Early summer in Montana, sitting on the dead grass of the city park next to the Rock. Digging into the dirt with twigs, trying to light our cigarettes without getting our lighters taken away. I sat with my legs stretched out in front of me, trying to keep from causing further damage. She sat cross-legged, her body hunched around her sphere of safety. We squinted against the false shine of the sun.

"I don't really like Chris..."

"Me, neither. He reminds me of my ex."

"Yeah, me, too."

Again, in the park, this time pretending that the unforgiving concrete picnic table isn't freezing us through our clothes. We're writing out our fourth steps, confessing the things we've done in our life for which we are the most ashamed. We tentatively offer items from our lists, afraid of scaring each other away.

The park, a little warmer, still dead, still somber. Again, with the lists. "Why I'm Never Calling My Ex-boyfriend Again." "Why I Hate My Mother." "Why I Hate Myself." "Why I Cut My Arm." "Why I Don't Eat."

Looking at us from a far, I wonder what we looked like. Two young women from the college across the street, studying, gossiping. Maybe from a passing vehicle we looked like two completely functional women laying in the sun, enjoying the day, talking about nothing of importance. Every word between us, between that drug addict and that alcoholic, between that bulemic and that self-mutilator, carried the weight of the world...and it still does.