God Without the Program

 

Not long after I left the sterile confines of the rehabilitation center, the habits I had picked up there began to slip away. Prayer, once a daily ritual recited with obligatory devotion, fell silent. The Bible, placed on the nightstand as if it were a talisman against relapse, gathered dust. I did not abandon these things in a storm of rebellion; they simply ceased to compel me. The urgency that had driven me through those first months of sobriety evaporated, leaving behind a quiet indifference.

The place where I now reside calls itself a sober living home, one of those three-quarter houses that promise structure and support in exchange for a monthly fee. It is, in truth, another institution, only less overt. There are rules: attendance at meetings is not merely encouraged but tallied, with consequences for absence. Accreditation—some bureaucratic seal from a disembodied association-demands compliance down to the smallest detail. Even over-the-counter remedies, aspirin or remedies for a cold, must be stored according to protocol, as though a bottle of ibuprofen posed the same threat as the substances that once ruled my life. Food supplements, too, fall under scrutiny, lest they conceal some hidden peril or temptation. The house hums with regulation, a constant reminder that freedom here is conditional, portioned out in measured doses.