The hoop gets bigger

In 1987, had told the head of the psychiatric ward at the naval hospital that they needed to get my boss help. I had made the mistake of telling them that I had briefly considered suicide in response to the pressures from my boss. They took away all my clothes, gave me a furry blue robe and a pair of one-size-fits-none slippers. After a week of interviews and testing, they told me I was depressed because I had been drinking large amounts of a depressant--alcohol. They explained that recovery from depression was slow and unremarkable, sometimes taking many years; but if I was possibly an alcoholic, recovery from depression would be rapid and easy. I told them that I thought I might be an alcoholic, because secretly I was looking for the easier, softer way. They asked me if I would like to go to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous next door in the Alcohol Rehabilitation Center (ARC). I gave them some feeble excuse why I could not go (like I had something better do while locked up in the mental ward?). The doctor looked at the nurse and said, "Denial." A week later, they transferred me to the ARC and forced me to go to an AA meeting.