Today, I had to tell my group my story.
One's story is basically what ended you up in rehab, and everyone's at least got to share their story with their small group. My group, the blue group, includes a lot of testosterone. Needless to say, I was terrified. Starting with the day I was born until the day I walked in this door, my life hasn't been nearly as challenging or painful as some of the stories I've heard here. And these guys, who I'm growing to love like family, sat for 30 minutes and listened to my pathetic, dorky, tale of woe, basically the script of Hairspray, had Tracy Turnblad turned to the bottle instead of Link Larkin.
But what I love about this joint, or "the clink" as my brother affectionately calls it, is that we're all in this mess together, using some kind of substance to numb or hide or kill our (and this word is incredibly popular here) feelings.
So I finished my story, with the anti-climactic, "And that's how I ended up in rehab" and these men, one of whom wears hunting gear every day and calls me "Left Wing", applauded and hugged me.
And then they asked me what a blog was...