Byline: Keith Howard

In one major part of my life, I didn’t always take such a moderate view. Since May 21, 2007, thanks to a program of recovery that remains central to my life, I have not found it necessary to drink or use any mind-altering substance. Over these 6,058 days, I’ve worked hard to become the kind of man my mother dreamed I’d someday be. I have, without boasting, made, and continue to make, progress on that goal. That is how I define my recovery.

Three weeks ago, on my 65th birthday, my body was pierced, robots were inserted into my lungs to extract a tumor and some lymph nodes, the booty was sent off for analysis to high priests of science, I was pumped full of painkillers for two days, and I foiled a plot to kill me.

Trigger Warning: There’s some potentially bad news at the end of this. If you want to avoid that, you can safely enjoy (or not) all of this up until the last paragraph.

Yesterday, Hope for New Hampshire Recovery’s board of directors sent out a too-kind press release announcing my departure. This release was gratifying to read, of course, but made me sound much more professional and serious than I am. In the interest of setting the record straight, I’ve composed an alternate release.

While I was having lunch with a friend today, she was, according to reports and rumors, dining with a ghost. Missy watched me slurp soup and eat a sandwich while telling me about a conversation she’d had the other night, a conversation about me.

As I write this, I am a radioactive man. Really. This morning I was warned to stay away from pregnant women and small children. Unlike most Marvel Comics heroes and many DC Comic villains, though, I don’t appear to have any superpowers. Time will tell.

Observant readers will note the use of the past tense in that last sentence. Let me not bury the lead any further. I have resigned as director of Hope effective right away. Before rumors begin, I have not turpituded financially, sexually, behaviorally or any other way. Likewise, I have no policy or personnel disagreements with Hope’s board of directors. They are all fine people, as are the staff members and the membership of Hope. Hope is my vision of what a recovery center should be: a community of folks bonded by a love for each other and a desire to live without chemical assistance.

A while ago, when I was still living in the Great North Woods in the Tiny White Box, I wrote about leadership, describing myself as a mystical clown. Every clown needs a circus, and every circus needs a bunch of gifted and dedicated people to keep the whole thing from crashing down.  These are those people, the ones who make Hope Recovery work, saving lives and strengthening recovery.

The other day, I told you about my new friend, Donald. Now, the truth can be told: Donald is actually Craig, and has given permission to use his name.