My alarm goes off at 7:00... on my day off. I curl up into a tight ball, debating just going back to bed.
My eyes are scratchy. My head aches, and my neck has a crick on the right side, all too familiar. My mouth is dry and there is an uncomfortable taste of... nothing. Just sleep-stale saliva.
Waking up without a hangover is still so novel.
119 days ago, I was a hollow cask, one partially filled with wine but leaking at the seams from age, use, and abuse. If you've ever lived on the water, you may know a little bit about the dangers of dry-docking a wooden boat, and that was my fear: if I stopped pouring wine into that old cask, it would dry out and become useless, never able to hold sand... relationships, intimacy, social interactions, happiness, relaxation, peace... all of those things like fine sand, I covered in the wine to keep the cask at a higher level than it actually should have been. Because the damn thing would never stop leaking.
When the level got too low, the sand would start drying and running out between the slats, and when the level got too high, the sand would slosh out over the top, mingled with the wine. I was not careful in pouring in the liquid, I often became frantic in my efforts and recklessly dumped it in, not caring if it was TOO full, so long as it wasn't empty, God forbid.
119 days ago, I lost a lover that I thought would be my savior. I lost a partner that I thought would be forever, and the relationship was forever darkened by resentments from both sides, though we had enough love to attempt to try again, with horrible results. Despite everyone in my recovery group telling me otherwise, I thought love would be enough, but the resentments won and I had to experience the heartbreak of losing him twice, while still in the process of finding myself.
It nearly defeated me. I'm still battling the encroaching fear of our third split, the one where he moves on, and I have to find a way to be happy for him, or give up the fractured piece of the relationship that remains lodged in my heart, my throat, my mind, keeping me awake and bleeding at night.
50 days ago, I stirred the still-moist sand, stained red, and realized there was something gold beneath. I couldn't quite make out the edges of the object, and it was quite unfamiliar, but it instilled a feeling of nostalgia within me, and I realized that I needed to let the sand dry, permanently.
I needed to heal, and let go, to see what was repressed under the fine grit of old relationships, things which used to bring me happiness, and the dirt of old resentments and trauma of my own.
I pulled out my sifting pan, and started pulling out clots from the muck, looking for gold.
I climbed out of bed, at 7am, on my day off, and started the process anew: coffee, meditation, contemplation, preparing myself to be a little better than I was yesterday, One Day at a Time.
My eyes are scratchy. My head aches, and my neck has a crick on the right side, all too familiar. My mouth is dry and there is an uncomfortable taste of... nothing. Just sleep-stale saliva.
Waking up without a hangover is still so novel.
119 days ago, I was a hollow cask, one partially filled with wine but leaking at the seams from age, use, and abuse. If you've ever lived on the water, you may know a little bit about the dangers of dry-docking a wooden boat, and that was my fear: if I stopped pouring wine into that old cask, it would dry out and become useless, never able to hold sand... relationships, intimacy, social interactions, happiness, relaxation, peace... all of those things like fine sand, I covered in the wine to keep the cask at a higher level than it actually should have been. Because the damn thing would never stop leaking.
When the level got too low, the sand would start drying and running out between the slats, and when the level got too high, the sand would slosh out over the top, mingled with the wine. I was not careful in pouring in the liquid, I often became frantic in my efforts and recklessly dumped it in, not caring if it was TOO full, so long as it wasn't empty, God forbid.
119 days ago, I lost a lover that I thought would be my savior. I lost a partner that I thought would be forever, and the relationship was forever darkened by resentments from both sides, though we had enough love to attempt to try again, with horrible results. Despite everyone in my recovery group telling me otherwise, I thought love would be enough, but the resentments won and I had to experience the heartbreak of losing him twice, while still in the process of finding myself.
It nearly defeated me. I'm still battling the encroaching fear of our third split, the one where he moves on, and I have to find a way to be happy for him, or give up the fractured piece of the relationship that remains lodged in my heart, my throat, my mind, keeping me awake and bleeding at night.
50 days ago, I stirred the still-moist sand, stained red, and realized there was something gold beneath. I couldn't quite make out the edges of the object, and it was quite unfamiliar, but it instilled a feeling of nostalgia within me, and I realized that I needed to let the sand dry, permanently.
I needed to heal, and let go, to see what was repressed under the fine grit of old relationships, things which used to bring me happiness, and the dirt of old resentments and trauma of my own.
I pulled out my sifting pan, and started pulling out clots from the muck, looking for gold.
I climbed out of bed, at 7am, on my day off, and started the process anew: coffee, meditation, contemplation, preparing myself to be a little better than I was yesterday, One Day at a Time.