Recovery

 I didn’t write when I was actively drinking, focused on more immediate sources of pleasure. Plus, the way I drank didn’t permit introspection; noticing the flowers, commenting on the taste of beer. Anne Lamott was different, going to writing retreats with her own stash of liquor, getting drunk off her ass ( my forte as well). Anyways, I didn’t (drink in moderation) imbibe just enough to get in the writing spirit, but enough to obscure my thoughts and my handwriting to slurred letters. I liked to consume: music. It was all about the music, what song could evoke the most emotional of emotions: “Free Bird,” “The Crow Chasing the Butterfly,” “Closer to the Heart,” “More than a Feeling.” But it was feel good music too: Sugar Ray, Chicago, Rush (I like the alliteration there). I would work YouTube until I was blurry-eyed and spent, when John would take burning cigarette out of my hand and put me to bed. He bought a new speaker set, sensing my enthusiasm for loud tunes. I tried to look up “HQ” videos for maximum blast. We asked our neighbor Kenny if the music bothered him. He said no ( is our trailer more soundproof than I realized? The living room is custom wood paneled). Kenny saw me get out of John’s car one day and remarked “You’re still here?” Yup. The thing that wouldn’t leave. 

I’m drinking black tea out of a red solo cup. Toby Keith would be ashamed. But I’m proud: I’ve got a year sober. I survived anorexia and alcoholism, to John’s relief (I could’ve died). “Hard Luck Woman” by Kiss is playing on the radio. Yes, it can blast, too, (it’s a Milwaukee) but I prefer not to these days. Keep the neighbors happy.

What were those drinking days really about? Losing my sister ( at 33, to fentanyl)? “She talks to herself,” sings Pearl Jam. Or was I just enjoying all the free beer John provided ( it was Busch light). I had crossed the line from casual to dangerous. From benign to malignant. An ultrasound discovered a hemangioma on my liver. I was supposed to go to Borland Grover, but instead I spent ten days in the psych ward. My mother says cancer would show up in bloodwork. She herself was not so lucky, developing Stage 3 breast cancer a year after my sister died. She recovered through prayer (I swear it worked) and harsh doses of chemo. Her hair is growing back. “It’s curly,” she says.

I tried to follow my sister to that heavenly plane by drinking and drinking to die. I might as well have walked in front of moving traffic. I had a nightmare (or a vision) where I was hemorrhaging and I called out to my sister to save me. It terrified me. I don’t know if heaven is real, but Hell certainly is.

  It eleven pm. I should go to bed. But I’m addicted to the written word. I inhale tobacco and birth sentences. Is mania taking over ( I was once misdiagnosed as bipolar)? I’ve been up late lately. 

John put a clover on my desk, and here it is all limp and wilted. I stuck it in my devotional, Be Still and Know, between March 16 and 17- tomorrow is St Patrick’s Day. Another sober holiday. Am I making the Irish proud or disappointed? John used to tell me that some days I look extra Irish. What can I say, I’m a mutt. I inherited all kinds of drinking genes: Irish, German, Italian. My sister thought we were Jewish. 

My sister. The one that got away. “When you and I were getting high as outer space/ I never thought you’d slip away/ I guess I was just a little too late” (Shinedown)…I was getting drunk with a guy I was dating, thirty years my senior. She was getting on or off heroin. She told me once she didn’t have a heart anymore. But she has a soul. And that never dies.