Page 33 of Outspoken

A few people raise their hands, so he picks one—the nervous woman with the jacket.

She reads her poem about her dog and how his days are so happy and carefree. When he gets scared, he quickly recovers, finding something to spark joy—a favorite toy or a squirrel outside the window. He easily forgets scary things exist.

The woman tucks an unruly strand of black hair behind her ear and glances at the group timidly. Her last line is, “If only I could be a dog, life would be livable.”

The group claps, and then Eric invites someone else to share. As the meeting progresses, I skip several opportunities to raise my hand.Why did I come?This feels stupid. I don’t have anything to share that isn’t a repeat of what others have said. Everyone here is just trying to figure out what kind of life exists for them when they aren’t high. But they got high the first time for a reason and, if they’re anything like me, that reason still exists.

At least when I’m high, I have a few hours of forgetfulness where I don’t think about every horrible thing I’ve done—a few moments of feeling okay.

Without drugs, there’s no relief, only a constant ache.

I’m doing everything I'm 'supposed' to do but nothing changes. In rehab, they drilled sayings into my head like “One day at a time,” “Fake it until you become it,” and “Put in the work, go to meetings, and you’ll get there.”

Where the hell am I supposed to end up? People who swear by meetings say they feel a sense of belonging and that sharing their experiences helps. They like venting and having a place where others can understand and sympathize with them.

I’m not seeing what they see. I look around this group and only find reflections of myself, leaving me more lost and hopeless. Even the group leader, with his mouth full of constant reminders of his life’s worst mistakes, has a forced cheerfulness. The longer I’m sober, the more I realize there’s no way to completely detox from drugs—there’s always a pull, a whispering, an urge. No one ever ‘recovers’—they’re only ever ‘in recovery’.

Depressing.What’s the point?

After everyone who wants to has shared, the room falls silent. Eric looks at me. I look away.

“Before we end tonight, would you like to introduce yourself or share something you brought?” he asks me since I’m the newbie.

I continue to avert my gaze. My mouth goes dry. It's a dumb thought, but I think about stupid Mr. Williams and how he said I had rambled in my essay. Then my chest tightens and I glance at the exit for the hundredth time.

When I saw the email last week about upcoming meetings, I liked that this one said to bring a personal piece of writing. I hadn't gone to one of these silly groups in a few months, so I flipped through my journals to see if any of my ramblings were good enough to read out loud. I picked a recent poem and fixed it up.

Now that the moment to read my poem is here, though, I feel like a moron for getting excited about sharing it.

My essays might be actual vomit—my poems even worse. I'm probably just awful at expressing myself through words, so why am I even trying?

Coming here was dumb.

Eric continues to smile and pressure me with his cheerfulness, so I finally nod. It’s only a poem, not the end of the world. Even if I wrote the shittiest poem ever, people in the circle can't comment. I won't be subjected to their opinions. Also, I went through the trouble of coming all the way here, so I might as well read what I brought in front of these unsettling strangers.

I pull my phone out of my purse and stand.

“Wonderful,” Eric says. “Please, introduce yourself.”

This is the part I hate the most about these damn meetings—admitting what I am. “Hi, I’m Amber and I’m an addict. I’m also an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Amber,” the group responds in unison, Eric the most enthusiastically.

“I'm not into rhyming, or I’m not good at it, so what I wrote probably isn't the best poetry, if it's even a poem. I don't know what it is.”

Eric smiles, blinding me with those unnaturally white teeth. “That's okay. We’re not here to judge, only listen.”

Taking a breath, I read from my phone screen. “When I drank, when I took pills, I was stuck in a room, inside a room, inside a room—a broken nesting doll. Now I don't drink. I don't swallow pills. I follow advice and repeat affirmations that have lost meaning. I practice therapeutic tools to keep myself entertained—can't slip into bad habits, the only habits that make me feel okay. Still, I'm in the room, inside a room, inside a room. A nesting doll who knows exactly where she's broken. I wish someone had told me I can't exist outside the room in a room in a room. It's my home, my prison—every day, every therapy, every affirmation and meaningless action blending into the next until it doesn’t. The room becomes my coffin.”

The group claps and the woman in the jacket suddenly leaves the circle, sniffing and wiping her face. When I sit, the guy next to me pats my shoulder, but I don't respond. I understand he's trying to comfort me, but I rarely feel comforted any more.

The last time I felt comfort was the night Miguel held me. It might also have been the last time I slept well. I can still feel his arms around me as I drifted into my unsettled dreamland. The dreams weren't as scary with him there.

I push the memory away.

Why am I thinking about that?

“Thanks so much for sharing,” Eric says. “That's our meeting for today, unless anyone else has something to say. We have about five minutes left.” After a pause where no one speaks, he continues. “Next week, we’ll focus on goals for the future. Please come prepared with a list and why the goals are important to you.” He stands, prompting everyone else to do the same and hold hands.

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