I walk into the building with a frown on my face. The sound is weird. Almost like electricity running through the walls. It's a faint hum over the pounding of my heart.

I honestly can't believe I am even doing this.

Isn't this recovery stuff for drug addicts?

I am the furthest thing from a drug addict. Now my daughter, on the other hand, she can benefit from this program. She doesn't know it, but I can smell the weed on her. Always have been able to.

We have so many battles though, I tend to pick the more extreme ones to fight her on, or else I'd have no relationship with her at all. Not that I really do now. It's so hard to even look at her. Every time I see her, the guilt eats me alive- gnawing at my insides like a worm, burrowing deep within me. Every single thing that has happened is my fault. My stupidity almost cost me her life.

How am I supposed to move past that? How am I ever supposed to look at her in the eye again?

Instead, I've stopped answering the phone when she calls. It is easier than facing all this crap that seems to flood in every time I see or speak to her. James has been on me to get in touch with her, but I think he knows I need some time. Lately he's been picking up my slack. Plus it is good for them. They've never really been close, and all this is changing that. I just wish it didn't take my daughter almost dying to open all of our eyes.

And that is why I am walking through this door, hoping a program for addicts could help me somehow to move on and get my family back. I don't have high hopes here, but a friend said it could help. Right about now I'm desperate for any help to find my way back to the man I used to be.

The man before Charlotte.

Even thinking her name makes me want to vomit.
With shaking hands, I reach for the door. It creaks loudly as it opens, and twenty-five heads turn in my direction. Four different people get up, but only one heads my way. A thousand prickly needles explode across my body. I fight the urge to scratch. I can't believe I even went through with this.

"Hi, and welcome to Rock Bottom. It's so nice you are joining us this evening. My name is Donald, and if you don't mind, I'll show you around real quick." Donald holds his hand out for me to shake, so I wipe my palms on my jeans and reach for it. Donald has a nice firm grip. It's pleasant, but I quickly let go.

"John," I mutter. "Nice to meet you."

I follow Donald around the large room, listening aptly as he points out the different areas.

"Over here we have dinner. It's available every single meeting, free of charge. Tonight we're having spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread. I hope you're hungry."

I nod, my stomach casually growling as I look over the food.

"Then we will meet over there for our large group," he points at another room, through two double doors. "After large group, we split off into same sex groups for small group. Have you ever been to a Rock Bottom meeting before?"

I swallow. My throat burns with bile. My hands begin to shake.

This is not the place for me. These people are young, they can't possibly understand.

"No." I manage to choke out.

Donald smiles, no doubt sensing my mood,  because he claps me on the back and gives a little squeeze.

"We're so glad you chose us for your first time. It's definitely not as scary as it seems, I promise. Why don't you grab some food and you can sit with me."

He seems so genuine that I can't say no. I fight every urge to turn and run, forcing my feet towards the spaghetti. It smells like Heaven on a plate. My mouth waters instantly.

Honestly, I don't know if I can eat, but my mother taught me to never be rude, so I grab a plate. At the end of the line, I grab a glass of tea and follow Donald to a table with four other guys. The glass is cold against my warm clammy hands. It's almost soothing.

"This is John," Donald says.

"Hi John."

"Hi."

I take a seat and look around the table. There is a guy who can't be over 16, with a blue mohawk parted to one side, a man in what appears to be his twenties in a dress suit, a man in construction gear, covered in splotches of yellow paint, and a man in jeans and a plain black t-shirt.

I feel like the grandpa of the table. Surely none of these men, including Donald, are over thirty. Here I am pushing fifty-five. I've been considered over the hill a while now. My kids tease me relentlessly about how it won't be long before I am using a walker and have fake teeth. Of course, that is certainly a while away.

At least I hope.

The men go back to eating, either not up for conversation or sensing that I'm not. I am not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.

I dig into my spaghetti, robotically eating as I contemplate leaving or staying. On the one hand, I've already made it this far, but on the other, I feel so out of place it's almost worse than the guilt I feel inside.

Right about the time I finish, the other men scrape their chairs back and go to throw away their food. The double doors open, and people start to make their way inside.

"Come on, you can sit with me inside if you want." Donald says, as he stands from the table.

I throw my food away and follow.

Staying it is.

The room we go into isn't as large as the dining area, and there are still only about twenty-five total people.

I take a seat next to Donald and wait silently.

It can't be that bad right?

The lights dim down and a woman closer to my age makes her way to the front podium.

"Welcome to Rock Bottom, my name is Lola and I'm a recovering alcoholic and drug addict. I've been clean since nineteen ninety eight."

I do the math real quick. Almost eight years.

Wow.

"Hi Lola," the room collectively says.

"First off I want to start by asking if we have any new faces tonight?" She looks around the auditorium, her eyes landing on me.

I want to scrunch down in my seat, but how childish would that be? Instead, I raise my hand. My cheeks burn in humiliation from being called out like this.

"Welcome! Now here at Rock Bottom we are one big family. We all have issues and getting together to talk about them helps us to see that not only are we not alone in them, but they don't have to drag us down. The way this program works is, every week we either have a lesson or a share, and tonight we have a special share for you."

I study her as she speaks, wondering what made her get clean.

Was it her children? How the heck can I relate to something like that? I've never even touched a drug before in my life. Hell, I barely take tylenol.

She doesn't look like an addict. Not that I really know what addicts look like, but she looks relatively normal. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Maybe five-three in height. There are laugh wrinkles around her mouth, and a few around her eyes that show her age.

Actually, she's pretty beautiful for a woman my age.

Donald stands next to me, and I snap out of the stupor I've been in. Everyone else is standing. Somehow I guess I zoned out and missed what was going on.

I stand up and look around me. Music starts to play. Softly at first, but increasing in volume. A screen up front shows words and everyone begins to sing.

I don't sing, but I read the words as they come across the screen, and somehow I relate to them. The song is about how we hide ourselves in fear of what people might think.

I've hidden myself out for a while now. The reporters and the news are desperate for a story and I just want some peace to get over everything that has happened. If anyone can relate to wanting to hide, it is me.

Honestly, I am shocked no one here seems to recognize me. Then again, maybe they do and just aren't saying anything.

Who knows?

The story of what my wife did seems to be worldwide now. However, my daughter and her fiance are far more popular than I am. After all, my daughter was the one she'd tried to kill, not me. I was just the idiot who didn't see her for who she was and never saw any of it coming.

Hooray.

A pang hit's my chest at the thought, hurt swirling around inside me and as I bow my head, a single tear slips out.

Man, I've been so blind and stupid.

The lights come back up and everyone sits down. I wipe at my face and bury my hands into my pockets, as I fight the urge to leave again. I am a man. Men don't cry, and they damn sure don't do it in front of people.

Lola comes back up front, this time accompanied by a young man.

"My name is George and I'm a recovering addict for pain pills. I've been sober since two thousand two."

Three going on four years. Impressive.

"Hi George."

"At Rock Bottom we have a chip system. Each chip signifies milestones in our recovery journey. First, we start with this black chip. It's black because it signifies that you realize that a darkness is clouding over you, stealing your joy.  Now, this one chip, is the most important chip of all because this is the first step to recovery. If you have anything you want to work on, come on up and get a chip." The man says, holding the chip up in the air.

Donald looks at me expectantly, but I shake my head and turn back forward. A few people stand up to get their chips.

From that point forward Lola and George explain each chip, until the very last one is given. Some of these people collect chips for ten years.

Now that is impressive.

They offer the black one again at the end, explaining again how it's the most important one. Donald looks at me expectantly again, but I shrug him off one more time. I don't want a chip. I don't even know if I belong here.

A man is introduced for testimony and I struggle to pay attention. My skin crawls with the need to leave, but I am determined to see this through.

I have to, for Nessa. For James. For Jace. I have to change.

*****

At the end, I stand and start to walk off when Donald claps me on the back again. I turn back to him.

"It was so nice having you, I hope you will stay for small group." He reaches out to shake my hand.
I shake it, and force a smile.

"I'm not sure this is the right place for me," I say, looking around the room. "Everyone so far is here for drugs and I don't have a drug problem."

Donald opens his mouth, and a set of perfectly white teeth shine back at me.

"Actually, I am not a drug addict," he says. "My first time I was a lot like you. It's a bit intimidating to sit in a room full of people who we don't think can relate to what we are going through, but it's so worth it. Rock Bottom is for many many issues, not just drugs. Why don't you come to small group this one time and see? If you hate it, you never have to come back. But I have a feeling you won't hate it."

He is so kind, so helpful, I can't say no. So instead, I follow him down a hallway to another room. This time there are only five people, not including me and Donald. I let out the breath I've been holding, calming some. It isn't as intimidating as the room full of people.

Not to mention, it is all men. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind talking to females, but to share what is going on with me, I am not sure I can do that in a room full of females.

I take a seat in the circle and listen as each person introduces themselves. Out of the seven of us, only one is here for drugs. Other people are here for anything from depression to alcohol, co-dependency and control issues. This feels more like a group of people I can see myself interacting with if I have to.
Too soon, it's my turn.

"Hi, my name is John Winters and I'm an addict. What kind of addict, you ask? Well I'm not a traditional addict. I'm not addicted to pain pills or booze or hard drugs. I'm not addicted to porn, or shopping, or even eating. I'm addicted to crazy women."

Just saying it lifts a weight from my shoulders. The room laughs, and I instantly feel calmer.