This last round, I had amassed nearly 60 days of clean time. Not clean "recovery" time, meaning there were no meetings, stepwork, sponsor's discussions, etc. Nearly 60 days of living life on my terms. Not life's terms: My terms. This is not a winning recipe for recovery or sobriety.
Gratitude comes and goes, came and went. This is the key to staying sober. Maintaining a sense of gratitude. As well, my ego is so strong, so powerful, such a long time protector of my soft, chewy centre. It can't help but come pulsing forth like some twisted, snakeskin wearing Grendel. Keeping all those who would dare to hurt me at bay, but in its sad, misguided efforts, turns his poisonous strength against me, trying to protect me from the very feelings that would save my life.
Today was painful... physically, emotionally, intellectually. My heart hurt today. From the pain I've inflicted on myself. Today, my family was wrapped around me so beautifully. I couldn't help but feel so much shame at what I've put them through, and how they don't deserve any of my bullshit at all. At all.
Today my body ached; my stomach ached. My heart thrums like a gyroscope, slightly offcentre, yearning for a true centre. A centre revealed only by months of sobriety. Not two days.
My wife is under a lot of pressure. Financial from my own errant ways, and every other kind of pressure you could imagine. She is under a lot of pressure to abandon all hope - hope that wears thin after four years of same ol' same ol'... Pressure from even her own self.
It is hard. I put her in this position. I have to sit here and let the clock tick, praying for the ability to make the right choices at this moment in time. I can't fast forward this clock. Tick tock, tick tock. Day two.
Like I said, nearly 60 days thrown away. I took my will back, as they say, with a vengeance. Not "Thy will be done," as it should have been, but "My will be done." My will threatens to kill me.
It is so hard. Her whole family wants her to leave me. I don't blame them. You can't blame them. They love her and try to show it in their own way. I love her and show her by leaving every couple months. I can't leave anymore. This is it. I have begun to abandon any hope at becoming the man that I know I can become.
I remember when I told my boss back in the day that I was chasing the dragon and working at Canada Place while I was doing it.
"What!?" he said. "But you do such good work... You can't be doing that shit!"
"But I'm coasting by on about 20% of my capacity boss," said I.
"Yeah, but your 20% is better than most peoples' 100!" said he, and I believe I have carried that little rationalization close to my heart all this time. Full of shit. Full of shit.
My mom... God bless her heart and soul and fire and fear and love and hate and shame and shine.... God bless her for all that she was and continues to be.
"Your word is no good," she said. "That is all that you are Shell, that's all that you have" she said. "You are your word."
<sigh> My word. So many words. So much bluster and bluff... So much protestation, exhortation, rationalization.
Only way to change it, is to change it.
So today I'm reminded about what unconditional love looks like. And what conditional love looks like. I am grateful for unconditional love. So grateful that I will commit to memory just how painful it is to look in the mirror at what I saw the other night, how painful it is to be there, out in the bush, cramped in the back of a truck, alone, in the rain, knowing my children, wife and family are all home, doing their level best to live life while I am doing my level best to subvert it... turn it on its ear and hide from all that is good.
I heard tonight that I wrote somewhere that I nearly raped someone. Funny. How even though reality is bad enough, people still have to conjure up ghosts and shadows and bullshit and hate and venom to make it just a little bit worse.
The only thing I'm guilty of raping is this poor person inside of me, the one who quietly suffers the pain of 30 years of addictive behaviour. This little kid in me who cried long into the night, missing his dad, wanting his mom to be Sandy Duncan... wishing that war and hate would just go away. Wishing that booze and drugs weren't part of his idealistic little life.
Oh well. They were. Can't change the past. But for the love of all that is holy and good and true and real: I CAN change it now. I CAN change it today. I buried my face in the pillow and sobbed for many years. Crying for my daddy to come save me from our little poor life. Crying for God or Jesus to show some pity on our little poor life or little poor me... Chimakinapeesis. Poor little boy.
Time to let that little helpless boy relax and grow up. Time to take the helm with meaning, with heart and for all the right reasons.
I was forced to be a grownup so young, so young. I think I must have this big fucking chip on my shoulder that says "fuck being a grownup."... Well fuck being a using addict. Fuck being an untrustworthy asshole. Fuck being a victim of my circumstances.
God has never abandoned me. I know this with every fibre of my being. I have felt his touch even after days of numbing inhalation and being hidden behind curtains, dank and dark with must and spooge of all kinds. Those times, it as though I open my eyes at the end of a long, eyes closed tantrum, kicking and screaming, running and running and hiding and hiding... Open my eyes, blink once or twice, and realize the sun shines still, that my heart beats still. That those deep feelings of love and compassion and empathy and kindness cannot be snuffed out. That there they live, in my veins, with their captain, my heart.
Love to all tonight. Especially to you T. and S. and J. and M. and N. and D. and L. and S.L...
oh and you too Safflick!
S.
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