Recovery is a Four Letter Word

“We often miss opportunity because it’s dressed in overalls and looks like work”
Thomas A. Edison
 

Recovery is a four letter word. Not the cliché recovery like addicts use, but, the kind of recovery that every successful and joyful human being has to initiate on a regular basis. Having the tenacity to lay down a bad relationship and carry on, face a business mistake or failure and come back to win, publicly humiliate myself and still hold my head up high and in spite of all having a life well lived to the envy of all my naysayers. The ability to come back from the edge is indispensable to living my life with happiness and accomplishment, it’s the essence of all joy and success.  By limiting my forward advancement with past mistakes or foibles, I’ve effectively short circuited my hope, dreams, loves, and triumphs. Do yourself a favor, come back from that disappointment, failure, or relationship and try again, don’t give up…you can succeed at whatever you believe, so believe the best about yourself, and enjoy your recovery. Recovery is a four letter word, WORK. Just do it. 

Also published in Broowaha 
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What She Thinks – An addicts inner struggle after relapse

“Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.”Hal Borland
“Permanence, perseverance and persistence in spite of all obstacles, discouragements, and impossibilities: It is this, that in all things distinguishes the strong soul from the weak. Thomas Carlyle

 

“I will not give up, I don’t care what I feel like, what they say, or how many times I fail, I will keep trying…” This became my mantra on nights that never seem to end.
 
Up all night. I’m tired but can’t sleep. I ache with fear, anxiety, wanting so badly to do good, to be a better person. Seeing the sunrise through my tears, sobs coming deep from my soul, I’m ashamed at what I did to get high. My will’s held captive to this lifestyle that I despise, and yet seek at every opportunity. Shame burns in my soul every time I fail. I overheard their comments, “she’s so cool except when she gets high.” Thieves gather around my life and seeing my weakness, they intend to rob me of what little possessions I have, my own body. Here’s my shame, I know better, I can do better, yet I fall prey to my craving and the traps they lay for me. I pray for a way out, morning after morning, failure after failure, long tortuous night after long tortuous night. I no longer enjoy getting wasted, it leaves me wanting, thirsty for more, there’s never enough to make me satisfied. There’s so many people to blame and I even blame God for the cruel things that have happened to me, time and time again. Funny how I blame and cuss the same God I call on for help when I’m scared out of my mind. Deep inside, I know that I can get out of this mess. I will be a success. Someone will love me, not just use me. I’ll stop this madness, my shame will be forgotten and my tired soul will sleep without fear. Until then I’ll keep trying and never stop getting back on my feet.

 

“No matter what others see, though I’m beat down on the outside, inside I refuse to give up and I will stand again.”

Also published in: Wingposse, 05-08-13
 

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The Mom That Never Was

Men are what their mothers made them.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
narayanindia

A meeting of the minds, a discussion of a very seriousness nature, is performed under the kitchen table. My siblings, a step-brother and step-sister, began the examination, the topic? Whether or not to call my step mom, mom. I wonder how many little men and women, are wrestling with so simple a task? Though simple, this important issue presses little minds. I never knew a mom growing up, that I can remember. This new “mom” was the closest I would come, and that not very close at all, to experiencing this miracle. Having made up my mind to commit to calling her mom, I began another difficult journey, actually getting out from under the table and initiating a conversation. My terrified frame shook as I mouthed the words I longed to speak. “mmm, ooo”, the first attempt resulted in utter failure. Recovering from this botched attempt, I spoke again, sneaking it at the end. “Can I have a bowl of cereal, (uncomfortable seconds of silence) mom”. “Mom”, spoken with a hoarse whisper. I managed this feat, however, the valiant gesture was to no avail in the end. She ended up torturing me, supporting my alcoholic dad, as I again hid under the table, regretting my vulnerability in giving her the privilege of calling her mom. So much is in that name for a child. All that courage to reach out, the last and final time, to call out for a mother. Not my mother, any mother. My cries went unheeded, my hope unrequited. That name now stays in my pocket, like a toy car, just a fantasy of what should be, what could be. Simple things my friends, simple things are so important. Remember that, mothers as you look at your children, whether or not they are yours. Remember, they need just a simple thing, like being able to call you mom, and know you are there for them.

Crackhead – A day in the life

Be advised that this post may trigger those who are prone to addictions. This post is written, not to glorify drug use with “war stories”, but to show the futility and danger faced daily by those addicted. Take time and patience with the addicts, you may the next one that needs the help. 

“Click, click”, the metallic voice of the AK told me all I needed to know. I sat down, quickly, in the darkened room. Behind me, open doors, black holes of doom in my mind, I had no idea what or who was waiting there. Two of them stood in front of me, one with the barrel pointed at my eye. “Grandma”, as they reverently referred to her, sat at the table in the kitchen, one bare light bulb lighting the table and a few baggies in front of her. Two more thugs stood by her side, armed, their expression disinterested, just another night to them. To me however, it was an epiphany. I was looking down the barrel of my life. The man with his gun on me shouted, “smoke it!”. I guess my frequent trips to their house that night inspired some paranoia, or perhaps the doses of high grade crack fueled their suspicions. It didn’t matter which, now, the paranoia was going to be mine. I took the pipe, hazed with brownish yellow on the inside, and balanced the large rock on the end. It was the size of my pinky nail. There was no choice, no option, it was smoke it or die. 

I held the flame to the pipe, melted the crack in place, and with my held tilted way back, lit it up. I heard the crackle of my mind as I took a deep breath of rock. I couldn’t finish it, I slumped back, my ears ringing loudly, vision growing narrow, my heart leaping furiously to catch up to an unnatural rhythm that would have killed most men. I slumped back in the chair, my eyes wide, my ears attuned to a supernatural level of hearing. Every creak, whisper, and movement was amplified to startling levels. A mind gripping fear took hold, all those dark rooms, all these guns, everything geared to annihilate me. Satisfied, the goon took the gun away from my eye, and smiled a knowing smile. I was not a cop, I was a rock star without a guitar. “Leave now”, he said, throwing the eight-ball I came for, “and don’t come back tonight”. 

You didn’t need to tell me twice, I left with my feet traveling faster than my mind, driving without knowing where I was going. I just wanted away. Away from there, and away from all that tormented me. Away from the loneliness, the pain, the rejection, the failure of my life. Away to a room, where all that waited was fear and my little rocks. No love there, no hope, only hours of torment, compounded by days of depression and sadness as I recovered from my 5 day binge. Sad life, sad time, another night in the life of a crack head.