So much of my childhood was underscored by the idea of the proverbial wagon — off the wagon, and on it again and off it and on it.
Original Source: goodmenproject.com
The church was on the corner of two busy avenues. Once inside, silence set in, as if there was a divine element at play. Up the staircase two flights, we sat in a large wooden room, a space the church had saved for group meet-ups or study or — in this case — community Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. As the bodies poured in, some haggard and still struggling, others young and new to vice — perhaps court mandated to be there, echoes of voices saying, “good evening” and “welcome” bounced off the towering windows. There were four on each side and the light pooled in softly, surrounding us all. At night, the windows shone blackness. It always felt like such a personal, careful space. Deliberate and safe. I went there several times per week.
I was 13.