Residents confront addictions in class

News-Sentinel photo by Aaron Suozzi A laugh while learningDuring an afternoon class on setting boundries, resident Paul Reichert, foreground, and former resident Jerry Watson enjoy a light-hearted moment at the Fort Wayne Rescue Mission.

This Wednesday morning, Watson is talking about his addiction when he is supposed to be cleaning the aqua-colored tile of the dorm floors. He has been in the mission's restoration program on West Superior Street for four months now. Minutes later, he's off to the Learning Center, the mission's computer room. For about two hours each day, the men work on computers, completing math and English lessons and learning how to navigate Windows 98. They can do this in the morning before lunch, or at night after dinner.

Working on the computer and attending classes occupy the men. Their addictions are still there, so they have to find something else to think about. The classes also give them the tools they need to cope with problems.

The afternoon is set aside for classes, which begin with a short prayer from one of the men. No denomination is promoted, but respect for God is taught.

"To me, they're bringing God into the basics of what they're teaching," says Paul Reichert, who has been at the mission since April. His hand quivers over his computer mouse, unsure of where to move it. "If we were in a position where you were getting negative instead of positive, I wouldn't have stayed here."

Three years ago, Tom Heinze, who now is part of the staff, was going through the mission program for the second time. He knew he needed a change when he was shaking so badly he couldn't pour a beer.

Heinze began every day with a beer and went through two cases by the end of the day, which came suddenly when he passed out each night. He was an alcoholic. He still is. But now he has something better to do with his time.

"I don't think you ever beat an addiction," he says. "I've just replaced mine with the mission."

School days

The main classroom is large, with hard plastic tables and chairs. Instructors work off a dry erase board. There is the feel of a high school science classroom, minus the Bunsen burners.

Some men pay rapt attention. Others, mostly in the back, nod off after 10 minutes.

"You are responsible for the chaos you bring into your life," instructor Arlene Story says.

Later in class, resident Reuben Hall and another man demonstrate what an encounter with a drug dealer or friend who uses will be like.

The man walks to Hall's seat in character, trying to entice him to come around the corner for a minute.

"Nah, man, I'm straight. I don't need that," replies Hall, who has been at the mission four months.

"Come on, I got whatever you want."

"No, I'm cool, I'm going to get out of here," Hall says. The role-playing ends.

Hall and Watson discuss the exercise while walking to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting downtown.

"What this place teaches you is how to deal with cravings," Hall says. "Say no and walk away. And then call your case manager. That's what this places teaches you."

Other classes discuss responsible thinking, setting boundaries, relapse prevention and recovery. The men are assigned about 10 pages of workbook homework each week. They have to sign a sheet saying they attended classes and fill out a summary afterward.

At night, the men attend Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous meetings throughout the city. They must attend three meetings each week.

They also meet at least weekly with their case manager. Many of the men rely on their case managers or sponsors when they have breakdowns or self-doubt.

Psychodrama

The most intense class comes Monday afternoon. Instructor Story leads psychodrama. One man stands in the middle of the group. He lists several family members who are close to him and volunteers play those roles. They tell him what the family member would likely say to him. This exercise is done in preparation for reuniting with family.

The class is so powerful one man doesn't participate. The situation has brought back a bad memory he doesn't want to discuss. He's excused from participating. In a way, that might be what instructor Story is looking for. She says the men need to open up and experience emotions they have blocked in the course of their addiction.

An expensive habit

Watson is a 53-year-old Morgan Freeman look-alike. The long frame from his high school basketball days remains, but his waist has widened. He'll tell you he's a singer, and he keeps his voice honed by inhaling Newport smokes.

He had never touched a cigarette when he went to Vietnam after graduating from Central Catholic High School. During the war, he discovered heroin and "Party Packs," sets of 10 joints that could be had for $1.

He figures he managed to blow $2.5 million on his $500-per-day heroin habit from 1971-1976. He financed the habit by stealing and running hustles on the streets. But then it was on to cocaine and freebasing for the next 20-plus years. He drove around the country as a truck driver, high during most of that time. He would leave trucks in the middle of interstate highways when he felt like it.

"I regret a lot of the stuff I did. I just made a bad choice," he says.

After nearly 11 years in prison, Watson was ordered to the mission. He resisted at first, but now he feels he has progressed. He says some staff members believe he will make it, too.

"I know I can always go back and get high," he says matter-of-factly. "But I can't. I've come too far."