How many faults can they find as they knock me down to build me up?

My 87-year-old dad lets me in through his electric garage door – it’s my new way in without touching door handles during the coronavirus pandemic – and he slowly appears as the door rolls up making a sound like a thunderstorm. Oh my god, his hair is getting so long, I wonder if soon he’ll look like an octogenarian Jesus?

Dropping provisions to my dad during this outbreak reminds me of the time when my parents used to leave food parcels for me at my front door and leg it back to the car when I was in the depths of my addiction. They had learned about “tough love” at an Al-Anon meeting for families of addicts and alcoholics and weren’t giving me any more cash.

Obviously, that situation couldn’t prevail and it wasn’t long before they had me in lockdown in Wiltshire, at a rehab for my own health and survival. We slept in a dorm and had to congregate at the crack of dawn for meditation before the place had even warmed up.

Just doing the housework was a therapeutic nightmare. Friday night excitement was playing musical instruments with a hot chocolate. That’s if you hadn’t graduated to being escorted to the local AA meeting in the rehab minibus. No wonder I ran away – I just couldn’t stand playing the tambourine while craving drugs and alcohol. Every step felt like an effort that I didn’t want to take. I didn’t want to live, but I didn’t want to die. It was one gruelling group therapy session after another. How many more faults could people spot in me as they knocked me down to build me up?

I remember pleading with a therapist to let me leave the establishment: “Do you want to be an addict for the rest of your life?” “YES YES just get me out of here!” It felt like the Eagles song “Hotel California” was on a perpetual loop in my head booming out: “You can check-out any time you like/ But you can never leave!”

That place didn’t do it for me, but it was part of my journey to recovery. I preferred a day programme where I was able to be independent. It’s different courses for different horses. Some people just sweat it out in 12-step recovery meetings – especially now there is little funding for rehabs.

It wasn’t the only treatment centre I was dragged off to either. There was the hospital in Marylebone where a top psychiatrist told me that if I survived it, I should inspire others from a podium. The one in Surrey looked like a massive white Blancmange from the outside – but I didn’t want to be inside it, especially on Christmas Day.

So I knew what Alex was going through as he was expunging his own demons in the Spanish rehab – or did I? At the time, I had just returned from Brazil, bronzed and sun-kissed, and did a double-take when I saw him. Had he missed me so much that he had lost the will to shave?

That’s when I realise the elephant in the room. The flat looks messy and the shutters are still closed on a Thursday afternoon. Then it all unravels. He tells me he’s booked into a Spanish rehab in the beautiful mountains – it’s not a mini-break – it’s rehab.

A couple of friends and his cousin are coming over later to wave him off – would I like to come along for an uncomfortable last supper? Is this some kind of intervention? Wow, this is a bit of bombshell. What am I going to wear?

Now it’s crystal clear why he’s been so elusive. It was never about me – but I was fighting a battle I could never win because the only person who can change him is Alex. I notice he seems to be packing a lot of DVDs. What kind of rehab is it? From what he’s telling me you’d think it was all about siestas and non-alcoholic sangria.

He says he has secured a private room with a balcony as he can’t possibly share with anybody else. There is a pool and he’s planning on getting a tan. Hang on, that’s not what it was like for me when I was packed off to get clean and sober. Had I been looking at the wrong brochure?

Only time would tell if Alex would confront his demons or soak up the sun and watch The Sopranos box set. I hugged him and told him that I admired him. I had to go home to process it all before the farewell do – or whatever it was? What would we all talk about? What if Alex fell in love with another inpatient in this place? Doesn’t that always happen?

I sit down for a breather – it makes me emotional when I look back at these times. I might be 21 years clean and sober, but I never forget the roller coaster of addiction.