Build bridges to nothing, you’ll get nowhere…

“…Filling jars full of silence you’ll get nowhere.”-MM, tundra/desert

I just spent the last few days cleaning my parent’s baseboards, painting my nails two times, overplucking my eyebrows, eating way too many taquitos and steaks, going to WalMart for basically one item per visit, trying to teach my dog a trick he already knows, trying to cut my rabid owl-dog’s nails, experimenting making cinnamon-milk-coffee, etc. just so I could avoid writing this.

The thing is, I know it has to be written because not writing it would be worse.

I relapsed.

It was a quick 18 hour relapse to erase a 9 month sobriety, but a relapse nonetheless.

Back in 2012 when my dad had a heart attack, the doctor mentioned that it was a “small heart attack” and my dad took that “small” and ran with it. Years later, as he suffered with an amputation and diabetes and heart disease, he still refers to that heart attack as so small, so insignificant, that there is no way it could be related to his health now. It was barely a heart attack, in his opinion. Just barely. Like, don’t even mention it, it almost practically didn’t exist.  Okay? Do you get it?

I never did. Until I relapsed. In so many ways, I want to say it was a small relapse. It was a misstep. Just a little hiccup. Not a huge rager, not a week-long binge, not a massive hangover – no real repercussions. But, it was a relapse. Like a heart attack, however “small” it seemed, it was serious and life-threatening, even if the event itself didn’t come close to killing me. Now I have a lot of long-term recovery and treatment in front of me, to prevent this from happening again. A lot of big and serious changes.

It’s hard, too, you know, because a major part of me wants to just get right back on the sober-seat and do this the right way, right away. A part of me knows that I need to sit in it first, sit in my relapse and figure out what really happened. I know depression had a lot to do with it but there were other fail-stops that well, failed.

As I look at that night, I have to think about the weeks before it. I knew something wasn’t right but I didn’t want to lose momentum. I was working two jobs, getting a new fancy apartment, driving, doing stuff. Normal people stuff. Almost like I’d never had a problem. Almost like I was normal.

But I’m not. I forgot to embrace that.

Now I’m here to say I am, that I am going to embrace that. I’m going to embrace I’m not normal, and I’m going to run with that.

To my lost 9 month sobriety:

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.” 

you get it?