As you read, keep in mind that these are fictional examples of what a family intervention should neither become, nor ever include, presented as a story.

Any family, any town, USA…

“…so this guy my mom hired came and said he could help us, he even showed us his medal for being an addict. He had us write letters about how we felt toward John, about how his behavior is negatively effecting each of us…then, we all read and approved each others letters, thinking how right to the point it all was and how relieved we’d be if we didn’t get bludgeoned with one of John’s crises first.
Imagining the meeting, I had a fleeting twinge of anticipation softly twisting in my stomach as I ran the scenario over in my head; We’d read our letters and try to get him to say ‘yes,’ if we could… It never played out very well in my mind.
We grew restless as the meeting time approached. I had a very sudden, very intense desire to start running down the stairs and to get as far away as possible.  I can’t help thinking that everyone else felt it as well, if only for a second. But we stayed together and agreed that we all just wanted to get it over with.  
Eventually, John came home. As he walked in, we watched him take in the scene in a sort of surreal, slow motion – the six of us sitting around the living room, holding handwritten letters and all looking at him in a dead, unnatural silence. I realized that John must know what we were doing.  Hell, I would.  I started to panic.  But much to my relief, and to our collective surprise, he came in, sat down, and listened as we awkwardly launched into the reading of the letters.  Everything went smoothly for about ten minutes, through Bills letter. At that point, John said something about how Bill was getting pain medication from some mutual friend at work and how if Bill would go, then he’d go.  My mom’s eyes opened in shock at this news…Bill what?  Then it started. Volleys of defensive postures and offensive insults surged through the air between the boys; skeletons that made us glad to be in a house with thick walls were laid out and picked through, any morsels of blame hurriedly launched…Dad seemed to be inching toward the doorway and mom was now tearing, eyes open wide, staring into just-what-she’d-feared-would-happen.  I just hoped she’d stay quiet now.  
In the midst of this flurry however, some of us did manage to make it known to John that we were cutting off all of his support. We even managed a sorry attempt at delivering this crushing news “lovingly,” as we were instructed to do.
So there we were, hammering away at these ultimatums, these love-coated coffin nails.
My turn to read came and I made myself say to him – to he who had very recently sold my great grandfathers violin for $15 to buy drugs – to the guy I had blamed for our parents divorce just moments earlier, how much I love and miss him. At that point I just prayed he wouldn’t go postal on us. He wasn’t violent really, but he could cause damage.
The meeting went south completely, ending in embarrassment and frustration. He blew and we couldn’t find him for days. The intervention guy left. He said he’ll call and keep working with us, but…”

This is an exaggerated, albeit fairly accurate example, of common fears about family intervention services.  It leans toward an intervention worst-case, to make a point. These commonly held ideas have been a bane to us professionally, since they would never exist in any family intervention.

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