It didn’t matter who I was with, how many people were there, what brought us together. It didn’t matter, because I was still alone. Always. They just didn’t get it. How could they? If you gathered up a bunch of men, would you expect them to know what it’s like to be pregnant? They might have some “book learning” about it, or know someone who has experienced it, but they couldn’t really understand it.

But when I go to a twelve-step meeting, I know I’m with “my” people. Sure, there are differences, but we’re all there because we know how it feels to be powerless, and how it feels to think you’re alone.

I remember, early in recovery, I was feeling completely crappy, mostly because (I think), I had taken the drinking out of my life, but hadn’t added much of anything (except meetings) to replace it. I was sitting at a table in the public library, and felt someone, walking behind me, run their hand across my shoulders. Weird. I turned to look, at it was someone I had seen at several meetings. I didn’t know her name, we’d never spoken, I don’t even know if I’d ever heard her talk at a meeting. She smiled and kept walking. And all of a sudden I wasn’t alone.