I’m approaching another sobriety anniversary, and God willing I will celebrate twenty four years on the twenty eight of January. What a ride it has been for sure. I finished my final project for my Master’s degree in Advanced Studies of Human Behavior last Spring. I am an A student, and I put my all
In 4 days I will be clean and sober for 9 months. I never thought I could get a day sober much less this long. And it is absolutely mind blowing to me how much my life has changed. I am doing things I never imagined I would do in my life, especially after losing
“My name is Damien, and I’m an alcoholic.” This is the conventional way to introduce oneself at a meeting of the fellowship. It bugs me. The very first time I said these words they were incredibly powerful and liberating — when I finally said them, my surrender was complete. But as my sober time increases,
Well that was one hoopla, roller coaster of a year. Reflecting back over my 2015 was like watching fifteen different movies at the same time and not really having a clue what was going on in any of them. I’ve had some really high highs and some really low lows. However, I made it out
Happy New Year! A changing of the calendar page, turning over a new leaf, the hope of a new beginning. There is hope but there is also the illusion of imagining that a future day could mean more than the embrace of the present in a new or more faithful fashion. I am a rebel.
I learn so much from people at meetings. A month or so ago we were talking about intentions, and a woman said she “found the results of her intentions in her crisper bin.” We all burst out laughing, because we all know that drawer in the fridge—the one with exotic vegetables: celery root, kale, mustard
The illusion of uncertainty masks the depravity of the fear I feel locked in the void of not knowing but not wanting to stop either Looking out at the endless rain and mucky landscape there is always something else to ponder aways a sense of not being there yet And not knowing where the hell
Last night I sat in a circle with 124 other women. The questions were asked. What are you done with? What are you ready to scrub off yourself? What have you processed and cooked and beat to death this year? What are you ready to throw on the compost pile. I stress the word compost
I never planned for any of this to happen. But fuck, who does, I think to myself as I stand outside smoking a cigarette. It’s cold out. Winter approaches. Sky full of stars. Trees are all dead. Car windows frosted. It’s two in the morning. Can’t sleep but that’s nothing new. I like the cold.
