Clapton_ The Autobiography - Eric Clapton [96]
Like all the units, Silkworth held twenty-eight people and basically ran itself, though there were a couple of counselors in situ to keep an eye on everybody and make sure that nothing got out of control. Everyone was accountable, and you weren’t supposed to do anything unethical or abusive. We were expected to be honest and supportive, love one another, and act with decorum, things I wanted to do without being sure how to go about it. The fact is, it was the first time I’d been in a proper democratic community situation in my entire life. The closest I’d ever come to one was when I was hanging out with the guys in Long Acre and we would have group sessions getting stoned. In those first few days I really didn’t know how to communicate and I felt quite frightened. I chose to think of myself as shy again and developed a stutter.
Once it was considered that I could stand on my own two feet, I was given tasks to do, the simplest being to make my own bed, which I’d never done before, and keep myself and my surroundings clean and tidy. Then I was given the job of setting the table for my unit before mealtimes, quite a task for someone who lacked any experience at doing anything domestic. Each group had a hierarchy, consisting of a leader and a caretaker, known as the “Pig Master,” whose responsibility was to make sure everyone did their duties. There was little chance of skiving off, and if I had done so, the Pig Master would have been after me. The day began with prayers, followed by breakfast, and was then filled with activities such as group therapy sessions, lectures, psychological tests, and exercise interspersed with mealtimes, all designed to keep you occupied until you collapsed into bed at the end of the day in a state of mental exhaustion. Sleep came easily, which for me, who had always had to drink to sleep, was great.
At first, the thing that scared me the most was group therapy, where we were encouraged to confront one another about our day-to-day behavior inside the unit. I had never learned to look honestly at myself. In fact, in order to protect my drinking, it was important not to do that. So here I was, feeling raw and vulnerable, wondering how I could even begin to get in touch with the person I had become. But that’s what we were there for, and there was no getting around it. The purpose of group therapy seemed to be for us to see, through direct interaction with one another, the kind of people we had become, and to help one another identify the symptoms of our disease by honestly recognizing the shared defects of the group.
Denial seemed to head the list, followed by self-centeredness, pride, and dishonesty. I found that it had become almost impossible to be honest, especially with myself. Lying and deflection had become second nature to me. But hanging above all this was the big question: Had I truly accepted that I was an alcoholic? Because, until I did, progress would be difficult. The struggle of doing this kind of internal work unaided was unthinkable, which is why group therapy was really necessary. We helped each other, sometimes with brutal means, to discover who we really were.
After about ten days I began to enjoy being there. I looked around and saw some amazing people, sometimes real hard-liners who had been in Hazelden four or five times and had much worse stories to tell than I did. I started to bond with my inmates, and I remember laughing and laughing for the first time in years. We had a coffeepot on the go all day long, and we’d get “coffee’d out,” sitting up into the night talking about ourselves, our ambitions, and the things we had lost. It was a very rich and loving experience.
Most days we heard really inspirational lectures, given by people who had had a long time in recovery, who would usually just tell their story. Sometimes they’d highlight certain aspects of recovery, like honesty and denial, but they always emphasized how great life was now that they were sober, and you knew it wasn’t bullshit. At other times the lectures