Never Gonna Leave You (day 92)

Going to the beach for the weekend. My first sober beach weekend in over two decades. It’s a strange thing when you realize you are old enough to have that many years of excessive drinking under your belt. Drinking was a part of every thing. Happy or sad or bored or horny or whatever the fuck else. I hold the tragedy of that in my ribcage, in my blood. It feels heavy like a soaking rain. My whole body is alive with the metallic disgusting weight of it.

And yet. And still. And now. I stare up into the robin’s-egg-shell-blue sky and fold clothes and place them in my suitcase. I sip my coffee and listen to Lana sing about blue banisters and being left behind. And I feel so good, so deeply honored to be here, to be who I am, to have what I have and know what I know, that it almost frightens me. It feels so foreign it borders on lunacy.

We have been lied to for so long, you guys. Lied to over and over and over again about who we are and what we’re worth. But I want you to know that we are not garbage. We are not throw-aways. There is something bigger than us and it wants us to get better. I promise. I can feel it. I’m like a re-wired thing. Broken shit is healing and I am not even trying to fix it on purpose. All I have to do is keep the poison out of my system and then everything I never even imagined is just fucking handed over to me like I’m some kind of worthy being. Some kind of creature I never ever want to leave.

6 Replies to “Never Gonna Leave You (day 92)”

  1. So here is my truth, in some half assed dialectical response to your (flat out fucking awesome) post:
    I truly believe this is a disease, regardless of the semanitics and naming convention bullshit, I don’t care what you call it, and care not for the ongoing pissing contest fed by insecurities and or hubris of the various camps. Wasted time.
    I don’t think I am responsible for my disease, and therefore don’t need to languish in the guilt and shame pool. But its not a pass on acknowledging and seeking to repair the damage where possible. The people who get it, who truly love me know I can’t move along the sober path dragging that rustic wreckage with me. That tragedy, those lies. The lies told by, and to, me.
    It is my recovery I am responsible for, by keeping that fucking poison out of my system. And your writing helps in ways that elude description.
    Thank you

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Well, I loved this post. left a probably too long response that either disappeared into the ether or didnt pass muster, but I loved this.

    Liked by 2 people

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