Justice

Three thirty. In a way, psychoanalysis impresses me as immature, especially when the therapist threatens to beat up the client for refusing to admit to being homosexual. Nothing ever warrants physical violence in my book. Once I was at a group session that ended with a sober redneck named Don menacing African American Chris for still drinking. They were going to settle it with a parking lot brawl. Lisa the counselor would not moderate what was a clear case of racial discrimination. The situation was stupid. I asked her if she was going to call the police and she just shrugged in a laissez faire way. Obviously she didn’t care about Chris’s rights or welfare. Lisa was a white Mormon who drove a 67 Chevelle as a sort of status symbol. Her coworker Tammy had a 78 Corvette that didn’t satisfy her. She talked about selling it. There was so much petty shallowness and plain ignorance about the organization that I could’ve slammed at the time. Their Twelve Step rivals deprecated them as a $5000 Big Book. In all the above, who was righteous, if anyone? I only see who was making a killing, getting filthy rich and taking a dump on those who had nothing. It’s the truth. What did sobriety have to do with owning a vintage sports car or assaulting people of color? I had to come to recovery my own way after the corruption I’d seen. I hope for justice someday, and sometimes it triumphs over greed and prejudice. When it does, we thank our lucky stars.

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