It was only about five years ago when, on a day pass from rehab, I first stumbled up the storied steps of the Castro Country Club, San Francisco's cafe and social space for LGBT people in recovery. The club had been around since 1983, and as a 42-year-old Bay Area native who had struggled with addiction to drugs or alcohol for most of his adult life, I should have found it sooner.
But it takes what it takes. I'd gone into rehab, after all, even more reluctantly than Amy "No, No, No" Winehouse. Several years of trying and failing to control my escalating use of crystal meth and other "party" drugs had left me with no options. I had lost the battle, and I was desperate.
Not unlike those "MeNotMeth.org" billboards currently plastered all over the Castro Muni station, my meth story has by now become a clichŽ in the queer community. I'd lost my housing, my car and all my possessions, and my career to the drug. By 2001, I'd been infected with HIV, and within one year had been diagnosed with AIDS and had dropped 40 pounds below my normal weight. I'd done a stint in jail on domestic violence charges, and my family and friends had virtually given up on me.
Even a few of my dealers had cut me off.
One day, there was a particularly demoralizing moment when I could no longer reconcile my own innate sense of right and wrong with the way that I had been living. But I couldn't stop using, and I knew I had to choose: meth or death. So what did I do? I compromised; I made a conscious decision to give up "me" – my soul, if you will – so that I could go on using with a clear conscience. It was a death of the spirit.
I literally lost me to meth.
Was that my "bottom"? I wish I could say it was. I kept using almost daily for months, until I finally washed up in rehab and committed myself to a program of total abstinence. I knew that I was not the "only-in-moderation" kind of guy. If I pick up this or any drug, I'm like the Energizer Bunny – I just keep going, going, going until it's gone, gone, gone.
In fact, I relapsed a couple of times after I got out of rehab, as most people do. It's difficult for anyone to make the transition to sober living, and any addiction can be challenging to overcome. But this drug is especially insidious, and on both of my relapses I suffered tragic consequences.
Many of the men who I used meth with or went through rehab with have since died as a result of their addiction. Obituaries rarely list meth as the "cause of death," but judging from my direct observations, today more young and middle-aged gay men are dying from this disease and its secondary effects than from any other. Whether it's heart failure, stroke, HIV/AIDS, staph, suicide, accidents, or acts of violence – read between the lines and chances are you'll find speed.
As for me, it took a plethora of government agencies and community organizations, support groups, medical and psychiatric professionals, as well as legal, financial, and career counselors to bring me in from the brink and set me on the right path.
But the single most important factor contributing to my continuing rehabilitation has been the support and fellowship I have found in the gay recovery community of San Francisco, and ground zero of that community is the Castro Country Club.
Housed in a humble Edwardian on 18th Street, the club first opened its doors on April 1, 1983. For a quarter century, since the early years of the AIDS epidemic, the club has provided a refuge and a bastion of support for people like me wanting to live a life free of drugs and alcohol. Whether for people coming into recovery for the first time, or coming back from a relapse, the club strives to be a nonjudgmental and welcoming oasis. It offers an alternative to the bars and the online hook-ups, a place to gather for 12-step meetings or community celebrations, or simply to enjoy a cup of coffee and some fellowship on the back patio.
More than any other place, it was at the club that I found others like me, learning to live life on life's terms, to have goals and to make plans for the future. Staffed by volunteers, the club also gave me the opportunity to take on responsibilities again and to be of service to the community. Today, four years since I last used drugs or alcohol, I have gone back to school and am starting a new career.
I lost "me" to meth, and I will never be the person I was before. But the Castro Country Club helped to give me hope for a new future, and for that I will always be grateful.
Terrence Beswick formerly worked as an assistant editor at the Bay Area Reporter. On Sunday, April 6 at noon, the Castro Country Club will celebrate its 25th anniversary with a barbeque fundraiser. Located at 4058 18th Street between Castro and Hartford streets, the Club is open to the public seven days a week.