A Confession, of Sorts...

I have started to attend an AA-approved, LDS-oriented Twelve Step Program, every other week, as an assignment from my Bishop. It's really a terrific program, Mary and I were once the Missionaries assigned to be Group Leaders, and accepted other callings just as the Addiction Recovery Program (ARP) adopted a new, AA-approved book, that puts AA's program in a Mormon-friendly manner. When I was in AA, I had a lot of questions about spiritual things, but none of my sponsors ever wanted to go beyond "Higher Power," and delve into the religious implications of that concept.
But that's not why I was writing. The LDS program is great, but as it is designed to cover a variety of addictions, attendee's are asked not to go into the specifics of their addictions, and focus on their recovery. It's pretty general, unlike most of the AA meetings I've attended over the years. Almost everyone had a "story" that could get pretty graphic, and told them freely, as though it was their bonne fides for membership. Every once in a while, at a "speaker meeting," the guest speaker would talk about the nutty things he/she did to keep drinking, and those were always great for a laugh, but mostly it was serious people, who often felt compelled to confess some atrocity, or another.
I've never heard anyone talk about the "good times," when one indulged in his/her addiction, and didn't contribute to any disaster, or tragedy. My "confession" is that in all of the time I used drugs "recreationally," I can't remember having a bad time. Maybe that's a result of my drug use, but I just don't recall being involved in any trouble.
Like the first time I tried LSD. I was with the Chief of Police's son, going rollerskating at the rink in Fairfield with another friend. George was driving his dad's truck, and we "dropped the acid" on the way. I remember putting on the skates, and taking off, feeling like I was flying around the rink. In reality, I was barely moving. I stopped at the end of the rink opposite the back door, which, due to the day's heat, were opened to allow more air flow. I watched George skate through the wall at the end of the building, go past the open doors, and through the wall, back to where I was. "Wow! How'd you do that?" It got funnier after that.
Mostly, anymore, I marvel at the fact that so many of us survived the late-sixties. When I think of the times we raced up, or down, Gates Canyon, in a '50"s or '60's vintage "boat," stoned, drunk, or both, I can't believe we ever made it this far.