Did I not get my ass to a meeting sooner? I should have, I really should have. It was everything I needed.

Ever been back in some safe comfort zone? Ever walk along alone for miles before finding a hug and a shoulder to cry on? Been in a foreign land before finding someone who speaks your language?

Irreverent and laughing, the two old farts setting up in a tiny building on the back of a large church complex a few miles down the interstate from me immediately set me at ease. My old meetings consisted of cantankerous 80 year old men who didn’t realize their problems until too much Glenlivet and golf dominated their retirement after the kids moved out and they were on their second divorce. I didn’t fit in at all, hell, I was terrified to even mention my orientation. And when I did mention that I was a full-time bartender (read my blog, it’s been a minute since I’ve been an f/t b/t, I quit meetings around my summer hiatus) I was regarded about as undesireable as someone who got a DUI t-boning a bus full of nuns carrying puppies and famine orphans.

So I quit going.

The chair of this meeting is a diva in a good way: she is one effervescent ball of energy and smiles and again, set me at ease and I found myself opening up to share, saying things I couldn’t imagine saying to just anyone. I admitted my relapse after sobriety was hugged and welcomed back to the fold. My parents? Hell, dad doesn’t think I have a problem, but the mother who is a product of a dope fiend and a crack whore does, but she frets and freaks over so many details that I can’t tell her shit now. I work in a bar, I don’t have anyone beyond an ex-drug addict to confide in, nobody was there to really reach out to when the going got tough.

It’s nice to know that someone out there doesn’t view a relapse as the end of the world, and that it’s all about being on the bottom going back up.

I’m not materialistic, I like nice clothes but rarely shop and can do amazing things with discount bargain bin finds, but seeing some hip and funky dressed chicks there did help too….maybe being the new queer on the block won’t be scary, it’s hard to select a sponsor when you’re pretty sure they’re all senile or have fucked their sheep and or cousins.

I’m glad to be back here, for sure.



About Malachi the Drink Slinger

Finally transferring to that four year school in January, my goals made, my life set, the blinders dropped, my past signed and sealed, my future bright and airy, a writer, a thinker, a feeler, someone who is enthralled by beauty, an artist worth slightly more than two shits, a lover, a fighter, a person on the way to become the person I have always wanted to be....

One comment

  1. Best of luck, sir. As I read this I was thinking of something you mentioned in an earlier post . . . those broken pieces of colored glass being shaped into a beautiful mosiac. (“What is broken can be made whole,” you said.)
    Keep writing, . . . I sense a book beginning here.

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