Reply

ANNE

I got a postcard from Vince.  Don’t ask me why he addressed me as “Ms. M.” and not mom.

Ms. M: 

Well, I made it.  Everything is a bit stressful and overwhelming at first, but it’s all designed with our success in mind.  I’m picking up bits and pieces here and there but basically I have no clue what I’m doing yet.  But it will come.  I won’t be to be able to talk to you for two months but I will be able to write more than I thought. 

I’m more excited than nervous or scared.  This is going to be really good for me, and everybody that knows me! 

I’ll write more soon,

Love,

Vince

—

My appeal of the visiting ban was denied.  The warden wrote that she found “no compelling reason” to reverse it.  I assumed it would be denied but it still made me furious when I opened the letter.  And for some reason, the fact that the warden is a woman made me feel even more disgusted.

Vince cannot call me for two months now; that’s a boot camp policy that has nothing to do with me.  I can’t call him, as ever.  By the time I am allowed to visit him, it will be seven months since we’ve seen each other.  He thought he wouldn’t have time to write but now says he will.  That’s good.  I can still email him.  I am so grateful for that DOC email system.

—

Yesterday my sister had the left lobe of her liver removed.  She had endured two months of chemo to shrink the tumors in it, and her doctor recommended they remove the affected part of the liver just to be on the safe side.  Once she’s recovered from surgery she’ll have to go back on chemo.

In the movies, people get cancer and the next thing you know they’re on their death bed having a tear-jerking good-bye talk with their loved ones before they peacefully slip away.  I did not realize that cancer can go on and on and on and on and on, with years of chemo, surgery, radiation, side effects, financial problems, and emotional highs and lows.  I’m so grateful my sister has made it through so far, and I really hope this is it—that the cancer is gone for good.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?  Bullshit.  It makes you miserable.  Well, check back with me in a year.  My sister is a lot more of a naturally positive thinker than I am.  Maybe she’ll bounce back to her rose-colored glasses, in-the-moment state of being if she can catch a break from cancer misery.

—

A friend emailed to find out how I was.  “How’s all that drama with your son and your sister?” he asked.

Drama?  Drama is turmoil you create on purpose to draw attention to yourself, or to deflect attention away from yourself, like when you want to cover up something crappy you’ve done.

My sister’s cancer is not drama.  Vince being in prison is not drama.  Their situations may be a bit dramatic, but that’s different.

Drama is just what it sounds like: entertainment on the stage of life that distracts us or others from boredom, loneliness, inadequacy, or guilt.

Cancer and prison are horrible realities for real people who I love.

—

Woah, what a downer of a post!  You might think, from reading them, that I am a morose, miserable person but in fact I am quite content.  My life is stable, my work is interesting, I am never bored, and I even have fun from time to time.  Thing is, it’s my dramatic experiences, probably, that have made it possible for me to appreciate what is good, but writing about how la-la-happy I am wouldn’t make for very compelling blog reading, would it?

California Dreaming

1 Reply

ANNE

And then Kermit changed his mind. He just wasn’t ready to get married. It was too late for me to keep my job or housing. He mailed me a check to carry me over for a month.

—

So Vince and I never moved to California. Instead, we moved into a friend’s unheated attic that winter until we could get a foothold and start over. Then we moved again, and that didn’t work out, so we moved again. Vince changed schools three times that year. I started working as a freelance writer so I could say I was self employed instead of unemployed. Also because I was too depressed to get out of bed, so woodenly depressed that I wasn’t thinking about Vince. Facing the impact of my behavior on him would have produced such massive guilt that it would have pushed me over the edge.

—

But wait, there’s more!

I went back to Kermit, after months of him apologizing, begging, wooing, and having massive bouquets of flowers delivered to my door.

And so Kermit and Vince and I flew back and forth, and the hurled Coke can turned into me being hurled—hurled, punched, kicked, and strangled. Once, in the course of strangling me, Kermit broke his own thumb. I can still see him standing over me, as I choked and gasped my way back to consciousness. “You bitch! Look what you did—you broke my thumb!”

—

A few years ago I had an x-ray for some reason, and the doctor asked me about my old neck injury. “Looks like you had a pretty significant injury,” he said. I had no idea what it could be, until a few days later it dawned on me that this was probably from the time Kermit had tried to strangle me.

—

The only ones who knew what was really going on were the St. Paul Police, St. Paul Fire Department, and Vince.

Kermit and I went camping in the Grand Canyon, where he beat me black and blue in our tent (but only where clothing would cover the bruises; he never hit me in the face). I escaped to the car, locked myself in, and shivered through the night. Back in St. Paul, I went to the police, who photographed my bruises. They couldn’t do anything because Kermit was in another state, but I thought telling others would keep me from going back to him.

When I tried to cut it off, Kermit would call 911, say he was my doctor, and tell them he feared I was having seizures. Would they go to my house right away and check on me, breaking down the door if necessary? I would hear banging on the door at 3 am, and find firefighters with axes posed to smash down the door.

I kept flying out to see him, spending money I didn’t have. That’s right, Kermit never paid. One of his recurring accusations was that I was a gold digger, so although he made at least 10 times what I did, he never paid for my tickets. He did fly Vince out for the World Series, and they drove up to Oakland in a limo. He bought Vince an A’s hat and jacket and full collection of baseball cards. Vince was in thrall to him.

Kermit and I took a road trip to Napa and visited vineyards. He bought expensive bottles of wine for his “collection” Which never made it back because he drained them all.   He told me he had access to drugs he could use to kill me if I tried to leave him, and no one would ever be able to figure it out because, after all, he was a genius.

I can’t bring myself to write about how it ended, but it finally did, with an interstate restraining order against him.

Vince knew I had done the right thing but he was crushed to lose his idol. Was it this episode that set Vince on the road to prison—on top of not having a dad, growing up in poverty, having a depressed mom, and being genetically loaded for addiction, compounded by all his bad choices?

Doctor Wonderful

1 Reply

ANNE

People have asked how Vince can write so well, considering he dropped out of school at 16. First, I read and talked to him from Day One. Second, I got a full scholarship to send him to a Montessori preschool. Then, even though I am such a city person that I break into hives when I pass outside the city limits, I moved to a suburb in order to send him to the highest-ranked public school system in Minnesota.

Vince was 10 when I finally finished my college degree. That enabled me to get a new job that paid $20,000 a year—$20,000!—that seemed like a fortune. I also loved the job, which was at a private university. Vince and I lived in a safe and clean—if vanilla—subsidized housing project. I had pulled myself up by the bootstraps, and the future looked like it would only get better.

Here is where I “mom up” to the episode that really blew us off course and (I think) screwed Vince up.

As I type the words, “And then I met a man…” I feel my palms start sweating and my stomach tighten.

—

Let’s just call the man Kermit, because he was about as short, slippery, and spineless as a frog.

Kermit was originally from California and was finishing his neurosurgery residency in Minnesota. He adored Vince, the poor fatherless boy with the big brown eyes and quick wit, and Vince adored him. Kermit adored me, too, the spunky single mother with blonde hair and great legs who read novels by the pile. He only read medical journals.

Looking back, I guess I fell in love with him because I felt sorry for him. He had been abused by his mother. He told me about it in great detail. I tried to empathize by telling him about my alcoholic father who had beaten my mother in front of me and then committed suicide. He said that wasn’t the same thing at all—since my dad had died so long ago I shouldn’t blame my problems on him. Besides, Kermit would say as he slugged down his fifth rum and coke, you can’t hold an alcoholic accountable for what they do when they’re drunk; they can’t help it. Now, his mother was really abusive, and she didn’t even drink! The Witch was still alive. Becoming a brain surgeon had been his plan to escape from her and never have to ask her or his dad, who was a saint, for anything ever again.

There were a few episodes of foreshadowing, like when he got jealous and hurled a can of Coke against my kitchen wall, and left me to wipe up the mess. Or when a cop pulled him over for erratic driving, and he flashed his hospital ID and told the cop, “You wouldn’t want to throw me in jail, would you officer? I might be the one you need to operate on you if you get shot.” He laughed about it when he told me later.

But then he moved back to California to join a practice there, and begged me to marry him and join him. I said yes.

He was living in a penthouse apartment overlooking the Pacific, but he hired a realtor who started sending me full-color glossy profiles of million-dollar houses. “Just get rid of all your furniture and move out there asap!” he’s say. “You can go shopping wherever you want and buy all new furniture!” He had bought a red Maserati, but he would buy me an SUV—a Mercedes, of course—not a Ford! Vince would go to a private boarding school, and wait—what? When I expressed hesitation, Kermit accused me of not wanting the best for my child.

Alarm bells were going off in my head but I ignored them. My friends and family were beside themselves that I had not only met a man, but a rich one—a doctor! And so I quit my new job, gave notice on the subsidized townhouse, and gave away most of my belongings. We were moving to California! What could possibly go wrong?

See You on the Other Side

1 Reply

VINCE

Three days until freedom, 183 days until my release.

I will not be able to write as frequently from boot camp but I will when I can and I think it will be even more powerful than ever. The following story will be the last thing that I write from Moose Lake.

In the last 10 years, I have spent three + years on meth, six + years as a drunk, and eight months in prison.

By far, being a drunk took the worst toll on me. It didn’t land me in the clink, but I lost so much of myself that it’s really hard for me to look back on it and be honest about it.

My mother has written about it from her perspective and I’ve always just kind of brushed it off, not wanting to deal with the truth.

Truth is, I was a mess. Every day. Drunk. I held jobs through most of it. But in every other aspect of life I failed.

Every cent I had went to booze. No room for food, clothing. I guess I paid my rent most of the time.

I had three days off per week. So starting right when I woke up, I would drink my breakfast, say 7 a.m. Drink beers and smoke cigarettes until the bar opened at 11 a.m., then drink into oblivion until I blacked out. Waking up somehow back in my apartment, or somebody else’s.

I’ve woken up on pool tables. In the middle of the street surrounded by police. Under water, naked, having just tipped my best friend’s canoe, losing it forever. And once I woke up and I realized I was clutching a fully loaded shotgun, with my finger on the trigger guard, safety off. I’m not saying I was suicidal, but I did question my motivation. Then laughed it off.

Every day, for years, I woke up with no food in the fridge. I worked in restaurants, but I still only really ever ate one meal a day, four days a week. I was not healthy.

—

It’s Tuesday morning. 7:50 a.m. In 24 hours I will be leaving this terrible place, in search of the tools that will make it so I never have to re-visit the places I have just described.

I had a picture of me taken one week before boot camp which my mother will somehow put near this last post, and we will put up a new picture in six months, just to show the physical improvement gained through the program. I weigh 200 pounds here. We’ll hopefully see a transformation. Again, I will keep writing, just not so much.

Pre Boot Camp

I really enjoy reading the feedback we’ve been getting keep it coming.

Alright, it’s time to go get my life back. Wish me luck.

Here I go.

Thank You

Leave a reply

VINCE

My leg finally feels better. I haven’t done anything to risk re-injuring it and I kind of feel like a bum. Tomorrow I will go back to the gym and get back to my routine, although I won’t be playing any more competitive sports. Too risky for me at this point.

15 meals and a wake up. One of several ways we measure time here. Five days left of prison. Soon there will be no more bars, no more yelling (by prisoners), and no more sex offenders. There are no fences at boot camp. Of course there would still be escape charges if one were to leave without permission, but people seem to want to stay over there.

Sometime during our second week there, I’ve been told, we will be out in the community doing volunteer work. It’s going to be quite the change.

—

Ten meals and a wake up. I suppose the real wake up starts at boot camp. I have been in contact with a couple like-minded people who left one and two months before me. Both said they have really enjoyed the change. These two, like me, are going for the right reason: to positively change their lives. And they both live in St. Paul, so I will have some friends in recovery when I get out. Very important.

That’s what I lost when I left Florida. My group. My allies. The people I grew up with as an adult. I never got it back and I slowly let that become my excuse for using again.

—

Six meals and a wake up. It’s Sunday night and I’ve been having sort of a tough time coming up with things to write about. So I decided to take this time to thank all of you who have been following this journey and those who have commented on this blog. My mom and I knew from the get go that this was going to be powerful stuff, and it takes a fair amount of courage to write it down knowing it can be seen by the masses.

Thank you for letting me let it all out. It has helped me transform into a new man. Six months ago I really wasn’t too sure about this boot camp idea. Even after two months of sobriety I still wanted to be part of “the game.” I was still writing to and talking to all the old characters, setting myself up for disaster. Now I haven’t written or called anybody other than family and a couple guys that are in boot camp right now, for the right reason.

The Send Off

Leave a reply

VINCE

There are so many bad choices I’ve made in my life. But I am ready to break free of my old habits. Nine days until I commit myself to positive change, 189 days til freedom.

—

My second to last court appearance in June last year was a contested omnibus hearing where I finally decided to just make a deal. I was sick of my life and ready to go to prison. It happened a little faster than I thought it would, as I’ve written before.

I left the courtroom knowing that I had eight days left of freedom. Instead of using that time productively I went about my usual routine. Little did I know there was a plan in the works to leave me broke and broken.

Three days before my sentencing, I was robbed at knife point by three people that I thought I knew. They cornered me in a room and told me to empty my pockets, waving around a very short and wide knife.

You may not think of that as too much of a threat. But a person wielding a one-inch knife is ready to use it more quickly than a six-inch knife because it wouldn’t likely produce a fatal wound.

So I emptied my pockets and the one with the knife sucker punched me in the eye. As I turned around he punched me again, in the same spot. That really hurt.

They all called me some names and then left. Their goal was to steal my truck and leave me stranded but fortunately the ignition was broken, and they could not figure out my homemade tweaker [meth user] ignition featuring a light switch for toggle and a doorbell button for the starter switch.

I got up. In a daze I walked to the bathroom. I had a huge black eye. My nose was bleeding and my ego was shot.

They took about $1,000 combined money and drugs from me. It was all I had. But even that didn’t stop me. Nothing ever really did. I knew then that I needed to be locked up, in prison or chained to a radiator, it didn’t matter. I knew I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. My name is Vince and I’m an addict.

—

ANNE

I received a postcard from Vince. Between it and him writing, “I’m an addict,” I felt hope for him for the first time in 10 years.

Hola,

One week away! I’m looking forward to a new life. Again.

Thank you so much for all your support, and hard work. It must be tough at times. I love you very much and I’m happy we have become so close.

Love,

Vince

But was it real? There’s an old joke:

Q: How do you tell when an alcoholic is lying?

A: His lips are moving.

Vince writes about how many days til boot camp…how many days til he’s free…then he can start to change his life. I’m a firm believer that you can change your life now, regardless of whether your circumstances. That work can only be done inside your head, using cognitive behavior therapy, meditation, and other techniques. If you don’t know how to do it, as I didn’t for many years, you’re stuck. Physical fitness and self discipline are great, but I really hope this boot camp thing helps Vince figure out how to rewire his “stinking thinking”, as they call it in AA.

Pickled

Leave a reply

VINCE

Looking back I often wonder how my brain still functions.

I first smoked pot at a birthday party in middle school. , like many people their first time, I didn’t actually get high, so I faked it. Sitting in the back of a van at a drive-in movie, staring out at the big screen, pretending to be high like I had seen in the movies.

Just a couple short years later I had a huge tolerance and was trying out some different things.

I worked more than a few shifts at Burger King on heavy doses of Beavis and Butthead and Black Pyramid acid. Holy….shit. I was the drive-through order taker and I remember seeing the speaker melting off the wall as an order was being given to me. I was laughing hysterically and drooling but my boss wouldn’t fire me because he got his weed from me. I was always able to get through my shifts uninjured, which annoyed me and my friends.

During the last year that I attended high school, I put myself into sort of a last chance program called OJT (on the job training).

At 17 years old I was given a badge, a taser, and a billy club and became one of three security guards at Liberty State Bank.

During the first half of my shift, I sorted mail in the mailroom in the basement, then I would go upstairs and direct traffic in the parking lot if it was busy or sit in the guard shack and smoke cigarettes and weed and sell mushrooms and weed. I could monitor all radio traffic so I knew they never suspected a thing.

I lost that job when they found out I dropped out of school. They even offered to buy me a computer so I could get my diploma online. I said no.

—

It’s Monday morning. Last night I got my pass to take the fitness test, the last step in the process of being officially okayed for boot camp.

Unfortunately, on Saturday night I was injured while playing pickle ball.

I wasn’t even overdoing it. I actually thought somebody had hit me in the leg, but when I looked behind me, nobody was there, and I limped away.

When I got back to the unit, I asked the CO for a bag of ice. He asked why and I told him. And then he “pushed the button”, as we call it. Dee doo dee doo dee doo! People came running from every direction. And then came the wheel chair. Fuck! How embarrassing.

They wheeled me about ¼ mile to Health Services where they stood me up, felt my leg, and told me to walk back to the unit, on my bad leg. Fuck!

I iced it down, slept, then took a hot shower in the morning. I was in some pain, had a little trouble walking but I was pretty sure I could make it through the test.

And I did.

Here’s what I had to do: 20 pushups, 20 crunches, run a mile, do about 10 minutes of the tape, to show you’d been practicing, and some light weight lifting. Eight months ago, I would have dropped dead from that much physical activity. But I passed and I felt pretty good. Really good.

Eleven days until boot camp. I am no longer nervous. Only excited. Excited to change my life.

Moose vs. Marertz

Leave a reply

ANNE

I think there’s nothing more boring than trying to follow another person’s story about fighting some big company or bureaucracy, but here is the correspondence so far between Moose Lake and me.

Good afternoon Ms. Marertz, [He spelled my name so wrong that I don’t need to anonymize it]

I do recall our conversation and agree it was respectful communication by both of us. Thank You again for the phone call.

I have proceeded to look into your suggestion (visitor signing up to get email alerts for changes)and see if it is a viable application for the department. This may take some time, but the communication I have had with the departments IT department as well as other supervisors/managers they like the concept. I will continue working on this project.

My recollection of the conversation regarding a ban notification was that I did state the possibility  of you receiving a ban notification as you had taken a photo outside the facility and would not erase the photo as well as  arguing with staff. I said if you would have stated your concern, went out and changed your blouse, you would have been able to visit, but due to the escalation of the situation and the photo taken outside the facility, you may receive a ban. I apologize if I was not clear enough on the ban notice, but my recollection is you acknowledged this possibilty and we ended the conversation appropriately.

I do recall you stated you would be out of the country for some time after we spoke,  I believe that to be the case and would not request flight stubs for verification and would see this sufficient enough to review your appeal outside the 15 day period. If you would like to appeal please submit your appeal prior to [13 days from the date of this email].

You may appeal to the Warden (Becky Dooley)  by sending the appeal by mail to the facility  addressed to the her, or you may email her at ____.

Again thank you for your suggestion

Respectfully,

Lt. Mike Lott

The photo? The photo had not come up until I emailed it to him. The guards who surrounded my car hadn’t said anything about the photo. No one had asked me to erase it. So he was making stuff up as he went along. And yet I decided it would be best to eat crow in my appeal, which I submitted 10 days later. I took out the biting sarcasm but couldn’t resist drizzling a little on top.

Dear Ms. Dooley:

I am writing to appeal my six-month visitor ban.  I am not aware of any guidelines or a form for this process, so I will just write this as a letter.

As you will see from our correspondence below, Mr. Lott and I have different recollections of our phone conversation.  He recalls informing me that I will be banned, while I have no memory of that.  He also seems to be saying that it is against the rules for me to have taken a photo of myself (attached)–the photo I took to show how I was dressed and that I was not wearing a low-cut top. If it is indeed against the rules for one to take a photo of oneself in the parking lot of a MN Correctional Facility, mea culpa, I honestly did not know.

As for the original incident, I take responsibility for my part in the conversation escalating and it would be great if Mr. Volk would do the same.  I recognize that prison visits are tough for everyone.  It’s just a rotten situation all around.

When I spoke to Mr. Lott, I told him I would be leaving the next day and be out of the country for work for three weeks.  He sent the ban notice the next day–ensuring I would miss the appeal window.  He has kindly consented to me having some extra time.  Because I moved right after I got home, I wouldn’t have been able to visit Vince until this weekend–and now I am banned–and on Tuesday he will be transferred to boot camp where he is not allowed to have visitors for 2 months.  I am his only visitor, so if the ban stays in effect, he will have no visitors for 7 months.

I would be happy to discuss what happened over the phone.  My number is ___.

Thank you,

Anne M

Ban Battle

Leave a reply

ANNE

Below is the email I wrote in response to my ban notice. As you may imagine, the many early versions of it were not nearly so neutral. I have edited out the typos I made.  It’s unusual for me to make typos but I was shaking with anger and frustration as I wrote and re-wrote it.

Dear Mr. Lott:

I spoke with you on the phone February 3 about an incident in which I was denied a visit with my son, Vince.  I thought that you and I had a respectful conversation in which I came to understand some of the changes to the clothing restrictions at Moose Lake.  You seemed to listen to my perception that I was disrespected by Mr. Volk and bullied by the gang of guards who yelled at me to leave the parking lot immediately when I was crying in my car after leaving the building.

I suggested that the DOC might collect visitor emails and send mass notices about changes in visiting rules, so that people like me, who have to take a day off work and drive two hours to get to Moose Lake, aren’t caught by surprise.  You said you thought that was a great idea and you gave me your email address so I could send it to you in writing.  I told you I was leaving town the next day and would be out of the country for almost a month, so that I might not be able to follow up for a while.  Again, I thought it was a respectful, constructive conversation.

You didn’t mention anything about the possibility of me being banned from seeing my son.

So I was very surprised to find a BAN NOTICE, signed by you, upon my return home, postmarked the day after we spoke.  It says I can appeal this within 15 days.  Since I was in the Occupied Palestinian Territories (meeting with human rights attorneys about violations in prisons, ironically) until this past Monday night, I was unable to check my mail.  I would like to appeal this ban, and I would be happy to show you my flight stubs to prove I was out of the country.

Will you please let me know the name of the warden and how to contact him/her for appeal?  Or, just be honest and tell me that it doesn’t matter that I was out of the country, I missed the 15-day window and there’s no use appealing. If that is the case, then I would like to know how to file a formal complaint.

I have attached a photo of myself that day, wearing the “low cut” (quote) top that Mr. Volk found so provocative, that made him so concerned I might “bend over” (quote).

Thank you,

Anne M.

Free Will

Leave a reply

ANNE

Vince has written about how he doesn’t believe in any god. I used to. For 50 years I never doubted God’s existence; I guess that’s called faith.

I was a seeker. I didn’t assume that, because I was born into a Catholic family, attended Catholic schools, and lived in a Catholic neighborhood, I would always be Catholic.

I spent my teens investigating other faiths and converted to one when I was 18. I’m not trying to be coy by not naming it. Once Vince is out it’ll be no big deal. I belonged to a congregation, went to services every week, and put Vince through religious school, much to his displeasure. I wasn’t a happy clappy bible banger. My congregation is as liberal as they get. Yes, I’m still a member, even though I don’t believe in a god.

Since my dad had died young, I had no problem believing in an invisible father figure who would always be there for me.

Problem was, He wasn’t there for me. For 50 years, I prayed. I tried the begging, pleading prayers and the grateful, worshipping ones. I tried shutting up and listening, aka meditating. But I never heard anything. I never got any answers and never felt comforted. People said, “you have to be patient,” and “maybe God’s answer is ‘no’.” I was well aware of how we contort our logic to make sense of God. For instance, how athletes thank God when they win but blame themselves when they lose.

Then one day, when I was 50, my belief in God just went poof! and disappeared. It was like a light switch had been flipped off. What a relief! I no longer had to try to shake answers or love out of a being I couldn’t see or hear. I was free to pursue or not pursue whatever I wanted. I didn’t have to wait around for a sign from God. If it didn’t work out, I could analyze what went wrong, figure out my part, if any, and do it different next time.

Soon after my faith evaporated, I read the old classic novel Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham, which is about an abusive relationship. This passage jumped out at me and summarized how I felt: “He was responsible only to himself for the things he did. Freedom! He was his own master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he thanked god he no longer believed in him.”

I wouldn’t go so far as to say everything is due to my effort, like in the old Rush song, Free Will. It’s easy to be smug when you’re a millionaire rock star. The fact is, we live in a world with constraints like race, class, intellectual and physical abilities, bad luck, good luck, etc.

Another great mind, former professional wrestler, Navy Seal, Minnesota Governor Jesse “The Body” Ventura, got into hot water for saying “Religion is a crutch for weak minded people.” I wasn’t weak minded all those years. I’m a very intelligent person. I just think I needed a father figure and I had been steeped in the Catholic life up until age 18, where questioning God’s existence just wasn’t done.

This new development did throw a wrench in the works for me in my Alanon meetings. Alanon is for families and friends of alcoholics and addicts. I attended weekly meetings and “worked the program”, as they say. Alanon, like AA and the other 12-step groups, uses the term higher power interchangeably with god—and everything depends on believing in one. In my group, people only used the word God, and spoke of God, personally, like he was kindly uncle. I kept going for a year but it finally bugged me so much that I quit.

I’ve written in previous posts about believing that human connections are the key to spiritual growth and inner peace and a feeling of belonging and all that jazz. Vince is counting on his sober friends to keep him sober, and I think he’s on the right track.