Monday, July 28, 2014

Don't Trip...

My name is Mary.  I am an alcoholic and an addict in recovery.  I am diligent about my sobriety, and I have managed to put together thirteen years.  I go to meetings. I talk to other addicts.  I read the Big Book.  I pray.  I have yet to relapse.  My disease doesn't care about any of these details.  Addiction will always be angling for an opportunity to get back in the house.

It doesn't matter how long it's been since I last poured myself a drink or skied something up my nose.  Every once in awhile, a thought will arrive from out of nowhere and take me by surprise.  I'm amazed at the ease with which my junkie brain continues to suggest the most ridiculous shit.


David Killian is a computer programmer, and he works from home.  He travels infrequently, and he likes it that way.  Once a year, his employer hosts a team-building conference at the company's headquarters in St. Louis, Missouri.  Despite the appeal of this exotic location and the enthusiastic activities planned for its operatives, he remains determined to do his job.  My husband is all about the production and delivery of the high-quality product.

I can't imagine not looking forward to this event, given all the fun and friendliness in the air.  I don't know a soul at Express Scripts.  Still, I wish I could go.  Functions like this are right up my alley.  Bonding is my favorite thing to do.  Not to mention anything involving bumper cars and an endless taco station.

Dave Killian, on the other hand, would rather stick both hands in a fan and code with his nose.


A few days before we initiate the drop-off at the airport, my sons and I start planning what we'll do in their dad's absence.  They seem to enjoy being Men of the House.  This evening, we're looking forward to dinner at Red Lobster. Tomorrow is haircuts and swimming at the Y.  Wednesday afternoon, if they play their cards right, we might just find ourselves at their beloved comic book store. And at night, we eagerly anticipate the premiere of Sharknado II.

Teasing David about his annual sojourn is very entertaining, and he's a good sport. Just this morning, I reminded him to pack his roller skates and save enough room in his suitcase for any prizes he may win.  I hear the Potato Sack Race trophy is a big one!

Hey, wait a minute.  Did you say Dave's gone for a couple of days?  Hear me out. We could totally get loaded.  He never has to know.  It could be our secret.

And that's how it happens.  I seldom see it coming.
Motherfucker's foot is in the door.


I believe I have strong sobriety.  A good part of that strength comes from being truthful with myself.  Of course, I think about getting high.  But I don't feel the same way as I did when I was using.  These thoughts are like scars, I guess.  It's not the end of the world to acknowledge that they exist.  I don't need to chop off my leg just because I have a cut on my foot.  That's stupid.  And so is picking up at this stage of the game.

When I first got clean, I wanted the heaviness lifted from my shoulders. Everything, all at once - Gone.  All better.  I longed for a safe place where I didn't have to get drunk to feel normal.  But recovery isn't a destination.  It truly is more like a journey.  I have to keep moving and learning new ways to cope.  For me, that's how I can not only survive, but also enjoy the trip.

I prefer to tell people where I'm at and how I manage to get around.  It helps keep me honest.  I feel like it's okay that you know.  And I sure do appreciate that.

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