I’ve been in a twelve-step program, or, as they (I mean we) say, “recovery,” for about five minutes. So, I’m obviously ready to make an authoritative set of observations.

I had never drunk vodka for breakfast. Nor injected heroin between my toes. I clung to those horror stories when I first came into “the rooms” (the preferred nomenclature for twelve-step meetings). Why? Dwelling on that species of “rock bottom” helped me deny the fact that my name is James and I’m an addict.

An addict looks for a way out.