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Sep. 24th, 2020 06:56 pmThe first meeting is hard.
Hopper sits at the back, not hunched into his seat exactly, just there, unwilling to draw too much attention to himself. He knows he isn't ready to talk. Not yet. He's not ready to introduce himself, he's not ready to tell people he's an alcoholic, he just isn't. And no one seems particularly inclined to push him, which he likes.
But it's still damn hard just sitting here. He listens to the stories people tell, the laughter they share, the woman sitting not far from him who sniffles occasionally as she tries to hide her tears. He isn't sure what he's supposed to do there, if he's meant to comfort her or say something, but in the end he doesn't do anything. He only sits there, hands in his lap, and listens to everyone else.
The worst of his withdrawal symptoms are gone. He hasn't had a drink since that awful afternoon, has been utterly, stone cold sober for twenty days now. The meetings are supposed to help and he figures he's got to at least give them a chance, but sitting there in the basement of the church, Hopper mostly just feels twitchy and uncertain, and going off to the bar after all this seems like a really good idea.
He doesn't. Instead, as the meeting ends and people head out, he falls in step and then lights up a cigarette once he's through the church doors. Never in his life has Hopper been a religious man and that isn't going to change, so he feels strange even just standing here, but this is where he is now. This is what he's got to do.
He just wishes it didn't sit on top his skin so uncomfortably, like a coat that just doesn't quite fit.
Hopper sits at the back, not hunched into his seat exactly, just there, unwilling to draw too much attention to himself. He knows he isn't ready to talk. Not yet. He's not ready to introduce himself, he's not ready to tell people he's an alcoholic, he just isn't. And no one seems particularly inclined to push him, which he likes.
But it's still damn hard just sitting here. He listens to the stories people tell, the laughter they share, the woman sitting not far from him who sniffles occasionally as she tries to hide her tears. He isn't sure what he's supposed to do there, if he's meant to comfort her or say something, but in the end he doesn't do anything. He only sits there, hands in his lap, and listens to everyone else.
The worst of his withdrawal symptoms are gone. He hasn't had a drink since that awful afternoon, has been utterly, stone cold sober for twenty days now. The meetings are supposed to help and he figures he's got to at least give them a chance, but sitting there in the basement of the church, Hopper mostly just feels twitchy and uncertain, and going off to the bar after all this seems like a really good idea.
He doesn't. Instead, as the meeting ends and people head out, he falls in step and then lights up a cigarette once he's through the church doors. Never in his life has Hopper been a religious man and that isn't going to change, so he feels strange even just standing here, but this is where he is now. This is what he's got to do.
He just wishes it didn't sit on top his skin so uncomfortably, like a coat that just doesn't quite fit.
