Category: The Past

A Mass In The Trees

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Photo Jun 02, 9 31 35 PM

In bed, my eyes open and look upward. The world is white and dry like the paint that coats the ceiling. I turn my whole head to look at the bedside clock instead of moving each eyeball in its socket. 6:48AM. The world is still lighting up and the overcast hue of a Portland morning bleeds out from behind the red bed sheet that has served as my curtain for almost a year. I lay there, unmoving, until 7:02AM, when something shifts. My foot, or my thigh, I can’t remember. My own body, now separate from my head, pulled its legs from between the sheets. Stepped into dirty jeans, piled on the floor beside the bed. The pants rose up around my ankles without obvious help from my hands.

I stare into my mirrored face in the bathroom. Flecks of make-up and dust surround my reflected portrait. I look tired. Old. Worried. I think I need saving. I need a blessing. I need someone to hold their hand out over me and make me well. A brush to paint over the dark circles of my eyes and make me appear fresh and young. I need a priest.

As a child there was a magic in the church. The clergy. I still remember the robe, a long green smock with gold threads, that Father Kraus used to wear as he billowed back and forth across the altar of St. Charles Borromeo in Brooklyn Heights. My mother singing out in the folk choir as I sat in the front right pew, on my knees, waiting. Not for salvation or peace, but to be heard. The smell of something ancient and holy. The hollow cold of the marble and stone. Each face, frozen, in its station of the cross. Back then, I believed in something. I’m not sure it was Jesus, but that church, in it’s ethereal enormity, made me feel as if I were part of something larger than my body, two arms, two legs, and a head. I prayed. I knelt at the statue of Holy Mary, her eyes cast to the floor, just to the left of the lamb that bowed at her feet. Mother of God.

Father Kraus is dead and I am in Oregon. I walk out of my apartment and drive to morning mass at St. Ignatius on Powell Boulevard, which in stature, has only a fraction of St. Charles’ dignity. I haven’t been in a Catholic church in years. The light is yellow and everything is as gold as idols. Old biddies in beige shoes and nuns in habits chant the rosary and I don’t belong here. I could not belong here. I entered my pew and sat, eyes closed, and let the sound wash over me. A bell chimes. Enter the priest. His robes are purple and stiff, unlike Father Kraus’, who upon his entrances appeared a holy wizard. I allow the routine of the service return. The call and answers, the prayers, the kneeling, then standing, then kneeling, then standing, then kneeling, then standing again. I swallowed my communion, but, it didn’t taste the same. I genuflected leaving the pew and my knee hit the floor with force before reverence, there will be a bruise.

On the steps of St. Ignatius, I felt as empty upon my exit as I did when entering the heavy door into the stale, sour air. Outside again, new breath moved in my lungs and Oregon sky pulled me closer. There are mountains nearby.

At the trail head, leaves crunch under my feet. The trees arch around me like long arms, bending so slightly, to hold me to the path. A chilled gust of air moves their last leaves, ushering me forward. I walk in quiet, the sun burns off clouds and beams of light search for the ground through the canopy. Pine needles dance in circles as they fall to their soft beds, made of their fallen comrades. Fall color cascades. The earthen smell of damp moss reminds me of the wet cold smell of St. Charles. The landscape opens up as I near the clearing and the wind echos like my mother’s footsteps on the marble.

I walked for miles. And became a part of this church. Stopping at its stations to sit on stumps and draw air into nostrils, flaring and alive. At the top of Powell Butte, the sky is open. Mt. Hood is raised in the east like a statue. The sun cradles its peak like a halo, and a soft ring of clouds hangs at the crest, shrouding it in white and blue, like Holy Mary. A beam of sun cast to the Earth, just to the left of the lamb that bowed at her feet. Mother of God.

 

(A Mass In The Trees is an excerpt from my essay collection: The Ascent, And Other Essays.)

 

Bitter(s).

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I sit at a bar shaped like a horseshoe and I order soda with Angostura bitters.

My 12-Step friends will hold the bitters against me — the same way they do when I lick the side of the vanilla extract bottle while I’m baking. I decide I don’t care.

I’ve been waiting for this.

I sit across from a hipster-geek in a wool, skull cap. The weather’s too warm for that, but, in Portland, no one cares. The bartender showcases a tequila bottle I don’t recognize for two drunk women at the end of the bar. They snack on fried food and chew with their mouths open and they don’t realize how old they look, bat-bat-batting their eyelashes and laugh-laugh-laughing at something the bartender says, but, everyone knows without hearing — it isn’t funny. Their husbands are outside smirking and smoking cigarettes. They turn to gawk at a group of three, tall twenty-somethings who walk by in patterned leggings that hug their perky, little asses.

I hammer my straw down into the ice, like I’m breaking something up. I stir — like there’s whiskey at the bottom of my glass. There isn’t. But, I continue eyeballing the good shit on the shelf.

I pass this bar every day. I look in its big, rectangular windows. Behind my own reflection, I see smiling lips that leave blots of red lipstick on the edges of tumblers and the tips of little, black straws. I wanted this — to sit here. To feel it. Soft leather. My purse dangling from a hook at my knees. I wanted to breathe out. — A release. A homecoming. My heels drawn up against the sides of a bar stool. — I’ve waited.

The perfect conditions. The right amount of cloud cover. The slice of evening right before the Saturday crowds filter in through the angled, double doors. A hum, a quiet energy — like something might happen. But it doesn’t.

I can’t explain it. — It’s not what I wanted.

The hipster-geek doesn’t look up from his smart phone, even when his hand searches along the bar for his drink, which, I am certain, is an old fashioned. The older women, who think they’re young, wave their hands back and forth. Pinot gris sloshing at the sides of their glasses, just barely contained. The bartender reaches for his bar rag, but, in the end — doesn’t need it.

I ask for my bill.

“All you had was soda. Right? We don’t charge for soda.” The bartender walks away from me. So, I thank his back. This is what being castrated feels like — I imagine. Suddenly, I’m worth even less than the dollar it cost for me to keep the seat warm.

Whatever it was I was hoping I’d feel — I know now — I can’t anymore.

The chewing, cackling hags. The lechers with cigarettes that dangle from their lips. The bartender’s display of insincerity and faded tattoos. The smell of spilled beer and dirty mop water. It’s hardly a return to the days I used to live for. — His hand grabbing for mine, while we poured over menus, the sun sinking into another river. Here, I’m lonely. And, the wood of this bar is scratched.

At home, I crawl into bed and I lay very still. I bury a feeling I didn’t know I still had.

I just wanted a moment in the bar. But, the moment’s gone.

Rain taps the window and the cat swats the venetian blind and I miss things I haven’t missed in a long time. Adam. And New York. And our railroad apartment. And they way the sun spilled over Nassau Avenue in the summer when I was twenty-five.

Full Dis(closure)

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PrideandPrejudice (1)

I spent my weekend vomiting. Et cetera.

Portland’s infamous stomach bug claimed me as yet another one of its victims.

So, if you find any typos — Whatever. I don’t give fuck. — I’m struggling to to keep my eyes open after a long, dehydrated day at work, hustling students around a career fair.

However, I did have a poignant, little moment as I exited the building at 6:15PM, nearing collapse. One of the bratty girls, who I’ve never been too fond of, sat against the steps and whined to her comrade: “I know it’s for the best. We just weren’t working. I don’t know if he even loved me. But, I just wanted some closure. What a fucker.”

Usually, I find the vapid complaints of all the 20-something students I work with amusing. Their drama reminds me of the many reasons being an adult is so fucking amazing. Their day-to-day bullshit is proof that rising above the petty nonsense of young-womanhood is totally worth it. But, today, I sort of wanted to sit down on that step with Bratty McBratkins and commiserate.

I hear lots of women my age talk about it: Closure. Getting it. Wanting it. It’s a word that’s followed me around like a sad puppy through all my break-ups. I never get it. I always want it. Like a pouty tween, I too want to sulk with my head in my hands. But, I don’t. Big girls know better. Or do they?

I mull it over. And, I decide I’m not sure.

What I do know is — you have to say what you need to say when you have the audience. Once the show is over, it’s too late. Most of us seek closure way after the fact. It’s the band-aid we try to affix to something that we’ve already broken. Real closure is preemptive. And, it takes two.

Sometimes you don’t get closure. It’s that simple. You can’t always get what you want. Big girl stuff. You write a note. You send an email. Maybe you’re a creeper, and you show up somewhere to ambush your ex and act like it’s a coincidence. But, even then. — No dice. The end is much like it was in the beginning, before things totally sucked — it requires two consenting adults.

Tired, weak, and completely puked out, I walk down the remaining steps and out to the front of the building. I can still hear Bratty McBratkins whining. And, it dawns on me that, maybe, I’m a bigger girl than I thought I was. This time around, I don’t really care about closure. I realize — closure isn’t a goodbye. It isn’t feeling better. — It’s accepting what’s done. And you’ll only find that acceptance within.

Full disclosure: I wish there were more words to run over in my head. I wish he’d said “Goodbye.” Better still, I wish he’d said “Don’t go.” But, when you walk, you don’t get to decide what happens next. You don’t get to decide if he thinks you’re worth fighting for — you can only decide that you’ll fight for yourself. Closure is like those Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books. You won’t always pick the best ending. I’m too old to sit on the steps and whine about it. It’s done.

Tomorrow, Ms. McBratkins will have a cookie waiting for her in my office. Because, I get it. I may be heartsick, but I’m not heartless. And, my 20-something gal-pal may not be able to process her heartache just yet, but, God-bless-‘er with her young, lil’ metabolism — she can still processes the sugar and carbs like a champ.

 

Feeling In A New Era

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Photo Apr 27, 3 47 56 PM

I wait for the blow. — But I’m older now. — It takes its time.

I keep thinking about my old roommate. We’d blast Tori Amos and fucking emote. We’d lay all our shit out there. 20-Somethings with nothing to prove. Back in NYC, we’d suck down fat joints and take swigs out of cheap bottles of red wine in our Alphabet City apartment. We fucking felt it. I’d play my guitar and she’d play her keyboard and we sang in a language we both understood. We’d look at each other and we just knew: It was all out there. — We made something.

My emotion hasn’t made anything in years. I’ve poured all my pain into cleaning kitchens — scrubbing out sinks. In my apartment of 3 1/2  years, I have nothing on the walls, save for the dried roses that hang from a smoke alarm, given to me by an ex on Valentine’s Day, years ago. — And, yes, I know. — Bad Feng Shui.

While I’m sure no one wants to hear it from a spry, 31-year-old — I feel fucking old. And, even though I’ve been diffusing citrus oils in my apartment to keep myself from having a psychotic break, I still expect the living room to stink like moth balls and old soup. If I didn’t work until 6PM, I’m certain I’d be eating dinner at 4:45PM every night.

Monday, I sat on my stoop crying. I dyed my hair red and, in the sun, it looks like my head is on fire. It feels that way too. I planted some seeds. I don’t care if they live through the summer or not. I just need something to set down roots. I need something that’s alive to break the surface. I’m tired of waiting for things to grow. And now, I have all this dirt on my hands.

I got an unexpected call from someone struggling with their sobriety. For a minute, I felt like a fraud. Hours before, I was thinking about picking up a bottle of bourbon, and, suddenly, I found myself describing all the things I do to keep myself sober — to someone else — like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. I’m convincing. I told him — it’s worth it. That, I’m better for it. And, for a minute, I am. Better.

When I hang up the phone, the evening sun’s crept in through the window like my stalker. I’m still sitting in the same place. I haven’t run from the hurt yet. But, my mascara has, and I look like the poster for American Horror Story: Asylum. Sure enough, it’s 4:45PM, but, I won’t be hungry for dinner tonight. — The break-up diet is the world’s best kept secret. — You heard it here first.

I decide to snuggle up to the cat and play Tori Amos through the speaker. I channel a younger version of myself. I mourn her and all the feelings that, once, came to her so easily. I emote — sans my friend and the fat joint and the wine. I try to feel. And, this time, I don’t do it over a sink. But, I end up just talking myself in circles, trying to convince myself of something that isn’t true. I have never been a good liar.

So, to keep myself straight, I re-read my checklist:

  1. Drop off the key to his place.
  2. Drive directly home.
  3. Get on your knees.
  4. Pray for Jackie’s Strength.

 

 

 

 

Strange Communion

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Photo Apr 01, 5 11 18 AM

A year ago, I wrote a birthday essay in a vain attempt to convince you that I hadn’t completely failed myself at age 30.

I year later, I find myself wondering: What does it mean to fail yourself? And, what brings us back from the edge? — I’ll admit, I’ve been heady.

Recently, I was asked: What do you believe? And, as I made numerous attempts to pen a witty, annual retrospective, jovially escaping all my unstructured thoughts and feelings, I kept returning to that question — What do I believe?

I stare at the wall. I avoid your eyes. I want to tell you. I just can’t articulate the concept. And, it frustrates me when I can’t make my language speak to you. It should be easy. Hearing each other. Understanding. We are comprised of beliefs. Beliefs make us up. They are the dark matter that hold our cosmos together.

Beliefs. An army of them. — An onslaught. — Learned beliefs. Inherited beliefs. Lost beliefs. Stolen beliefs. Hurtful beliefs. Freeing beliefs. Soulful beliefs. Selfish beliefs. Intoxicating beliefs. Lucky beliefs. Fateful beliefs. Loving beliefs.

Too many beliefs to explain or unlearn. All patched together in a ratty quilt of celestial protection. — One square informs the other. But, get this — they’re not all believable. How can that be? I hear you wondering. Unbelievable beliefs? To you, it sounds absurd. But, is it? Does it make me a fraud? A fool? The wolf in sheep’s clothing? Am I a liar? A tyrant? A moron? Maybe.

But, whatever I am, I own it — this odd menagerie of soulful things — they make up my spiritual life. And, I won’t risk ridicule. I won’t offer up the only thing that’s allowed me survive. I have reverence for my strange communion.

Prior to getting clean, I’d stopped believing altogether. I was angry. I lived in my own, sad ceremonies. And, even those small, broken beliefs helped me to save myself.

I’m sober when I should be drunk. — It isn’t believable. But, it’s true. Certain faith makes it possible for me to be OK without having to be wasted. But, even as I walk on this solid, stable ground, I end up taking a few steps backward. I revisit the old, angry places. Some beliefs are hard to abandon, even with time and wisdom under my belt. Even with all my heroes and my heart.

We cannot always be everything we believe in.

That would be enlightenment. And, I will be the first to tell you that I am still a student of myself — of you. And, after another year of introspection, I’ve come to understand that the same belief that you once thought would sink you, will be the one that saves you.

So, what do I believe?

I believe in whatever spirit guide, constellation-riding, woo-woo-hippie-fuck-savior got me this far. It was enough to save me. Though, I never did see it, face to face.

But, it was never seeing that made me the believer.

 

*Artwork from Be Here Now, By Ram Dass*

The Woman Behind The Curtain

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Photo Mar 17, 9 58 37 PM

I make it to Oz.

I pull back the curtain. And, there she is — the Wizard.

It’s fucking weird. — Finding the truth. Getting back home. Realizing you’ve survived. Knowing you’ve found something worthwhile.

Behind my curtain? — An unexpected love. A great, new job. Stability. — Benchmarks of a life that, a few, short years ago, I never thought I’d be living. But, here I am. And instead of sitting back and drinking it all in like a nice, Jameson 18 year — I find myself peering down the yellow brick road again.

Because, if 3 clicks of my heels brought me here — where will 10 clicks take me? What’s left that still needs fixing? How can I be better? I need it. More happiness. More success. Brains. Heart. Courage! Just, more.

I make calculations. When will the next tornado hit? And, I wonder, is this how I’ll keep my life in Technicolor? By chasing storms?

It’s an obsession. The relentless quest to repair all my broken bits. — There’s no rest for the weary. The moment I reach a milestone — it’s back to the drawing board. Don’t you know?! If you’re happy, you’ve missed something. There are flying monkeys everywhere!

It’s tiring: Finding new flaws, failings, and apologies that need making. I’m all for self-discovery, but, I can’t have my life be an unending Mea Culpa. I don’t want to walk around with an oil can for the rest of my days.

Sometimes, you have to let go. Of everything. Even the things that, at one point, held you together. I’ve learned to be wary of the places where I’ve bled.

The cardinal rule of 12-Step: If you want to keep it, you’ve got to give it away. It’s part of the deal — returning the favor. And, I’ve learned that everyone gives back differently. We all come out from behind our own, different curtains. We all reveal something unique. Some of us talk. Some of us listen. Some of us write. Some of us usher our friends and family into safe places when things go south. Every path you can choose is a worthy one. So, you don’t need a map. You just have to see what’s right there in front of you. It’s not going to be perfect. But, it gets us home.

How many clicks of our heels will it take?

Depends on who’s behind the curtain.

 

 

Start Here.

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Photo Mar 03, 9 21 58 PM

Don’t think. Just start.

While scrolling down my Facebook feed recently, I saw a post from an old pub acquaintance. He announced that he’s been sober for a year now. Back when I first got clean, he’d sent me a message asking me how I did it. I replied: “I have no fuckin’ idea — Just start. That’s all I did. I just started.” I never heard from him again.

It’s a tall order. — Just waking up one day and deciding to do something that’s hard. It takes guile and gumption. And, it takes a certain level of positivity — which is perhaps the most difficult thing for any addict/alkie to cultivate.

Greeting the day warmly has taken lots of practice. I’ve never once woken up and thought to myself: “The world is my oyster!” I was an awkward, chubby kid and I remain an awkward, not-so-chubby adult. Despite my best efforts, those feelings of childhood inadequacy still follow me around like a stray cat. For much of my adult life, I’ve written things off. I learned, a long time ago, I might as well give up before starting, because, really — what’s the point?

Even after getting sober, I still wasted time and effort, highlighting my own failings. It’s hard to find the good in things when you’ve become accustomed to looking for the crap. And, after years of defeat, I considered throwing in the towel, but, even though it took me until the 11th hour to lace up my bootstraps — I did.

Fast forward a few years and I’m finishing up my last week of work at my current job before transitioning to an exciting, new one. I still have to remind myself that starting over is a good thing. But, sober or not — experience or none — change is hard.

The longer I’m off the sauce, the more I see how preparing for the worst all those years has informed my world view. It’s halted my progress and it’s put the kibosh on some of my dreams. While I was looking for all the potential missteps and failures I might encounter, I missed all the things at which I absolutely kick-ass. And, as it happens, there are quite a few of those. Back then, as an active addict, I was sure that all that could go wrong — would go wrong. So, I never started anything. I held tight and waited for change.

Not this time around.

I printed out the manual for my new job and I sat on my couch, geeking out, as I poured over forms and procedures. I caught myself thinking — “Oh shit. This is gonna be good.” I forgot — getting genuinely excited is a crazy high. So, I allow myself these positive thoughts like an evening nightcap, even if my mind is still at work, pulling me toward the rabbit-hole of self-doubt. I have to remember: We can earn our place in the sun, but, to stay there, we have to stop searching for the dark places.

Sometimes, a retrospective is in order. I try to remember that I arrived at my current work position, just shy of nine months sober, fresh out of rehab. A darkness was draped over my shoulders for months. I felt like a failure. But, I kept telling myself: This is it. You have to start over. This is what it takes. Just start here.

Yes. Start here. Even if the odds are stacked against you. If nothing else — do it for the buzz. There is something incredibly intoxicating about it — starting over. There is something wild and reckless about feeling your fear and choosing to move forward anyway.

After all, things do change. One day sober can turn into a year. And, a lousy job can turn into a bitchin’ career.

So, just start. That’s all I did. I just started. But, really, I have no fuckin’ idea.

 

An Unseasonal Sun

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Photo Feb 18, 5 33 21 AM

I had to find it. — All things go.

In 2012, when I first got sober, I played Sufjan Steven’s album, The Avalanche, upwards of a thousand of times while I drove my car all over Portland, inhaling and exhaling countless Parliament cigarettes. Smoke trailed from my nicotine stained fingers, out of the rain-spotted-car-window, into the wet Oregon air. The song “Chicago,” in one of its three album versions, was always on repeat — singing out an impossible promise — “All things go.”

Back then, I was sure — nothing was ever going to go. Not the feeling of dread, or the pain, or the loss. And, certainly not the heaviness of that world. In the early days of sobriety, everything felt so permanent. But, in my car, with my windows rolled down and my cigarettes and my Sufjan, I clung to the few, small things I did have. And, those little bits allowed me to hold the small belief that, if I just kept driving — eventually — I’d arrive somewhere.

Two days ago, and nearly three years later, it happened. — All things went.

I felt some kind of magic pulse through the concrete under my boots. The sky shone a strange hue I’d never seen before. And, in a second, after years of waiting for something I was certain would never come, I returned to a place of surety I’d left behind long, long ago.

After three years of stepping in and out of the same puddle, I stood there, on the sidewalk, in my muddy shoes and I let an unseasonal sun, warm my tired, soggy feet. Inexplicably free from all my old chains, I felt it. — I was no longer waiting. Not for anything or anyone. Not anymore.

It’s all arrived. Everything. And, the things that I thought would never go — went.

The pain dulls slowly. But, its memory is now the innocuous thing that reminds me that I am stronger and more beautiful than ever before. I don’t let tiny words hit me like big arrows. I’ve worked hard. I’ve earned my place. And, in this place — I’m free to just let go.

Of course, there’s the actual letting go. The act of releasing all the crap that holds us captive. — The meaning we’ve assigned to things and people. And, that shit takes time. Time that moves slower than any clock or calendar would have you believe. It requires blood. And, your heart will bleed. My heart bled. For years, red trails followed me from my apartment to my car to my office and back to my bar stool. But, more than ever, here, now, I know — wounds will heal. Blood, clots.

The people and the places I lost along the way — I was meant to lose them. But, every faded face and weathered park bench gave me something. They are the rings of my tree. The substance of my bark. All that time is built into my body and allows me to stand, unmoving, when the wind would beg me sway. And all that blood I spilled — it’s just the old sap I pulled up from an almost-dry land.

Clouds move with the wind off the Cascades. Some days, we are gifted an unseasonal sun.  And, on those days — I drive. I roll down my car windows, and, with almost two years cigarette-free, I blast Sufjan at max-volume. I put my arm out the window and I cut the warm air on the Burnside Bridge with the side of my flattened, airplane hand.

I had to find it.

All things go.

 

 

 

 

On The Ignorance Of Shmoes

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Photo Feb 03, 10 28 49 PM

If you get sober — it’s bound to happen. A shmoe will weigh-in on your recovery.

And, I hope, by then you’ll have grown a thick skin. I hope that you’ll have learned that the only opinion that truly matters — is your own. And, I hope that you’ll have all the tools you need to get past the fact that someone who doesn’t know you or your story — thinks it’s OK to make passive-aggressive judgments about you, your life, and the people who choose to love you.

It’s all part of playing ball.

Though, if you’re wise, being judged will get you thinking. It will beg important questions of you. Like — What is my recovery? Who, beyond myself, has the power to make it legitimate? Anyone? And, how will I thwart attacks from people who just don’t understand?

People who aren’t sober — don’t understand what it means to get sober. They don’t know what it takes. And, they certainly don’t know what it took you. Usually, if they’re still drinking or using, even if they are normal drinkers or recreational drug users, they’re hyper-aware of the fact that you’ve done something they haven’t. Our dark intuition fears what it recognizes. — A highly advanced and amazingly brilliant feature that’s built into our personal self-defense systems. We weigh-in on what threatens us, because it gives us the illusion of dominance and control. — But, don’t be fooled. Erroneous thoughts hide the keys to our power. Which is to say: We can not be harmed by our same-ness — only healed.

One thing that getting sober has afforded me — is the understanding that at no time am I ever completely in control. I fight that assertion, because I am, and always will be — stubborn. But, in many ways, I have become wise. And, in sobriety, I am able to surrender to the judgment of my own mind. I accept that the judgment of others is only a reflection of themselves. I no longer endeavor to define myself for you — it wastes my time. And, I’ve wasted too much time already.

It’s about what I believe. What I know.

And, those of you who sit in judgment will eventually find that, it’s you who are the hot-messes. You’ll put up your armor and insist that the world has been done-to-you, but, I’m here to tell you: That’s just a lie you’re telling yourself. I know better than anyone — we’ve done it to ourselves.

We stay. We have another drink. We do another line. We write pretty lies so that we can read them back to ourselves and pretend they’re true. We wallow in a past that’s done and gone. We relive moments that have lost all their meaning. We create meaning where there is none. And we say it’s unfair when, all along, it’s us who have been standing in the same. exact. place. — I know. I’ve done it.

I’d be a liar if I told you that I don’t judge you too, Shmoe. But, what I say about you between my ears — stays there. I’m a friend of Bill W. — I know about restraint of pen and tongue. But, there will always be an appropriate time for speaking out. For owning our guts. For wearing our skin.

So, throw your words at me. I’ve heard them all before. — I’ve said them all before. My skin is thick. My mind is clear. My heart is sure.

My recovery — it’s mine.

And, Shmoe, there aren’t words you can write, say, or sing that will ever take that away from me.

 

 

 

 

Just My Imagination

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Photo Jan 21, 6 58 59 AM

I still imagine my way back to the bottle. It can’t be helped.

You know the feeling. We’ve all found our way back to something we’ve left behind. Not because we want to slide backwards, but, because it’s necessary to remember certain things before we can move forward. There’s something inherently human about leaning on the things we know — for better or for worse. If nothing else, it’s familiar. Comfortable. The past provides a static level of understanding. A foundation. A trail of breadcrumbs. We’ve been here before — we know it. We’ve mastered the idea of it. And, every once in a while, we have to get close to it again — just to confirm that we still understand. We’re compelled to test the water. We’re curious if things still come to us naturally.

But, like any of the pieces that I’ve left behind — my drinks are only memories I visit. Stories I tell myself. Because, really, there is no going back.

So, instead, I imagine it: Cheers! A birthday toast. A new job. Bad news! I pour a good pour for my crap day — and a better one for my good day. I feel the energy that the cork is suspended in. Then — Pop! All that pressure evaporates. It bubbles over and spills down the sides of the bottle and over my knuckles.

They return to me — moments where I sat at the bar and drank cocktails with purpose.

I’m watching the bartender pull the beer. He paints a semi-circle with his damp bar-rag before he places the glass down with a well-rehearsed sweep of his arm. My partner-in-crime puts his lips to the edge of the pint glass and little bubbles rise up and cling to the tip of his nose. I smile and I sip my bourbon — the kind that’s aged in sherry oak casks. It coats my tongue with wood and vanilla and something else — something smokey, something spicy. My lips curl into a telling smile that, without effort, contains the entirety of this moment. I try to remember why I’m here. Maybe it’s some kind of celebration — or better still — maybe it’s just a regular day.  Either way, I look happy.

Then, I remember. The ending. My face sinks when the very same man who’s handed me my perfect drink tells me that he won’t serve me any longer — not tonight. The same toast to which we raised our glasses will spill on the floor when I slip from my bar stool, looking back at the bartender with a face that is half humiliated and half apologetic.

I wake up on my couch in all my clothes at a strange hour and wonder how the day got away from me. What did I say? Was I mean? Funny? Did I complain about work or the weather? Did I insist I was fine to drive in slurred, sloppy sentences? Next time, I expect the bartender will greet me with the oh-it’s-pitiful-you look as I pony up to the bar. But, I won’t care. This routine. — It’s comfortable.

So, I allow it. I make make space for it. I give in to the bottle. The old one, that still tastes good. I dream about bar stools and other people’s liquor cabinets and white teeth stained with good, red wine. I allow myself these moments. Moments where, eventually, I recall that the time I spent happy and drunk — well, that was imagined too.

So, I find myself back here. In this moment. Because, a trail of breadcrumbs will only take you so far. And, now, here, sober, I allow for my greatest re-imagining. This moment, it’s uncharted. Maybe it’s some kind of celebration — or better still — maybe it’s just a regular day.

Either way, I look happy.