Chapter 8 #2
Roger weaves through the streets, and soon, we pull up to the modest brick building that houses my Narcotics Anonymous meetings.
The building looms ahead, its worn facade standing firm against the tide of the city.
It’s unassuming, the kind of place you wouldn’t glance at twice unless you knew what it offered.
For me, it’s a sanctuary and a battleground all at once.
“I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour,” Roger says, his voice breaking through my thoughts.
“Thanks,” I mutter, pulling the door handle and stepping out into the cold.
The room is already half-full when I walk in, the circle of chairs arranged neatly in the center, the scene set to look like an invitation to your vulnerability.
The smell of coffee lingers, mingling with the slight tang of cleaning supplies.
A handful of familiar faces nod in greeting as I take a seat, their silent acknowledgment a small comfort.
Marissa begins the meeting as she usually does: introductions, updates, the steady rhythm of people sharing pieces of themselves they’d rather forget but know they can’t. When my turn comes, I feel all of their gazes, each one carrying a mixture of understanding and hope.
“Hi, I’m Mateo, and I’m an addict,” I begin, my voice steady but low.
“I’m… doing okay. Better, actually.” A few murmurs of support ripple through the circle, and I take a deep breath, letting it infuse me with courage.
“I’ve started dancing again,” I admit, the words feeling both liberating and terrifying as they leave my mouth.
“Just classes, nothing serious, but it helps. It’s giving me something to focus on, a goal to work toward. ”
Jack, an older man with a weathered face and kind eyes, leans forward.
He’s been coming to these meetings as often as I have, and he’s become an acquaintance.
His presence always carries a certain dignity, the kind born from decades of mistakes and hard-earned wisdom.
“Dancing was a part of your life before, right?” he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity and concern. “When you were heavily using?”
I nod, my throat tightening. “Yeah. Dancing was my whole life. Until it wasn’t.”
Jack’s brow furrows, and he pauses as if choosing his words carefully. “Mateo, we’re all rooting for you, but going back to something tied so closely to your addiction is risky. You know that.”
“I do,” I reply quickly, my voice firmer than I expected. “And I’m being careful. I’m not letting it consume me the way it did before.”
Lisa, a petite woman with a no-nonsense demeanor, chimes in from across the circle. “What’s different this time?” she presses, her gaze searching but not unkind. “What’s keeping you from using?”
Her question hangs in the air, and I hesitate, forming an answer that feels true. “Perspective,” I say finally. “Before, I danced because I had to. It was about winning, about being the best. Now, it’s more about finding myself again. Reclaiming something that was taken from me.”
Lisa nods, her expression softening. “That’s a good start. Just remember to keep your recovery first. Dancing is great, but it’s not worth your sobriety.”
The circle hums with agreement, their collective concern both comforting me and giving me anxiety. I nod, forcing a small smile. They mean well, and I appreciate it, but the doubts they’ve voiced are ones I’ve already been wrestling with.
The conversation moves on, each person taking their turn to share.
Some stories are hard to listen to, filled with regret and struggle; others are easier, small victories celebrated in the face of their dark demons.
By the end of the hour, the room feels both lighter and heavier, our shared burdens hanging over our heads.
There was one thing I failed to confess, and it’s settling inside my chest like a weight. I am forming an altogether different addiction, and she has hair that shines like fire in the light.
An hour later, I step outside, the crisp air hitting me like a reset button. Roger’s car is parked next to the building, his silhouette visible through the windshield.
Sliding into the back seat, I let out a heavy sigh. Roger glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes filled with empathy.
“How’d it go?” he asks, his eyes searching my face for answers.
“Good,” I reply, leaning back against the seat. “Tough, but good.”
He nods, merging into traffic with practiced ease. “That’s what matters. One day at a time, right?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, my gaze drifting to the window. The city blurs past, a kaleidoscope of lights and motion. One day at a time. It was a mantra I clung to in the early days of my recovery, even when the days felt endless and the nights lonelier than I could bear.
As we drive, my thoughts return to the studio, to the feel of the music and the rhythm of the steps.
It’s not just dancing. It’s reclaiming a piece of my soul, and this time, I have the chance to experience it in its purest form.
Nothing to enhance or blur it. Each step will be made with my mind and body grounded.
Her face morphs into my mind as my eyes slowly shut, and I imagine I’m reaching out to run my finger over the freckles dusting her nose. I’ve let the drugs and alcohol go, but I’ve found a new high, and it may prove to be just as dangerous.