All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [113]
Out of respect for their privacy, and to maintain the necessary confidentiality of what occurs in treatment, I am deliberately vague about the identities of most of the various family members who gathered in Buffalo Gap. But I can say that, as always, I had no idea what to expect when everyone assembled. Family gatherings can be volatile affairs, and adding Dad skyrocketed the tension. My dad and my sister had not spoken in nearly ten years. It was nothing less than extraordinary that he was there and that their greeting was not charged with hostility. His readiness to show up, especially with others present who utterly reviled him, was flat-out astounding. When Ted had called Dad to inquire about his willingness to attend, he said, “Anything for my girls.” And, of course, the willingness of the others to stay in the room, however tentatively, is enormously to their credit, too.
All family weeks take place in a lovely group room at Shades, with hand-painted vines climbing the walls and a quote that repeatedly caught my eye: “Our spiritual purpose is to fit ourselves to be of maximum service to God and our fellows.” I was handed a family-week booklet that I began to devour. I was intrigued that it contained questionnaires for me and very little information about how to fix my loved one, the “client,” or her mother, who in my eyes was clearly the problem! We met a well-dressed, confident, and gregarious woman, a marriage and family counselor who would be in charge of our family week. Rather than presenting her academic credentials and rattling off the many impressive letters that trailed her name, the therapist, whom I’ll call Erica, introduced herself to the group by running through her own list of “claims,” addictions from which she was now in recovery. She seemed so human sharing her own litany of things likes debting-spending, codependency, and survivorship of different kinds of abuse. It was all so interesting! She had such a clear bond with my sister and her peers.
The counselor then explained how the week would progress and was up front that at times things would get very rough, emotionally volatile, and polarized within our group. She described how each of us was there to throw personal ingredients into a stew and that during certain exercises, the fire would be darn hot and things would bubble over. She also vowed that by Friday we would—each and every one of us—break bread together and partake in peace and friendship of that same stew, sitting at a family table. I didn’t know if I wanted to scoff more at the corny stew metaphor or at the delusion that my family would “break bread” together.
I went with, “Yeah, right, lady. That might happen with other families, but you ain’t got a chance with mine.”
“Trust the process,” she said. “Don’t quit before your miracle happens.”
Didn’t you hear me? I thought, but decided not to say anything further aloud. She would see for herself: As much as I hated it, we would absolutely be the exception. There was no such miracle available for my family. Individuals? Well, I would hope so. I think so. As a family? There is no way on God’s green earth.
During this orientation, I met Tennie McCarthy, who turned out to be a striking woman with short black hair and pale skin, wearing bright red lipstick and nail polish that matched her beautiful kimono-style jacket. She seemed elegant and loving and formidable all in one package. She was quiet, yet clearly a great authority. I also met her professional partner, a no-nonsense, grandmotherly woman named Phyllis, whom I came to know as “Granny P.”
The basic orientation was followed by the key message the treatment team would underscore all week: Addiction