Walk in to any 12 step meeting anywhere from Boise to Mars and one of the first things you notice is that everybody, everybody, has got a fucking story. Every recovering alcoholic or addict of any kind, any class, any race, religion, creed, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity, profession, every hair color, eye color, weight, marital status and tax bracket has a story.Some of us hide in corners and never tell them. Some of us like the sound of our voices so much that we don’t shut up about them long enough to hear anyone else’s. Some of us write them down with the (secondary) thought that it might inspire something in others (but primarily because we’re sort of shy but crave attention).

And it doesn’t take too long to realize that we are a peculiar people, that our stories, though they differ in the sorry details, are really all the same.  My story is the same as many who have lost less than I have an the same as many who have lost more.  I’m the last guy most people would ever suspect would be an addict. I came from a loving Mormon family.  I delivered the paper, mowed lawns and shoveled snow as a kid. I got reasonable grades.  I was an Eagle Scout.  I was also hopelessly unhappy and confused; doomed to look for a solution outside myself to the problems I had inside.  The first time I tried crystal meth was the first time I ever felt OK inside my skin.