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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Sunday, July 15, 2012

9 months [keep it in the family]

"the last time i was here, i scored ativan at a sober party".

and although i'd waited all day to pull out my punch line, it wasn't until i pulled away in my sporty loaner, that a rush of relief revved through my veins. like ripping off a band aid, suddenly there was air soaring through my wound, stinging and raw; masochistically marvellous.

[although, since i wound up in rehab 2 weeks later, altogether not much of a zinger...]

it was a party exploding with fourth of july patriotism and skepticism, but, for her, around every corner a stank, pungent with pain. the screen door she tore through, blindsided by self. her pot-calling-the-"ketel one"-black ironic observations. and unsecret pilling and swilling; her self-fulfilling, genetically spilling prophecy. each corner betrayed another detail, another button on a suit collaring her up to the neck; to a stranglehold noose.

my sober skin fits like o.j.'s glove. the staged one.

my skin is thin, brittle. it catches easily, tugging, unravelling as it revolves; evolves between two worlds.

["O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! Oh, brave new world
That has such people in't!]

life is a bitch without my rose-(wine)-colored glasses, as i now ride the tempestuous, salty seas, shotgun.

[captain gawd's got the wheel now, and he's one hell of a sailor...]

in the uncomfortable i do not know how to sit. for long. and my default is no longer an option.

and so i drove. and in loosening my necktie, came desperate breath; desperate fresh.

injected, i flushed, and sat with a sigh.

and listened.

..."what kind of horse shit is this? in NA we say, "isn't a hug better than a drug?" i say, "NO!". and we all nodded and laughed.

she is a. she spoke in a singular statement about her sexual abuse. without a drop of self-pity to lather up her reveal. about the mother who betrayed her. how she's always had a hard time with women. how even if your tone is similar to her mother's...

how she's never liked being hugged.

approaching this apple-faced doll, i warmed to the joy she must have found in sobriety. laugh lines puckered her from eyebrow to chin. inching forward, i silently pleaded for my tone to spill in a soothing cadence in sync with my unstoppable droplets of tears.

that i would sound nothing like her mother.

her sobriety a triumph over dense, unspeakable pain. but in her sharing, she passed hope to someone as broken as she once was. i couldn't help myself. i threw my arms around this over-baked goodie. she felt like comfort food, doughy and divine, and her promise wafted delicately; deliciously into my soul.

"thank. you. for. story. your. journey. is. amazing." i managed between snorts.

and oh! a. clucked. leaned in. and hugged me right back.

tell me there's no such thing as miracles.

that's one.

and here's another.

9 months.

[ya gotta see the baby...]

1 comment:

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