Two (and a half) Worlds.

When I was in treatment, there would be about an hour an a half a night when we would be allowed to watch television. Some of the men in the house would desperately look forward to this span of emotional and mental freedom, aghast if anyone wanted to watch programming that didn't contain the words “Two and a Half” or “Men”. The last time I'd watched the show, I was taking a television production course at Humber College. Rob Salem, the television critic for the Star, had brought in a variety of new shows for us to dissect, a selection which also included Lost and the new Dr. Who. We'd unanimously agreed that Charlie Sheen's career would continue on unabated and that North American culture would resume its downward spiral. Men in rehab love this show.

I would sit at a table near the back of the room -- eyeing the unused chess boards, carefully making tiny peanut butter and cracker sandwiches, writing in my journal. The men would sing along with the theme song and make haphazard guesses at where jokes were going; they'd repeat lines they found particularly humorous and would laugh long after the laugh track had recovered. They enjoyed pointing out how Sheen was as messed up as they were and would make construction worker comments about the bevy of scantily clad, buxom women that would somehow drive the plots. Sometimes a man would walk in late, glance at the tv and denounce us all as philistines for not watching some sporting event, but the glares of the devoted silenced even the most ardent of fans. Whoever held the remote would increase the volume a few notches just in time to hear Sheen's witty retort.

What I found most interesting about these social gatherings however was the response to commercials. Two and a Half Men is sponsored by a number of alcoholic beverages and these ads would lead the men to groan, pointing out how their own experiences with the same substance differed greatly from the exciting and sexy images flashing before us. There was a recurring ad that featured a time machine allowing the characters to go back in time and not make the drunken mistakes that had left their present situations less than desirable. This ad in particular would draw great guffaws from the assorted masses, “I've been there!” and the like.

The interesting thing for me were the few men who were absolutely disgusted by these ads.

Many of the men in rehab had absolutely ruined their lives with alcohol and drugs. Though there were a few guys younger than me, the majority of the 'habbers were old enough to have lost wives, homes and careers. Many of the stories I heard from people were genuinely heartbreaking; they were good people who got lost in their addictions and made a barrel full of bad decisions. Their alcoholism made them horribly self-involved, caring more about their next drunk than picking their own children up from soccer practice. They'd gotten into brawls, thrown into jails, continuously hurt those who loved them and continued to drink because they couldn't stand to be sober.

They'd rationalized their use, came up with explanations for their behaviour which left those who didn't understand to be the ones at fault. They just wanted to get drunk, goddammit, they just wanted to have a good time. They blamed everyone and everything for the way they felt – alcohol wasn't the problem, it was the solution.

I often tried to picture these men drunk. What I actually saw were men who so desperately wanted to be sober.

While in rehab, I quickly became close to a few of the men who were in treatment with me.

Randy and I came in on the same day; he was a mustachioed man, a grandfather, a kind soul. He had been through the house once before but relapsed. We smoked together, strolled together, went to meetings and went for coffees. He introduced me to his grandchildren on visitor's day, helped me make fun of the counselors and generally made each of my days in treatment brighter. He told me that if he were to relapse again it would mean his death.

Kevin was a Native man who'd been living off and on the streets. He'd come from out West and had his baby girl taken away from him by Social Services. He had a child-like innocence about him, would show me pictures of his daughter and was fiercely determined to win her back.

Aaron was a few years younger than me, of Irish descent, plagued by a failing common law marriage. His parents were both alcoholic, his mother committed suicide, he once had a blackout in Toronto and came to in Halifax. He hated alcohol with a passion and was terrified that he couldn't stop once he got out.

Howie reminded me of how I might be in ten years. He was a social chameleon, kind and quick witted, easy to make friends with. He'd been sober for ten years but had relapsed hard. He loved his girlfriend was well known and respected in the AA circles despite his recent problems. Walking into a meeting with Howie was like being in the inner circle of a celebrity's entourage. He owed some pretty dangerous people a lot of money and needed to get clean again.

I got to know these men in a short time and had great affection for all of them. Their lives had been destroyed in various ways by substance abuse and they wanted to get sober; to get better.

Randy promised to get in touch with me and never did. I have no idea how he's doing, but when we parted ways on my last day he admitted he felt very uncertain about his future. Aaron is a similar story. Kevin didn't even make it to the end of his treatment and I saw him turn up drunk to a meeting shortly after he left. Howie was kicked out for not being able to follow the rules. He owed the Triad a fair sum and I have to admit that I scan the obituaries now and then for his name.

There are others I know that have already relapsed since I was in the house, people I respect, people that wanted their sobriety.

When I got out of treatment, I thought it would be fine to see old friends, revisit old haunts, live my old life and just be the guy that didn't drink or use drugs.

But it's hard.

I can't help but to be more sensitive to the way those I love drink and use drugs. I had come from an environment where alcohol and drugs were such an obvious enemy, were life destroyers and an unnecessary means of escape. I don't judge anyone for their choices, hell, I'm jealous I can't join in the revelry at the Dakota or dance all night in an altered state. I'm not so jaded or confused that I don't know how fun that can be.

I feel like I'm torn between two worlds.

I just want the people I love to be safe, to be happy, to not have to be in the forties before they wonder where their lives went. But there's nothing I can do. Everyone is going to make their own choices and all I can really do is be there for anyone that ever needs me.

I hope I'm strong enough to stay sober so that I'll be there if they do.