"Sierra Tucson." The Cadillac of rehab. Set in the cactus-filled Arizona desert. Part Best Western, part college campus, part hospital. Checking in, you check out of the world. No newspaper. No radio. No TV. The only distraction allowed is a plethora of self-help and twelve-steps books.
     My depression had been triggered by 9/11 and had been spiraling downward ever since. A midlife crisis with no light at the end of the tunnel. Conversations were a painful struggle because I couldn’t remember what was just said. Reading was futile because I couldn’t remember the previous paragraph. Lying down or sitting up involved many decisions. And all day long I looked forward to my sleeping pills -- only now, I was taking more and sleeping less. So there I was, in a plane, above Dallas, flying in for the connecting flight to Tucson. Sierra Tucson.
     Below me, as far as the eye could see, sprawled the American suburbia. Since my childhood I have been thrilled and fascinated by the relentless growth of cities. I take a twisted and guilty pleasure watching the subdivisions march on, their geometric patterns gobbling up the countryside. Only this time it frightened me. Everything frightened me. Things I would have previously laughed-off now struck a chord of terror. Things like the full-sized billboard that came into sight several hours later at the clinic’s gate, commanding me to "EXPECT A MIRACLE."
     I was trapped. In God’s country.
     Then strip-searched.
     I then had my books confiscated . . . along with most of my toiletries (razor blades and nail files for the suicide-prone; lotions and perfumes for alcoholics). And all the while, everybody was still so excruciatingly nice. So feely, so touchy.
     What could I do but clam up?
     For I had lost all social skills. Me, the table-hopping, ‘hostess’ extraordinaire. Me, the verbal provocateur. But at my first meal, I couldn’t muster more than the most cursory response to any question.
     That same evening came my very first "Clap-out." The "Clap-out" is a ritual ceremony for graduating patients. In an outdoor amphitheater, the departing inmate makes a farewell speech, and, then, in a cleansing metaphor, throws stones -- i.e., all weighty addictions -- into a pit. The big finish? Together, everyone howls at the moon. Only I wasn’t howling along. I was making my plan. Even if I did survive my thirty-day treatment, there would be an emergency call on the twenty-ninth (A kitchen fight at my restaurant? A family crisis?). Whatever was necessary for a hasty exit.
     After a few days, as I was still cringing my way through "Spirituality Group," the man next to me suddenly turned and whispered a surprisingly cynical comment . . . in French. I cracked up. How many days had it been since I even smiled? This fellow atheist - a criminal lawyer from LA - became my guru on navigating through all the God-crap and getting on with the program.
     I quietly held myself together for a couple more days.
However, I was not to remain the weak-and-silent type for long, because my deadline to speak was fast approaching. In "Trauma Group."
     My presentation was to be removed, reserved. Just the dry facts on my emotionally reckless life . . . until I was undermined by a mother from Alabama who told the story of her son and husband who had both killed themselves. I am very fond of Southern women. There is an elegant melancholy in their drawl that I find irresistible. Her sadness had somehow brought light into the darkest corners of my mind. My story came gushing out. Tears, facts, fears. So I found my rehab mother. From then on, she gave me her bosom to cry on. And before long, I found kindred spirits in all the women from the South.
     Before I knew it, I had befriended all the women from the North, East and West, as well. I started talking about my life other than the depression. And soon I was getting into political arguments with the men. I was gaining ground.
     Until my new roommate showed-up. A big…loud… swearing…macho… jock…guy.
     He seemed quite put off by me, too.
     When fate put us in the same "Primary Group" and he learned that I was gay and HIV positive, his homophobia and fear of AIDS came spilling out. No way was I going to sleep with this obnoxious homophobe in the next bed.
     I marched straight to my Primary Therapist -- demanding to be moved to another room at once. To my utter shock, I was told that we both had to "Deal with it! That’s why it’s called ‘therapy’." I tried the cry and drama thing, but to no avail. There was nothing I could do short of leaving altogether. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet. And certainly not for this creep.
     Later that day, as my anger grew by the minute, I was looking forward to a meeting -- any meeting -- to let off steam. I found an "Addiction Group" -- the last group of the day -- and stormed in, primed for compassion. But only one other person had shown up. My roommate.
     What to do? Walk out? Attack? Play dead? And to his credit, he said, "Why don’t we use this hour for you to explain to me what I don’t understand about you?"
     Suddenly, I found myself at the black board -- drawing graphs about the risks of AIDS, giving a lecture on growing up gay in a homophobic culture. By the end of the hour, we both reached out and shook hands. No anger. No fear.

     From then on, it all went very fast. Every day I grew more confident. I was moving on with the treatment, editing out the metaphysical gobbledy-gook, and choosing what was relevant to me. When I called home for more Restaurant Florent postcards to give out, they knew I was on the mend: I had started to work the crowd.
     The next thing I knew it was my twenty-ninth day - "Clap-out Eve" - and I had not escaped. Instead, I had a new plan.
     I chose to be introduced by my roommate. He told how two weeks before he had never known a homosexual, then met one, had never heard the word "homophobe," and then learned he was one. Everybody cracked up. A few had tears in their eyes. A total soap.
     So there I was, leading the pack as we howled at the moon.
     The next morning, as the cab drove me back toward the gate, I saw the back of that billboard. It said, "YOU ARE A MIRACLE." I didn’t cringe. I had come to enjoy the touching . . . and the feeling. I had won a few battles with my demons. And as the plane was landing in Dallas, I was entranced by the suburban sprawl below.

FLORENT MORELLET is co-chair of Save the Gansevoort Market and president of Compassion in Dying NY. He is a mapmaker, drag queen, and the unofficial mayor of the Meat Market. The restaurant that bears his name has been a New York institution for a little over seventeen years.