Meth.

For T.C.

We were late for the meeting by 2 minutes due to mounds of pedestrians in front of the Fox Theatre. My friend, who skillfully wove through 6 o’clock Atlanta traffic, skidded to a halt in a nearly empty parking lot, tucked behind an old stone Methodist Church. We bolted up two flights of stairs, and caught our breath at the door. “Ya ready for this?” she half turned and whispered to me. “Oh yeah,” I laughed back; “Are you?” I didn't hear her response because she had already stepped through the open door and was greeted with “hellos” and “it’s good to see you agains.” It was immediately welcoming.

Amid the smell of burnt coffee and vanilla-scented candles, sat eight men and one woman. The two of us brought the latter up to three, however, there was much more estrogen in the room than testosterone. Everyone was middle aged, mostly wearing tired khakis and button-ups that might have seen an iron a few weeks prior or may have simply gone through another turn in the dryer. None had the appearance of those you see on those interstate billboards. The ones with the skeletal faces and sores. The majority of them looked like average blue collar workers with the one self-declared hipster, complete with a full beard and low-profile Adidas kicks. He smiled over at us when we sat down on a sunken-out couch, draped with a stained slipcover. All of our couches were sunken. All of our slipcovers were stained. They turned inward in a circle and we faced each other, sometimes making awkward eye contact, sometimes not. Hipster guy turned back towards the circle and I noticed his hands and feet were shaking.

“Hi, I’m John and I’m an addict.” “Hi John.” The group facilitator opened a folder and began reading to everyone about Crystal Meth Anonymous. It is a 12 Step program that follows the Big Book of AA. The meetings are open and affiliated with many other meetings across the Atlanta area. For instance, there is one called “Positively No Speeding” dedicated specifically to crystal meth addicts who are also HIV positive. The facilitator asked if anyone was in their first day of recovery, second, week, or month. There were several raised hands. Claps and knowing smiles were the responses. He asked that another man lead the discussion, he consented; another “hello, so-and-so.” He read the topic and then the room fell silent, waiting for that one brave soul to break the ice, so to speak.  

I attended the meeting playing the role as my friend’s support, as she introduced me as such. Once the group discussion was opened up, she talked about her two years and the struggle of learning to cope with the difficulties of life instead of getting high. She highlighted the importance of therapy and how it played a huge role in her recovery. She stressed how important it was to find people who would truly support you in your time of need. As I listened to her talk, I looked around the room at the nodding heads who seemed to hang on her every word. She had made it further than many of them ever had and one could feel the sense of hope that fact brought.

One man with a toothless grin shared that he uses when he feels bad about himself, when his self-esteem is low and when rejection is all he seems to receive. Others admitted that their trigger was when life was good; they questioned aloud why they self-sabotage. I questioned why I self-sabotage. Everyone talked about the dishonesty. It was a common cord that was woven through each addict’s life, whether in recovery or not. For some, it was stealing; for others, it was the double lives; for all, it was the isolation.

            I haven’t as much smoked a cigarette. The strongest substances I have ever been addicted to are caffeine, chocolate, and melancholy. But I found a reflective surface in the course of that meeting. I found camaraderie among such a remnant of outcasts.