We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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DAA. When I first heard this abbreviation, my brilliant guess was 'Disaster Ass Anonymous.'
God knows that ninety percent attendance to these meetings would pour in from Arlington, and I am not even talking about the naturally gifted ones, but the many surgically impaired atrocities. Someone really needs to fill up a plea to include squats in the cheerleaders' circus routine.
Anyways, turns out it isn't even close to my target. Even after the hell I went through with rehab, I am being subjected to these public gatherings, which openly celebrate the slack control of nut cracks like me. No amount of coke is worth this effort. On a second thought, a few stashes of Meth definitely are.
Pinning a name badge on my cashmere sweater, which goes against every bit of anonymity– I enter the place, masses like to refer as the holy room of this centre. So much for those lab developed drugs in the other end of the hall.
As the door creaks, all the eyes simultaneously glare at me, making my foot slip behind the line of separation. I am genuinely worried that these drug ridden animals will rip me open if things go haywire. Probably should have sneaked in some crack against the judgement of my sober mind.
It's too late to even run back for my life now. All I can hope is, for this experience to ease a little with every meeting. A total of 24 meetings over the next three months. "Welcome to Drug Addicts Anonymous, Mia."
Actually, I get why these people are reacting in this manner. Withdrawal high is just as dangerous.
I somehow ignore the gazes coming my way, and quietly take a seat next to a middle aged woman. The cross hanging by her neck makes me feel a little safe. She even shoots me a small smile, as if applauding the fact that I decided to come to this meeting. Or maybe I just have this habit of reading more into strangers' gestures, making up for the void left by my own parents.
I hate to admit that I was constantly checking my phone since morning, expecting a call or even something as small as a text message to show that they are proud of me. But I guess, the money transfer in my bank account is almost the same thing. Eh... potato, pohtato.
The next twenty minutes go by in a snap of fingers as each sufferer goes in the middle of the circle, repeating the same mantra; Hi, I am xyz person, drug addict; usually followed by their heavy history, struggling present and the rest of the tabloid stuff.
So, I do myself a favour and plug in wireless earphones, mentally jamming to the electric beats of Akon. I know it sounds crude, but I do join the rest of the party as they greet the person coming up next under the spotlight. Looking at the grey hood covering over half of his face, I get a feeling that he is supposed to be at the theatrics club across the street.
