After receiving my number from the front desk, I found a seat in the crowd.
The atrium was packed, but I managed to find a solo chair.
Chatter echoed across the A-frame ceilings, occasionally interrupted by the shrieks from unruly children.
Their mothers yelling commands in vain.
Recognizing an employee who walked by, I pulled my cap over my eyes.
I kept my stare on the piece of paper in my hand, "482".
A voice over the loudspeaker broke through the ambiance.
"Number 476!"
I sighed as I continued staring at my small piece of paper, wondering how long I would have to wait.
One week tina-free.
And still one outfit to my name.
Sure, I could easily walk into Wal-Mart and steal some clothes.
But that behavior belongs to an old version of me. A version that died that day my children begged me to stop using meth.
So, my new version, someone I had never met, sat waiting for his turn to peruse the nonprofit free clothing store.
This was one of the organizations that participated in my doctoral dissertation.
And now, here I was, a client of the same organization I studied.
Homeless.
Humbled.
Humiliated.
How could I ever accept what I had done with my life?
How could I ever come to terms with the darkness?
How could I ever show my face in this city again?
My loves, that journey of acceptance was long and, at times, painful.
But, as I sit at my keyboard typing this newsletter, I can tell you the suffering was all worth it.
Many of you are still stuck in the shame of what you've done or even what you continue to do.
Not only did we burn our lives to the ground through meth use, we also participated in some dark shit.
Conversations we had that bring cringe now.
Sexual acts that we pray aren't on video.
Comfort in places that seem scary now.
Friendships with people who brought danger to our lives.
How can we move on from this?
How can we quiet the haunting memories?
In my experience, it takes acceptance.
Not just making peace with our past but completely revolutionizing our relationship with our story.
