sobriety is exhausting.
i could comfortably surrender to all of mr. sandman's fetishes and desires, here and now, and slip away for a week of a thousand zzz's.
it has been 32 hours since i left rehab, and in true OCD style, i have notched every emotion on that belt slung low, dangerously so, upon my hips.
but i've got this much.
driving home in rush hour, painful, frustrating swelling, challenging the highest watermarked moments of PMS for irritability; i craved nothing more than arrival home, hermitic status up in our cabin in the hills, so i could unzip, crawl out of my skin and cry a tear or flood of self-pity.
ah, but it was the guy beside me. that's right, the chap who i stole pills from. the guy who became ensnared in a sticky web of poisonous secrets. the guy who was held hostage by a proverbial time bomb, and a literal nightmare built for two.
"you said you wanted to do 90 in 90, so let's find one".
and with the flip of his iphone, (wait. i'm the dinosaur with the flipphone.) he found a meeting. and joined me. and saw me take a 60 day chip.
i got an enormous hug from the speaker, t, who congratulated me with genuine serenity, encouragement and fabulous, twinkling, west hollywood eyes...
then i glanced over at the wonder that is my husband. embracing not only a wife, but a world that must seem as foreign as well, his wife...
finally, i looked down at my kelly green, 60-day chip, luminescent gold lettering, and sighed for everything it represents.
these are the kind of awards that matter.
and only these.