Your mind starts to skim through the options…not giving a shit, giving a shit, moderating, drinking only on weekends, drinking only beer, only wine, only gluten free anything…
Some days are hits. Some nights are misses. Some are the worst sweating begging terrified end of the line panic attacks lasting for 18 hours. Some are sitting in the sunshine with a full glass, a migraine by 3 pm. Hunger.
Crying, vomiting, praying, begging, all the pain, all the laughing, all the slurring, all the feelings of being unsafe, unsafe for yourself, unsafe around others, all the realizations that it “wasn’t really you” for those 6 hours in the bar, all the knowing you won’t be able to not do the same thing next time. You have no control, you give it away again and again. And the voice comes back, again and again.
You’ve gone back to the house you used to live in, the one where you made 1000 mistakes. The angry man comes in a rush of palpable negativity, yelling at you to get the hell out of his house, that you don’t belong there, his face contorted in disgust, fury, detachment. You say you are just getting a few things, you are scared but your voice stays calm. You are accustomed to trying to seem calm, like everything is ok, so that he will feel ok. And why do you keep going back to that house? Forget the house. Forget the things.
The man yells in your face, then immediately demands that you do not leave without spending time with him. Says not to even think of leaving without seeing him some more. You give in and say you will, though you know it’s a dreadful idea, one that will only lead to a further loss of self. Why are you trying to appease this terrible man? The man walks out of the room.
You gather the things. You reflect on this terrible man. You realize that you are the terrible man.
And that you keep going back to be with him. And that you keep trying to soothe his ego. And that is he is what it’s like to be around you when you’re like that. You’re horrified.
That is what you are like.
The wind blows…. the trees are bare.
You cannot keep going back to this house.
You leave the house and run. 1000 mistakes become farther and farther away. And yet the man, the voice pages you and you find yourself returning the call. You drop that phone in horror, it dangles on the cord in side the booth, line dead, but the voice still comes through.
Run again. Look back over your shoulder, then turn forward again, just in time to see the giant gray wall that has appeared, right in front of you. Not two steps away and there is no more time, no more ground to cover within the land inside the wall.
You hit that wall, scrambling left and right, desperately flailing arms up , trying to reach over the top, there are no hand holds. A light appears behind you, casting a shadow of your own flailing limbs onto the wall, the shadow looks like a stretched out marionette.
A new voice says something softly, indistinguishable, it seems to be coming from the light. You recognize the voice a little, it sounds like a voice you used to hear and to listen to.
The voice reminds you of the dark shadows in the snowy woods, on a parched radiant winter day, blue sky spreading wide, under the pine trees whose branches hung heavy and low from all the snow covering them. You would hide under there cushioned by the drifts and lay down flat.
In the hushed snow fairy world, outside of the tiny raspy patter of snow drops, only the occasional chickadee songs reached within. You could have stayed there.
But now you are here. But at least you’re no longer in the house of 1000 mistakes, making 1000 more. You hope.
You turn around, back pressed onto the cold bulk behind you, squint into the beam, hand half over your eyes.
firstlapsobriety 