You Never Arrive

The sun sank behind the Atlanta skyline as I drove to my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It was an assignment for my psychology module, a chance to observe a small wedge of an addict's existence beyond sterile hospital walls. At this particular alcoholic refuge, where none of us wore starched white coats or latex gloves, I found it impossible to maintain the role of an inquisitive onlooker. Instead, I became immersed in a rite of passage where old and young, suited and tattered, tattooed and straight-laced voluntarily surrendered to the same vulnerable status. We each had separated ourselves from bustling ...