Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

 The eleven other men around me are seated in a musical chairs-like setup on the alter of our Catholic Church, as the priest makes his way towards me. He is performing a strange foot-washing ceremony that's meant to be an expression of love. Every other guy in our group sits without making a sound. I guess they feel as bugged-out as I do, but the silence starts to eat at me. Someone needs to slice a knife through this tense air. 
  The priest arrives at my feet, placing a bowl of water underneath them before he soaks the towel. 
  "Make sure you get in-between the toes." I smile. 
  A few of the guys chuckle to themselves. I hear, "Oh my gosh, J" come from somebody. But, not everyone finds it funny. I can feel the eyes of the other men burning holes in my face. 
  They can chill out. It was a joke. 
  Until, I have a sudden change of thought:
  Maybe this is supposed to be quiet. It is a sacred ritual of sorts. 
  Whoops. 
  Fortunately, we are the only people in the church right now. I imagine the priest angry at me as well, but he keeps washing without giving me a look. I begin to see the makings of a smile on his face. I let out a brief sigh and am relieved. Until, he gently slaps my feet with the wet towel. 
  
  I'm an idiot. 




  We are a group of a dozen men in a two-day church retreat. I was raised Catholic, but I chose to stop believing in any organized religion back when I was thirteen and my Mom had given me the choice of not having to go to church with them on Sundays. However, back then, it wasn't so much a matter of non-believing as it was getting to sleep in. And I love to sleep. I can sleep for days if I don't have a strong, convincing reason to get up. 
  There was a time when there was only one thing that could get me out of bed. It wasn't that long ago, either. It's actually the reason I'm at this retreat: for my living Mom. She had done the women's group and wanted me to join the men’s group. I even took a bible study class with her. Though, we only made it to three or four of the early classes. I owed it to her. She needs a bit of happiness after the hell I had put her through. 
  Shit, … so do I. 


  There are a few other men, besides the twelve of us, who are the group leaders. They had been part of the twelve back at the last retreat, so it's their turn to lead this one. Besides, grazing on a nonstop train of food and sleeping in the church at night, we listen to each other's life stories.
  I've only shared my story to a few chosen people, including my Mom, my therapists—yes, plural—and my brothers at the "rehab ranch" I lived at. It's the story of how I lost loved ones and even myself in the dark depths of addiction. But, it's day-two of the retreat, the last day, and I'm the last to share his life story, and I'm utterly terrified…