as christmas eve's moon fades into shades of morning gray, the sunrise flirts with the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of light.
in a norman rockwell world, (a.k.a. a world that doesn't exist) the children tumble bleary eyed out of bed, and pounce relentlessly upon the cal-king springs, rousing their equally bleary-eyed parents.
wild bed-heads. hot cocoa steam. ravaged wrapping remains, under the tree are seen.
and the glossiest, shiniest, largest present is saved for last.
as voices lower and chests perk out, the smaller boxes hold the greater interest. the one that holds the keys to that sweet, sweet ride. or the one that holds the brilliance of bling; especially that little (robin's egg) blue box...
we have 3 hour long therapeutic groups a day here. through creative, informational, psychiatric and eastern philosophy sessions we pick at the loose threads each of us sport, attempting to unravel the reasons why we use. we don't use to feel good. we use to self-medicate underlying issues: molestation, chronic illness, childhood abandonment, rape; a smorgasbord of dysfunction under which we curdle and mold...
[no excuses. life is hard.]
we were studying "the little prince" the other day. the childhood favorite turned adult metaphoric minefield. this book is stuffed with more metaphors than a WW2 bomb shelter. a fictional, figurative blueprint on how to live a sober life. exploring the agony and ecstasy of being "tamed": code for the roller coaster ride that is every relationship.
the heart break and exhilaration that sandwiches nothingness.
for what is most important is invisible.
what goes on in group here is pain and laughter and tears and struggle. you can feel it settling on your skin like a fine mist. the agonizing tug-of-war. but no-one here squirming in their seats; in their skin, wants to land in the mud again.
[it's too hard to crawl out of]
yesterday, i wrote a poem. my plaintive song. a few jaunty lines masking a harrowing confusion over the shackled bottles that span the rest of my life. i found joy in my body finding its tracks again, but i am terrified i will commandeer the engine and drive full speed into the bottom of a bottle again...
[pills or booze...booze or pills...]
i'm still a newborn. not yet reborn. toddling my way, barefoot, over those broken shards of glass.
aunt flow was one awkward dodge forward, preparing me for a lifetime of dodging.
[reveal and you shall heal]
for through invisible cyber waves, a deluge of eye-winking commiseration.
the old henriette flickered hot briefly. "but it's about my pain! mourning this twisted loss! not my f-ing period!"
stop. breathe. listen.
and then i felt it.
[like a fine mist]
love. friendship. support.
the greatest gifts are not in boxes. they are invisible.
[and guess what. we all ride the wave together...]