When I first moved to Charleston after graduating college, I took an unpaid internship for a small advertising agency. To make ends meet, I worked nights at a coffee shop.
That particular coffee shop was situated between an organic food supermarket, a yoga studio, and a day spa. So I never quite understood why it became the gathering spot for members of a local AA support group, consisting mostly of rough-edged men, many of whom were warring with addictions to drugs much heavier than alcohol.
Each evening, among our customers sporting yoga pants and toting canvas grocery bags, the AA crowd gathered on our patio. They smoked cigarettes and slurped coffee and tipped with heavy hands.
There were those who had been sober for longer than I’d been alive. And white-knuckling twenty-somethings just trying to survive rehabilitation by holding their breath. More than once our tip jar was stolen by customers who’d relapsed. One night a regular was found on the steps of the neighboring public library, dead from an apparent overdose.
Some of them opened up to me, their cheerful night-time barista with no lifelong struggles to overcome, no scars on her arms worth hiding. Over the sounds of steaming milk and singer-songwriter tunes, I heard stories of triumph and failure; I witnessed victory and defeat firsthand.
One of my daily encounters was with a man named Damon. He had eyes as stormy as swirling shots of espresso and a jagged voice. His skin was tanned and calloused and thick from years in the sun and bad decisions and worse consequences. I longed to peel back all his layers and see what stories lived inside.
It took months to win him over, but eventually, he let me in. I went from serving him coffee over the counter to bringing it to him at the end of my shift. We discovered each other in between sips of iced americanos.
Damon was the first man I connected to after the conclusion of a painful six-year relationship, the majority of which was spent struggling to get out of it, only to fall back in. I realize now it was my own sort of addiction.
Even though my time with Damon only lasted a few weeks, he restored a confidence in me that was shaken by countless infidelities. He assured me my lack of scars didn’t make me lackluster.
We talked every day until one day we just didn’t. And one day became two. And two became three. When I finally heard from him, he confessed that he’d messed up and had a beer.
I suspected it was probably more than that.
Damon continued to spiral in the only way an addict knows how–down and quickly and out of control–by lying and stealing his way to oblivion until he was finally arrested. And that’s how it ended.
I’ve now hung up my green apron for good, but I miss serving coffee to all those warriors. I miss seeing the fight in their eyes. I miss the connection I had with Damon.
Thinking back, I wish I could have done something to return the favor for the way he filled up my rehabilitating heart that spring. For making me see that some scars are beneath the surface, addictions take many forms, and not all support groups are held in Sunday school classrooms. For helping me break free from my own struggles, even as he was sinking back into his.
And most of all, for showing me how to love not in spite of flaws, but because of them.
Photo credit: LaurenLemons via Etsy
writeamuck 
This is such an awesome post – am reminded of so many similarities from your story and the lesson learned. Great piece of writing, as always!
LikeLike
Thank you so much. I really appreciate that!!
LikeLike
“No scars on her arms worth hiding.” There’s so much beauty in the way that you phrased that.
The writing in this piece is lovely. It touched me on so many levels – the addict in me; the waitress in me; the observer in me; the chooser of not so great relationships, etc. I especially love how you told this story without judgment – toward others or yourself. Karen
LikeLike
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. :)
LikeLike
i also really liked, ‘No scars on her arms worth hiding.’ Also, ‘eyes as stormy as swirling shots of espresso’. Lack of scars definitely does not make you lack luster. You tell this story beautifully, very well written and a wonderful lesson…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Madhura, for such kind words!!
LikeLike
This is such a beautiful post. The lessons you’ve learned about yourself and others are priceless.
LikeLike
Thanks Jen!
LikeLike
You did offer him something just as valuable. Your trust and your ear are more than enough. Relapses are common, he wasn’t ready, there was nothing you could have done. Who knows where he is today? Maybe he turned that train around.
What a beautiful post, I love the innocence and fragility you are so open about with your readers.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!! I appreciate that very much.
LikeLike
Really wonderful reflections here. Thank you for sharing!
LikeLiked by 1 person
you both had your own journeys to take. really vivid engaging story.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Beautifully written. I love how you painted the picture of these men with such honesty, but also warmth. That takes skill and you have it.
LikeLike
Thank you!! That means so much to me.
LikeLike
this was incredibly personal and wonderfully written. I love how the smaller stories and people of our lives tell the biggest tales of who and what we are today.
your last line was a tribute to Damon, I’m glad you got to see yourself through his eyes.
LikeLike
Thank you!!
LikeLike
This was so beautifully written. You captured such a big story in one short post. I confess that my heart fluttered when the essay turned its attention on Damon. As a former barista, something in me remembers the thrill of customer-love.
LikeLike
Thank you! I miss my barista days. It was a great job. :)
LikeLike
There is so much to this post, layers and nuances all skillfully rendered. This is simply gorgeous.
LikeLike
Thank you so much, Natalie. :)
LikeLike
This was a beautiful read.
LikeLiked by 1 person
good matter
LikeLike
Good post. I learn smething totally new and challenging on sites I stumbleupon everyday.
It will always be useful to read through content from other authors and practioce a little
something ffrom other sites.
LikeLike