My Kodak moment.

He was a paramedic, a body guard, an alcoholic, a crack head. At first, all you noticed was the bulbous growth clinging to the side of his face, impossible not to stare except for the fact that you were afraid of him; cropped hair cut, wild eyes, heavy jaw, flared nostrils. I saw the roughly hewn scar carved across his cheek, but that was only imagined flair, a self perceived missing detail in his otherwise caricature countenance. Mike wore a massive gold ring on the index finger of his right hand that he would grip and rotate slightly in either direction when he paused. He rarely paused. For such a large man, Mike seemed to be made up of pure kinetic energy, walking with exaggerated bravado, gesturing with such sudden viciousness that it only seemed to be a matter of time before he flipped a table, lifted someone off the floor by their collar and said, through gritted teeth, "What're you looking at?"

Mike was one of the counselors I had in rehab.

Once, while trying to make a point about how old friends might not accept the changes that we've made, he leapt off from the counter he had briefly perched himself on and flung an accusatory finger at one of the guys in the house.

"You fucking pussy!" he yelled, suddenly incensed.

This apparent role play was lost on the majority of the now shocked group. The stunned silence of the unfortunate 'pussy' made Mike realise that, once again, he may have gone too far. His rage melted at once into a placid tenderness that seemed out of place.

Mike was really a sweetheart.

He apologized profusely.

Mike called us all 'brother', told us that he loved us, showed us pictures of his dog. He talked about how lucky he was that he got to take his nephew out for ice cream. How much pride he took in knowing that his nephew could count on him. How, after just over a year sober, he had gone to a comedy show, put down his Diet Coke and when he picked it back up, took a shocking gulp of Guiness. He had run to the bathroom after spitting it back into the glass, cupped handful after handful of water into his mouth, panicked. He left immediately, called his sponsor tearfully from the alleyway, wondering if he had just completely fucked up his sobriety. Moral of Mike's story: never put your drink down.

Mike had more than a few friends in the comedy circuit it seemed, taking a counselor's cue from the idea of bits and routines. One of Mike's bits was the Rolodex of Bullshit. When an addict wants to get out of something or to avoid something, they seem to have an endless source of excuses, just flipping through the Rolodex, flinging them out at people until something stuck. Another was White Knuckling It, how addicts lived sobriety day to day, or hour to hour, or, in his case, minute to minute at first. He'd really get into his characters, animated, playful and over the top.

The bit that affected me the most was the Kodak Moment.

According to Mike, the addict's Kodak Moment is that snapshot from our memory that reminds us of why we choose to be different people today. In ten years time, you have your house, your job, your family, your life. You no longer remember why you needed to stop drinking or using. You won't be able to feel the same things you felt when you dragged your leaden feet up the steps to a rehab facility.

Mike encouraged us to think of a moment, a point that hurt or scared us so much that we would never do anything to go back to it. To attach so much fear to that moment that any time we were presented with an opportunity to go back to our old lives, we could pull the Kodak Moment from our pocket, give it a quick glance and make the right choice.

I thought I knew mine.

As Mike went around the room, holding his imagined camera aloft, shooting the moments from the men in the room, I pictured mine.

"What's your Kodak moment, brother?" click! A man talks about being strapped to a bed, tubes coming out of his naked body, swearing death on the men left to guard him.

I'm thinking about being alone in my bedroom. It's a few weeks before I ask for help. I'm unemployed, filled with self loathing, it's late afternoon and I've just finally gotten out of bed.

"How about you, brother?" click! A man talks about a suicide attempt.

I'm thinking about how I stared at myself in the mirror. The garbage pails, bags and buckets that were partially filled with my vomit hidden from view. The reflection showed the clothes, food scraps and garbage littering my floor. The bed was completely stripped, also on the ground, the slats of wood that once held it up leaning on the wall, covered with the blood spatters of bed bugs that still infested my surroundings.

Click! Another story.

I'm holding two pills in my hand. I'd smoked the remains of a joint before hauling myself upright. The smell of cat piss hangs heavy in the air. I'm muttering under my breath. "fuck, fuck, fuck." I shouldn't take the pills. But then I watch myself do it anyway.

"Hey, brother," Mike steps in front of me. "What's your Kodak moment?"

Click.

I immediately tell him about the day before I entered rehab. I'd been sober for 72 hours. I'm lying in bed. My mom enters the room holding my niece in her arms. My mom is a false ray of sunshine, everything's fine, my niece is uncertain, seven months old. My Kodak moment is seeing my mom trying so hard to deal with something she doesn't understand because she loves me. It's seeing my niece explode into tears. It's me telling them to just get out, not feeling a thing.

"Don't forget that, brother."

I make myself cry just typing it out now.



I won't forget that moment, because I know my niece won't remember it. I don't want to scare my mom into uncertain cheerleading. I don't want to not feel anything.

Five months sober as of today, brother.