I sit here. Day 4 of isolation. So many thoughts, from ptsd to loneliness, abandoment, fear, anxiety. I thought I could do it all. I thought I had it all, I did. I had it all. And in a moment I was silanced. Silenced by a virus. Like tape around my mouth. Like a sock shoved deep into my throat. My breathing labored, my eyes dilated. I was back in the place I fought so hard to get away from. For two years I laid in bed most days, fighting to stay alive and one day I woke up and I didn't feel as sick, but my brain told me I was, so I medicated. Day in and day out a fog settled over my mind, I didn't want to be awake for my body ached of the memories. The joints in my body sore and tired, it hurt to move, to think, sleep. If I could just sleep for a little longer I would make it until tomorrow. Tomorrow I would get up, tomorrow I would fight, tomorrow would be my redemption and I would be saved. Tomorrow I wouldn't take as many pills, tomorrow I could look in the mirror and see beauty. And everyday I could only think about tomorrow. For I was living today only to get to tomorrow. Only tomorrow was getting farther and farther away-- like water slipping through my hands. It rushed over my palms and through my fingers and yet it felt slow and warm, comforting me and easing me through this day. But the calm, the slow, it didn't last as long today and everyday went slipping by. The peace, the sleep now haunting. The more I slept, the more exhausted I became and the less enjoyable it became. I found myself praying for sleep to get away from sleep. After many, many sleep filled nights and days, I awoke one day to look at my phone. I had take 17 steps that day. Although my brain was still in a fog, I could see clear as day. 17 steps. I took the TV out of the room that day. For tomorrow had come. I cut the pill in half that night and for 1 long year I suffered through shaking, sweating, double vision, the pounding in my head and the every noise beckoning me to just quit. It didn't happen every night, I would have nights that felt like a long sigh, like a walk on the beach with my feet in the sand, like a cat stretching in the sun. And a night or two later the head shakes would start up and so returned the surrounding feeling of, "what was I doing here?", "How had I got here?" and "When would this be done?" On good days I could drive my highschoolers to school, and once I looked up "Celebrate Recovery Meets Here. I had been there, I knew the drill. I'm not in control, Work the steps, and on and on. So one night I pushed the double doors open and like a warm breeze, like a long, deep, full breath one foot stepped in front of another. I had found my home. I found people who loved me. For one evening, I could share these secrets with this group and no one judged, no one laughed, and they too had these same challenges. It was a moment I needed just to go into the next few months turned into years breathing became easier, the little orange pill once used to help me not be angry at cancer, used to help me not be sad at what I had lost. That little orange pill that wouldn't let me laugh or cry, wouldn't let me stand or speak-- it faded into the dark. And so now here I was learning how to laugh, how to cry, how to stand on my own feet and how to speak my truth. The learning to laugh came easy-- seeing my kids walk through the trail and into the house. And learning to cry-- never far from this sensitive girl's heart. I cried at church and with women from my Wednesday night Bible Study. I cried at the alcohol ruining my love one's lives. I cried to God and sometimes tried to cry away from God. Anger also came in quickly. I could find anything, at anytime to be angry about. Alcohol was the easiest. I could get mad at alcohol for ruining other people's lives and it had this way of lying to me that because they abused alcohol, then it was ruining my life. I found another set of double doors, on these it was labeled "Al Anon". I walked in full of tears and anger. I walked out with phone numbers for life long friends. I felt the need to return to Celebrate Recovery. I needed help relearning to feel and my biggest lesson to relearn was just around the corner...
