Dave Collins at his home in Howick, Auckland. Dave speaks to Canvas about men's mental health and a retreat for drug and alcohol rehabilitation in Auckland. Photo / Greg Bowker
In Aotearoa New Zealand a generations-old culture of being tough and not showing feelings has cost some men, their families and society dearly. Three men share their stories of how a macho ideal became a prison called addiction. Joanna Mathers reports.
Toughen up. Don't be "a sissy". Don't talk about
feelings. Staunch it out.
Aotearoa's masculine mythos.
Dave Collins, recovering addict/alcoholic, soaked up this masculine ideal from society, from television, from the "cool guys" who showed no emotions.
"I learned that big men don't cry, big men never give up, they tough it out. I wanted to be that man."
This ideal underpinned his reluctance to seek help for addiction. And alongside an "unconquerable ego", it sucked him down a toxic maelstrom of denial and substance abuse. Shooting meth, necking malt. Never showing vulnerability.
"I'd have a black eye and meth blisters on my lips and mouth, and be like, 'Yeah, everything's fine'. I couldn't surrender, I couldn't stop fighting."
Those at the coalface of drug and alcohol treatment come up against the power of this male ideal every day. Terence Andrews, a drug and alcohol counsellor (and former addict), explains: "The stifling of emotions, the 'boys don't cry' thing is huge.
"Men are told not to talk about 'that stuff'. They are supposed to be 10ft tall and bulletproof. This is the biggest stumbling block for men's recovery," he says.
Grant Foster, a drug and alcohol treatment professional with more than 17 years' experience, says that in New Zealand, boys weren't taught how to express emotions.
"It's getting better now but in the 1960s, 1970s, boys weren't allowed to have feelings."
Interestingly, Foster says, it's a partner or a mate, who will often lead them to rehab. These guys won't accept they have a problem: men need to be in control."
But once they accept the need for help, men's emotional literacy is very basic.
"Men's vocabulary for identifying feelings is really limited. They don't understand feelings - vulnerability, anxiety, insecurity - because they were never taught about them. Even I remember being told not to talk about problems with my family, to 'sort things out' myself. It's how Kiwi boys were brought up."
Alcoholism and addiction are multifaceted. There are physiological, psychological and social forces at play. For Māori, there are layers of colonialism, racism, suppression of cultural identity. Masculine stereotypes add an extra layer of complexity when it comes to seeking treatment.
But there is a way out. Canvas interviews three men about their addiction, opening up, and letting go of the "tough guy". About how letting go and accepting their vulnerability is the first step towards healing.
Dave Collins
When I was around 13-14 years old, I started to notice the people on the fringe, the kids smoking in the alleys. I wanted my insides to feel the way those guys' outsides appeared. To have that coolness and swagger.
When I watched TV I was always cheering for the "bad" guys – the outcasts on motorbikes. I was forming an image around what a man was.
My dad worked shifts and I'm sure he was an untreated alcoholic. We had to walk on eggshells around him. Mum made sure I was clothed and had nutritious food and drink. My dad was asleep when we were awake. He was an angry man.
Drinking alcohol and smoking cannabis, that started in my early teens. By the time I was 19, 20, I'd smoked, injected, and snorted every drug there is.
In my early 20s, I tried the downtown buzz – morphine, heroin. It wasn't really my thing.
Then in 1999 methamphetamine appeared on the scene. It was very discreet back then, only available to the movers and shakers. But I was deep enough in the scene to access it.
The underground electronica music scene was a big part of my life. I ran underground nightclubs and was the house DJ. If you had the right bunch of people the energy there was very positive. To be honest, at the beginning it was all a lot of fun. Later on, it was still a lot of fun, but a pain in the ass. By 2009, it was torture.
I would pretend I was okay. I was delusional. Would tell people I was fine, with a black eye and blisters on my lips from the drugs. My ego wouldn't let go.
I realised that I couldn't use meth anymore. Some of the people I knew were getting married and having children. They would come over on a Friday night, we would share a bag, and they would go home on Saturday afternoon. But I was just starting.
I was mentally and physically affected. I would lose kilos overnight. I was completely paranoid and thought I was being watched.
So I went to CADS [Community Alcohol and Drugs Services] for help. The counsellor told me: "Never mind the meth, it's the drinking." I told him I didn't have a drinking problem. I stopped associating with everyone around me, the people I'd spent decades with, and stopped using meth.
The next four years were the darkest I'd ever experienced.
I found out later, in rehab, that pride and ego can kill you. That confidence and swagger that I saw in other men and wanted for myself was a dream, based on fear.
My addiction didn't want to let go. I have an unconquerable ego that perpetually tries to rebuild itself. It's trying to get back into the control room and run everything.
I couldn't moderate my drinking. I'd drink till I passed out. I had a habit of passing out in the middle of the road, in the oncoming traffic. I put my foot through a window trying to get into my flat and severed a tendon.
But the outcomes and consequences of my drinking ¬ being brought home by police, ending up in hospital, letting down my family ¬ became more and more frequent. And in 2014, I made a bad mistake at work and the gig was up.
My work stood by me when I went to rehab and I was cocky. I thought I'd been a bit hasty. I hadn't lost my job, or girlfriend or my home. I went through the motions. And an hour-and-a-half after I left rehab, I was drinking again.
Seven months later I was kicked out of my flat. I had nowhere to live. I lost my job.
In desperation, I called the people at rehab. They offered me a bed if I would commit to active recovery. That's when I became clean.
There was a missing piece to me and I couldn't recover by myself. I had to fully concede that I was an addict, become part of the recovery community, and find a spiritual path.
Everything I value has come from my recovery. I comprehend the word serenity and I know peace. But I have to remember, all I have is a daily reprieve.
Chris*
Work hard, play hard, don't talk about your problems. The male stereotype.
Even though my parents didn't raise me with ideas around gender [stereotypes] I soaked up the culture. Kiwi males work hard on the farm carrying sheep on their shoulders, got home, kicked off their gumboots, and drank a few well-deserved beers.
When I was young, I was okay expressing feelings. But later I had a few experiences that made me realise that it wasn't okay for men to open up. One time I tried to tell a friend what I was feeling and they said: "I don't really want to talk about that." So I stopped trying to have those conversations.
I owned a Four Square in Russell and I used to help myself to a few drinks after work. After I sold the business I had time on my hands and I started buying spirits and hiding them away [from my wife and two children]. I drank gin, I always wanted more bang for my buck.
When I started a new business from home, my drinking got heavier and heavier. I'd start drinking at midday when the kids were at school and drink all day until I'd pass out. I was what you'd call a "functioning alcoholic": I was working, but it took everything I had to keep going.
Eventually I would start waking at 3am, and drink for an hour or so in the middle of the night.
In 2016, my 12-year-old daughter witnessed me vomiting blood at home. I was rushed to hospital with a gastric haemorrhage and they found evidence of the early stages of cirrhosis. My family was s***-scared.
I managed to stay off the drink for eight weeks but then I started again. I tried to hide my drinking from my family but I would become disgustingly drunk.
My wife joined a group that supports the families of alcoholics and she changed her attitude towards me. I could drink if I wanted to but I couldn't be around my family when I was drinking.
So that motivated me to start going to meetings with other alcoholics. But I had the wrong attitude and some prejudices, and was arrogant enough to think I had control over it.
In November 2018, things got so bad that I finally went to rehab. I completed it, but ignored everything I was taught and in four days I was drinking again. I was worse off than when I started.
I'd pass out in the spare room. My wife would ask if I had been drinking and I would say, "Of course not."
I finally went back into rehab and stayed there. I did the steps. By this stage I was really scared. My physical and mental health suffered so badly. I guess that I had to be scared into submission.
The key for me was to surrender to the programme. To admit to myself, "I'm powerless over alcohol and life has become unmanageable." I'd always thought I was in control of everything. It took a huge amount of pain for me to accept I wasn't.
We have red wine in the house. My wife drinks it and I love the smell of it. I have the urge to try a glass. But I have to take that feeling really seriously.
I'm three years sober. I'm lucky to be alive.
Clint Ngatai
I was a meth user for over 20 years. I started smoking when I was 16. I spent over 10 years in prison, I have over 200 criminal convictions.
I'm 104 days clean.
As a man, I found it incredibly hard to open up. Opening up to other people, sharing my story, being honest, was a huge thing for me.
I grew up on the North Shore of Auckland, in Beach Haven. My biological father went to jail when I was 9, for robbing three banks. It was really confusing for me. My mum moved in a new man and I couldn't accept him.
My mum and stepfather were never around. They are now very successful but they were always working. I can see we suffered a bit back them. We would only see them, like, once a month.
I started off with street gangs and then patched gangs: it gave me a sense of belonging. My life from then on was jail, drugs, crime.
My cousin was a meth cook. At the time, you could buy pills at the pharmacy and use them for meth. I had a passport (my parents sent me to Aussie when I 16, because they could see I was going the wrong way, but I got deported back). You could only buy those pills with a passport, so, my older cousins preyed on me and that's where it all started.
Meth for me was escapism and fun. I'd been smoking weed and drinking at 15 and graduated to meth. All my mates were doing it, so it seemed like it was normal.
I used to tag a lot. The meth would keep me up and I'd go tagging with my crew. We'd go to parties, try to stay up the longest, commit burglaries.
The habit got real bad when I was around 19 or 20. I started stealing TVs and stuff, and my parents kicked me out of home.
I used to rob a lot of liquor stores, because they had a lot of stuff I could sell. There was a story about me [in the local news] when I was caught.
The first time I went to prison it was weird, because it felt like home. Everyone I knew was in jail. I was attacked twice, but I did more than I received. I never really had a negative experience in jail. You could always get drugs: the screws would bring it in, my missus would bring it in [on visits].
I learned a lot. I went in knowing how to rob stores and came out knowing how to cook meth.
I've been to every prison in the North Island. I have a pretty horrific criminal history.
I have three kids, 10, 5, and 1. My kids were the reason I wanted to get clean. I'm married and it's taken about six years to get to the stage I can communicate with my wife properly. My wife is the reason I am clean. I'm so lucky I have an honest woman. She held me accountable.
When I went to rehab, I snuck some drugs in and took them.
A counsellor asked me, "How long have you been here and how long have you been clean?"
I said: "I've been here for three days" [hoping he would be fooled].
He said: "No, I'm not asking how long you've been here. I am asking how long you have been clean."
I walked back to my room and thought about what he said. He knew I was lying. Something clicked. I got the drugs, gave them to him and said: "Help me."
My recovery started then.
What I love about the recovery is that addresses the behaviour and it gives me a community. I hang out with all the addicts, the other "weirdos". I finished the rehab programme and I am in a sober living programme at The Retreat [rehab centre]. I have my spiritual beliefs and my community support.
Something happened the other day. A dude ran into my parent's shop where I work. He was holding a hammer saying: "Call the police.. He was covered in blood.
It was a friend from the old days, someone really high up in the gangs.
I took him in and cleaned him up. One of his hands was closed tight; I asked him to open it. There was a bag of meth.
"You came in, you told us to call the police, saying you were attacked," I said. "But I know you attacked someone for that crack in there."
So, I cleaned him up and sent him on his way. I thought: "That could have been me, that could have been me..." It was a real gratitude moment.
My people never had drugs or alcohol in our culture until colonisation. The recovery rate for Māori is appalling. I have been extremely lucky to have parents and support people to help me. Today I am in a good place.
*Chris chose not to share his last name for privacy reasons associated with his recovery.
WHERE TO GET HELP
If it is an emergency and you or someone else is at risk, call 111.
For counselling and support
Lifeline: Call 0800 543 354 or text 4357 (HELP)
Suicide Crisis Helpline: Call 0508 828 865 (0508 TAUTOKO)
Need to talk? Call or text 1737
Depression helpline: Call 0800 111 757 or text 4202
For children and young people
Youthline: Call 0800 376 633 or text 234
What's Up: Call 0800 942 8787 (11am to 11pm) or webchat (11am to 10.30pm)
The Lowdown: Text 5626 or webchat
For help with specific issues
Alcohol and Drug Helpline: Call 0800 787 797
Anxiety Helpline: Call 0800 269 4389 (0800 ANXIETY)
OutLine: Call 0800 688 5463 (0800 OUTLINE) (6pm-9pm)
Safe to talk (sexual harm): Call 0800 044 334 or text 4334
All services are free and available 24/7 unless otherwise specified.
For more information and support, talk to your local doctor, hauora, community mental health team, or counselling service. The Mental Health Foundation has more helplines and service contacts on its website.
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