*If you suffer from alcoholism and choose to read this, please do not be offended. It is understood that alcoholism is a disease caused by both environmental and genetic factors and this is not mean to target anyone. This is a fictional piece meant to be thought-provoking.*
"Hi. My name is Greg."
"Hi, Greg!"
"And I'm an alcoholic." The room remains silent. Greg continues speaking. "Well, I guess I'm not anymore... at least I don't think I am. Or maybe I am. Maybe that's not a choice for me to make. Maybe part of the punishment for letting yourself dive so deeply into addiction is that... I mean, I don't really know at what point you can claim you're not an alcoholic if you can... Even if the addiction is repressed, even if you haven't taken a sip in years... But I still think about it. And I guess that's what addiction is. The fact that I will always think about it. It's never gone... not fully. Just repressed. So, maybe the label just stains us and no matter how much we try to get clean, we can't remove it... not fully. It's just who we are now..."
The room shifts uncomfortably. A few people sitting in the front row look down at their feet, unable or unwilling to make eye contact with Greg anymore.
Greg looks down at the podium and whispers under his breath, half to himself and half hoping that some few in the crowd would hear him. "I mean... I don't want to be labeled an alcoholic forever." He quiets down for a moment. He crumples a piece of paper he's been holding in his hands, calming himself by the sound of it crinkling. Written on the paper are a few points he was planning to make in his speech but it seems he has abandoned the premeditated sense of order. It feels sickly to stand there and list out all of the great things he's been doing to keep the addiction away, to pretend that he feels amazing and that his life has really turned around for the better. It has, but it also hasn't. There is still that lurking mushy feeling like sludge that always sits at the bottom of his gut, reminding him that there is a piece of him that will never be satisfied unless he gives in. He will never be whole unless he gives in. "Anyways, yeah. My name is Greg and I'm an alcoholic but I'm also ninety days sober. I just got my chip actually. A couple days ago." A few people in the crowd weakly clap in congratulations. "Thank you, thank you," Greg's voice cracks. "It's been a long three months and however many days in change, but I'm happy I've gotten through it... so far. Although I can't say it hasn't been difficult. Near impossible sometimes. I think a lot about the person I was before I got sober. I try not to think of that person as me, more of like an alter ego completely separate from me. It looks like me but it doesn't talk like me, not the way I talk now. It's all slurred and fucked up... but it's always smiling. I thought that was a good way to cope with it. To kind of disassociate myself from that past. But I think I only made it worse because now I gave that part of me a voice. The ability to tempt me, or at least try to. Or maybe that's really just me and I'm trying to place the blame for my weakness onto something else. But that part of me doesn't feel like me. It really doesn't. And when I see it in my dreams or hear it in my head, it really does seem like another being. I know I sound crazy and I'm probably not making much sense... we've all got our demons and here I am standing in front of all of you talking about mine like it's something none of you could possibly understand. But I'm just trying to cope. I'm trying to live a new lifestyle of honesty because I'm scared if I slip up and lie, my demon will get me." Greg's voice catches and cracks into silence. He looks around the room. The crowd of people are now all staring at the floor or the walls, avoiding eye contact. Even the meeting leader is pretending to write something down on her clipboard but he can see from where he is standing that the pen in her hand isn't clicked.
No one is looking at him now. No one except for one man sitting in the back right corner of the room. The man is staring at him intently, sitting upright in his chair with his shoulders firmly pushed down. Greg thinks he must be a newbie with all of that muted hope in his eyes. He seems to be mouthing Greg's words back to himself.
