Shattered Glass
“Hi, my name is Megan and I’m an addict.” I hear myself robotically mumble. I glance around the
room at cliché catch phrases that plaster the wood-paneled walls. “Don’t stop before the miracle
happens” and “One Day at a Time” hang in dusty frames. I harshly judge the aged faces while
they grip coffee-filled Styrofoam cups. “Ugh, these people are so lame!” I think, almost daring
myself to get up and leave. At 21 years of age, an AA meeting was hardly a fun place to be.
Although I had certainly earned myself a seat in that room, I refused to believe I needed help,
especially theirs. As soon as the painfully long 3,600 seconds were over, I bolted to the car in a
quick escape. My friends turned on the newest Lil' Wayne CD, rolled down the windows and drove me directly towards the dark years.
