ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, December 1, 1996 TAG: 9612030028
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
COLUMN: New River Journal
SOURCE: ROB FRIES
There's nothing inviting about this small room. No windows, a low ceiling, just a circle of empty chairs surrounding a box of tissues on the carpet.
Furnishings aren't why they come here so faithfully each week. It's the emotional unburdening they seek, the presence of others who understand how it feels to occupy a prison without walls.
"I look forward to it. Rain or shine I'm going to be there. I need my 'Kat' fix," says the woman with faraway eyes.
The room wouldn't be big enough for everyone in the New River Valley who loves a substance abuser. Cassell Coliseum might not hold them, either.
Kat McClinton's therapy group is a relatively new thing. Some people have heard about it from counselors or friends, and they have already built a community for themselves, one that lasts about two hours on Tuesday nights.
Twenty people occupy the empty chairs for the gathering on this night. They seem to be a true cross section of people and ages: well-heeled university types, country girls in jeans and sweatshirts, working men in dark blue uniforms, young women with long hair and flowing skirts.
Desperation unites them. Some feel it now; others have dealt with and moved beyond their desperation, but remember it all too well. And the ironic thing is, these people are hurting but they're not really sick. They're not the ones addicted to alcohol or drugs. But they've still caught the germs.
Living with or caring about substance abusers has devastating consequences of its own. McClinton knows that from personal experience. She grew up in an alcohol-scarred home and married a substance abuser.
"I tell them they have a broken halo," McClinton says. "Their love tanks are empty."
Until recently McClinton taught physical education in middle school. Now she has a second career as a counselor with New River Community Services, yet she still conducts the therapy sessions like a gym teacher. No whistle, but in control, with a sardonic cackle for a laugh and a clear eye that sees right to the heart.
Her clients have a variety of woes. Emotional instability, physical illnesses, financial problems, all caused by being associated with a substance abuser who is their mother, husband, sister, lover or child.
McClinton teaches detachment. Their sickness is not your sickness. "It's not about loving them," she says. You can't solve it. More than likely, you're making it worse by not allowing the addicts to suffer the natural consequences of their illness.
It's wrong to call an addict's workplace and report them as sick when they're really hung over. It's wrong to lavish money on an addict when they're in jail. It's wrong to lie for them. It's also dreadfully hard not to cover for them - particularly when the threat of violent reprisal exists.
Unless they get sober, addicts have but two inevitable consequences for their lives, McClinton tells her group: death or jail. They have to decide. Even if you love them so much it hurts, all you can do is disengage, get out of the way.
It's a simple and logical lesson that takes a long time and often many tugs from the box of tissues at the center of the circle to learn. Reality dawns with an angry sunrise, too.
Sitting through a session of McClinton's therapy group must be what it's like to visit an emotional nudist colony, where people shed misconceptions rather than clothes. The veterans have survived the hard decisions, and they sit proudly bare of any false beliefs or actions.
The sages evaluate the newcomers, who are still shrouded in myth, and encourage them to drop their drawers - figuratively, of course. They know an unwitting lie when they hear one because they've spoken the same words.
Several days later, one participant has agreed to talk about her life. She's agreed to reveal everything for publication but her name. She has invited me into her nice office in Blacksburg with a good view and closed the door.
"At first, I was like, 'There is nothing you can do to help.' I was angry, very defensive. I had been so wrapped up in my life. I didn't want to hear it," she says.
From an abusive home, through several marriages to addicts, now her children seem to be infected. "I don't know what it is to have fun," she says.
Of McClinton's therapy group, she says: "When I'm in there, I feel like I can be so open. I don't feel like I'm alone. I've never wanted people to get close to me. This is the first time I've felt somebody really cares for me."
Having participated in therapy for about five months, she feels stronger. "I've been enlightened as far as taking control of my life. I needed to face the facts. I don't have control over other people's lives."
"I guess she doesn't want to see us destroyed," she says of McClinton.
There's no charge for the sessions and anyone can participate by calling Kat McClinton at 382-5050. If you go, don't be surprised if the little room overflows with people just like you.
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