Two Months Later
“I’m doing this to get you off my back.”
“I know.” My dad stands in the dim light of the hallway. His hands shake, hiding the tremors from years of drowning in the bottle. He runs them down his khakis, his eyes flicking to the entrance like he wants to bolt, like this is the last place he wants to be on a Tuesday night.
Honestly, I don’t blame him, and I really want a cigarette, but we’re here and that’s all that matters.
“I’m not coming here to find some kind of healing or closure or make friends with addicts.”
I roll my eyes. “I know.”
“You need accountability,” he continues. “Someone to come with you.”
As Hamlet’s mother said, the lady doth protest too much. I’m honestly still in shock that I got him here to the church, that we’re about to attend a recovery meeting together. He can make up as many excuses as he wants, but he came and that’s all that matters.
Dad grows silent for a moment, and his brown eyes catch mine. “I’m doing this for your mom.”
I swallow hard, a lump rising in the back of my throat. Mum would be proud of her men if she were here, proud of us for trying. I wipe a hand over my mouth, pretending tears aren’t welling in my eyes like a baby.
The leader announces the start of the meeting, and I know it’s time to make our appearance. “Ready?”
Dad nods. “Ready.”
With a deep breath, I step toward the classroom to the left, the door partly ajar. A murmur of voices spill out from the other side, voices of people who have accepted me these last three weeks.
The recovery program has helped me break down the walls I’ve built around myself, forcing me to confront my demons in front of people who understand. The first time I stepped into the room, it felt as though every eye was on me, and my anxiety had spiraled nearly out of control. I’d just gotten back from Lake Fort, and being back in the city was a reminder of the hood life I desperately wanted to escape.
I don’t know what I had expected here, but what I’d found were people like me, with different stories but the same pain. The kind of pain that keeps you awake at night, sending daggers to your soul. The kind of pain that aches of regret and grief and all the things you could have done. The kind of pain that is universal—but some people are gifted with larger portions.
I can feel Dad beside me, waiting, and my hand closes around the knob as I push the door open.
Forcing myself to break the cycle of guilt and shame has been nearly impossible. The moment I stepped back into our apartment, I felt the familiar weight crash onto my shoulders. But here, in this building, watching people like me rising above the dirt and grime, I think I might be okay.
That Dad and I can make it.
My time has come, to rise like a phoenix from the rubble, for my voice to be heard.
“My name is Sean Brogan, and I am battling self-hatred and guilt and suicidal thoughts, but I am not alone.”