P was a bald man with thick, dark aggressively circular glasses. He was short and stocky and always strutted around with his shoulders squared up about as straight as they could possibly go. P was a youth minister and self-proclaimed fanatic of all drugs of the psychedelic variety; oh, and also speed. P loved speed.
P was good-natured, motivating, just about everything you would expect of a youth minister. He glowed benevolence. He always had the kindest smile creased across his face and he was always, always looking to help. P's passion, other than psychedelic drugs and speed was enriching the lives of children; in particular, those poor downtrodden children who had suffered the traumas of abuse or neglect. Not only was P employed at a very large ministry, heading the youth outreach, but he also had put together bible camps, bible readings, shut-ins (which I had no idea what they were until P explained to me that they literally spend the night with at-risk teens 'shut in' at the ministry) and various other methods to reach out to the disaffected and disengaged youth.
I immediately liked P. He was hard not to like. You don't usually get P's optimism in rehab. He was also very upfront about his drug use and was further more owning up to it with the acknowledgement that he could not continue to live this double-life for much longer.
What had sent P to rehab was a particularly bad combination of speed and marijuana. Apparently the edibles that P had consumed were not doing the trick fast enough so he finished the entirety of what was left. This, once it hit, and in combination with the amphetamines already coursing through P's system, caused P to believe that his heart was going to explode. After writhing on the couch in agony for an hour or so, he called the ambulance and was admitted to the hospital. P had decided in his hospital bed that this double life was too much for him and that he would quit.
Not only did P love psychedelic drugs, speed, and youth outreach but he also loved going to concerts. In particular the ones where you would camp out for a weekend in your tent and go to various shows on various stages all the while consuming psychedelic drugs and speed at a prodigious rate.
One day in group therapy P was telling us about one of the weekend camp shows that he had attended. All day P had been acting kind of weird so I was somewhat concerned about him as he always had such a happy go-lucky attitude about him. Today he seemed somber and introspective. He started the story like he started all of his "sharings" in group therapy; by wetting his lips:
"So there I was, chilling out in front of my tent to the tunes that I could hear from the stage, when these girls next to me offered me some pot."
"I gladly accepted and in return offered them some of the liquor I was knocking back."
"We got to talking and hanging out and they were really cool, really cool. It was already dark out after we had smoked a few joints and gotten pretty fucked up when two of the girls wanted to go see a show at one of the stages."
"Me and one of the girls were way too fucked up so we stayed back drinking and smoking. After a while, and we were really fucked up by now, I don't know how we really got there, but we were back in my tent. You know...we were kind of making out and all that, that sloppy, drunken fucked up kind of making out..."
At this P's expression started to change and his voice cracked.
"So...so, like, like, we're making out and all that and I notice her head is kind of, kind of like lolling back and I'm realising that she's starting to pass out."
P takes a deep breath, runs his hands through his non-existent hair and with a cracked strain in his voice goes on:
"But like, I'm so fucked up that I'm not even really with it and she's already pretty much undressed and I'm pretty much undressed and then...oh uh, then like her head comes back around and she seems to be with it so I start, you know, like start...doing it."
"And I'm on top of her and she's like beneath me and I don't know why, I really don't know why, but I put my hand over her mouth as she's mumbling something."
P stops there and looks up with red eyes (he had been staring intensely at the ground the whole time during his sharing):
"And like honestly, like, I think, I think she was trying to not want to..." he struggled to get the next sentence like a dry heave, "she just didn't want to." "And like afterwards she gets up all fucked up and I can see her makeup is smudged and I don't know if she was crying or...but she leaves my tent without saying anything."
"And me, me in my paranoia, I just think I gotta get the fuck up out of there and I pack all my shit and throw it in my car and the next thing I know I'm on the interstate barreling down at speeds I shouldn't have been going, still fucked out of my mind, but I just had to get out of there you know?"
Then after a long pause,
"Do you think I raped her?"
Nobody breathed a word. After what seemed like forever our therapist says, "P let's um, let's go talk in private. Guys, that's end of group now." And we all filed out, stupified by what we had just heard. Too stupefied to even talk much afterwards. In fact, we didn't really talk about it. Next day, P wasn't there. We never heard from or about P again and we knew better than to ask.