After it finishes, I feel weepy and sleepy and alone and very, very young. A man moves to the top of the room, sits in a chair facing the rest of us and starts to speak. ‘I’d like to share my experience, strength and hope…’ What follows is anything but. He credits the ‘guys’ in here with saving his life – the men in these rooms, and the Man Above. Not a mention of a woman, although his body is framed by the giantess in the background. Voices loom from the backs of heads; I can’t see any faces, adding to the surreal quality of it all. There’s a kind of buddy-fraternity quality to the telling, war – hero stories swapped. Who has the greatest scars and, above all, who has the greatest capacity for forgiveness and gratitude and acceptance? – buzzwords the men trade in, with no irony or self-consciousness. One man in his fifties tells of shooting up with his mother when he was eleven; another, aged eight, watched his father throw himself into the canal on his fortieth birthday. His is three days away, he says, and he is terrified. The man on the podium is full of gratitude for all he’s been given since coming here six weeks ago: fellowship, friendship, a kind ear, a warm bed, good food, a soft place, something he’s not encountered in his last three years sleeping on the streets. There are stories of prison sentences: ‘This is better than that,’ one fella jokes. There’s lots of laughter, a jovial sense of a shared experience. The women don’t speak, don’t seem to take up any space. I am welcomed as the newcomer and invited to speak. Wavy lines float in front of my eyes.

Hi, ummm… I had a whiney wine habit, you know? Too many feelings. Oh, and I almost suffocated my son. A surfeit of love, you understand? Too much love. Too much everything, which was kind of fine when I could play a character, you know…?

‘No thanks, I’ll just listen this time.’ Failed actress, failed mother. And my alcohol consumption sounds so pathetic compared to these guys, who’d start their day on an empty stomach, a packet of Rothmans and a naggin of vodka.

Immediately another voice clamours for attention and fills the space. The meeting ends with another prayer: Serenity/Acceptance/Courage/Change/Wisdom. Words that land, though I try to bat them away, words that stir a part of me I did not know existed.

After, coffee is served, and Marietta biscuits waved under my nose.

‘No thanks. Coffee hurts my stomach and keeps me up all night.’

Miss No Thanks. Tommy is laughing at me, his teeny little finger poking me in my stomach. How I long to inhale him and pretend-gobble him up.

After tea and biscuits, we meditate. Breathing exercises. In, out, in, out, like a bellows. Empty, soften, fill. I am panicked, overtired, wired. I want to go home to my babies. I don’t belong I don’t belong I don’t belong.