I heard it yesterday, walking down the hallway to my office.

“Man,” he said sighing. Wearing red sweats, a navy hoodie with a band logo on the front, he held his head in his hands. “I threw away 8 months of sobriety. And for what?” He was waiting to speak to a nurse. Another patient, sitting four seats down, answered.

“You know it’s not gone, right?” She said it with the patience of a mother. “You will always have that 8 months. Don’t forget that. That’s huge. A big step forward.” I’d see her in groups, standing outside with a vape while others smoked. I didn’t know her story. Don’t know if I ever will. But she came to treatment for a reason. Maybe the state took her kids. The tone of her voice was soft when she spoke to him. It said to me she had kids. Maybe they were still young, not old enough to recognize mom had a serious problem. You stay in treatment because you want to, even if it’s mandated by the courts. Freedom or treatment. It’s your responsibility. Your choice. She had her own weight. She still looked up and spoke to him.

That’s where accountability starts.

I know. I’m living it.

Some friends adamantly told me I needed to fight for my relationship. She and I separated after surviving COVID, the death of her favorite dog, Oreo, and her mother, Mere Bet to her grandchild, and then the death of our teenage son, Jude, the one child she was closest to. Even if our marriage had been perfect, surviving that would’ve been exceedingly difficult. But we didn’t. Later I found out some of those voices were hiding their own damage from their partners.

So I know what it looks like when someone close to you won’t own it. I also know what it costs to try. For me, if I’m not accountable? I can’t live with me.

I was leaving for the day when he walked over, confused look on his face. “You work here?” His voice sounded like one of Marge Simpson’s sisters, the ones who smoke in every scene. “I do,” I answered. I was tired and ready to go home. “My girlfriend is bringing some things.” I stopped listening. This wasn’t something I was prepared for.

Just keep moving. Don’t make eye contact. Pretend you don’t see him. Then something snapped. I rolled my eyes and caught myself. That’s how I was treated growing up. Ignored. Pushed away. Kids on the playground. Beverly, my mother, who said come get a hug if you need one and never meant it. Always too busy. I felt that in less than 15 seconds. So I stopped.

Held myself accountable. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that, but if you talk to the BHT…” and I pointed him to the right person. I had to stick around long enough to see it through.

I really didn’t want to.

That man sitting and waiting for a nurse? He’s going to make it. Maybe it’ll be for a week. Or a few months. But right here, in that chair, he started to prove to me that he’s accountable for his mistakes.

I think he’s going to be alright. Today, anyway.