Six weeks ago, I vomited pure alcohol. I recall thinking, I am literally at war with myself. My body was trying to, simultaneously, seek peace in a remembered haven of numbness, and, protect itself from the liquid it was drowning itself it. That was the day the sirens rang out. I am reverting back to old, self-destructive habits that reek of unhappiness. This will break me. The panic and shame were the catalysts that triggered another return to sobriety--that elusive, beautiful world where a lady once told me she "finally saw the glory of flowers and trees and breezes." At the time, I had internally scoffed. Not today. I know the sentiment in my marrow.
You see, the excess began to splash over into every corner of my life. I woke with bruises on my elbows and my memories. I spent a paycheck on booze and party favors. The bartender stopped serving me. She told me I was a mean drunk; he, that my hands and lower lip wouldn't stop twitching and grinding, respectively. I barely remember either. I called in sick (and I knew it wasn't a lie; I've been here before and I know right where this leads). Most of all, I forgot how the world continues to spin and grow and expand whether I'm present for it or not. Flowers bloom. Rain pours. Lungs burst. Lactic acid collects. But then I remembered--that day I purged and purged and purged--this is it. This is not my practice life. What am I doing? What can I do instead?
Surrender the need to always be entertained and buzzed and oblivious. Wake up, dear Rachel. Every day is renaissance, not just a weekend. Sobriety is not absence; sobriety is the presence of potential. Sobriety is not about alcohol. Sobriety is understanding and compassionate and holding my no-longer-weary limbs upright. Sobriety is the previous six weeks, yet--even more glorious--sobriety is the past collective moments I chose a different way. In every "relapse", I have hope stored up in my bones, hope that I can always start anew again.
You see, the excess began to splash over into every corner of my life. I woke with bruises on my elbows and my memories. I spent a paycheck on booze and party favors. The bartender stopped serving me. She told me I was a mean drunk; he, that my hands and lower lip wouldn't stop twitching and grinding, respectively. I barely remember either. I called in sick (and I knew it wasn't a lie; I've been here before and I know right where this leads). Most of all, I forgot how the world continues to spin and grow and expand whether I'm present for it or not. Flowers bloom. Rain pours. Lungs burst. Lactic acid collects. But then I remembered--that day I purged and purged and purged--this is it. This is not my practice life. What am I doing? What can I do instead?
Surrender the need to always be entertained and buzzed and oblivious. Wake up, dear Rachel. Every day is renaissance, not just a weekend. Sobriety is not absence; sobriety is the presence of potential. Sobriety is not about alcohol. Sobriety is understanding and compassionate and holding my no-longer-weary limbs upright. Sobriety is the previous six weeks, yet--even more glorious--sobriety is the past collective moments I chose a different way. In every "relapse", I have hope stored up in my bones, hope that I can always start anew again.
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