Thanks to A.J. for asking me to fill in this week. My writing can be found here — it’s free, but you gotta sign up! —Ben Gaffaney

At one of my group therapies in early recovery, we’d kick things off by going around the room to share our strikes and gutters. We took turns admitting our failings and finding moments of grace to celebrate. And every week, Kevin — no idea if that was or wasn’t his name — shared that he didn’t journal, he half-assed his stepwork and was doing his best to weather the arrows from his “old lady,” which is how young heroin addicts in Texas described their partners in 2019. 

I gravitated towards him because I was a model student. I was still trying  to win at recovery, giving heartfelt and meaningful shares at every opportunity, though I wasn’t performative about it. I was honestly giving it my all, admitting vulnerabilities like illegal drunken activities and my deep hatred of my own body, but still in shock from all the turns my life had taken. So it seemed refreshing when Kevin recognized he could’ve done more, that it would have benefited him, and he just didn’t do it. He stayed sober, week after week.

While my sharing wasn’t fake, it was what I was comfortable sharing, and some of those shares have become hard-coded. I can joke about dirtbag behavior with people at work who I’ve known for years, but don’t consider friends, perhaps because it’s a way to make clear I’m not a corporate drone, which is apparently important to me.

But you know what cuts deepest? What I’m most embarrassed by, what I dance around, and don’t joke through? That I’ve been married three times.