Tag: relapse

Thanksgivings

Thanksgivings

Grief is an amputation, but hope is an incurable hemophilia: you bleed and bleed and bleed.

David Mitchell

Slade House

 

Author’s Note: This is the very first piece I wrote for the Echoes of Recovery group, by way of introduction. The prompt was: How are you preparing for Thanksgiving?

 

I’m preparing by remembering.

 

I’m remembering the last hopeful Thanksgiving. 

 

Two years ago, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, my husband and I woke up in separate beds at four in the morning. Time to go. We slipped off our wedding rings. I stacked them on the bathroom counter and took a picture of them in the soft overhead light.

How Would I Know?

How Would I Know?

Tell everybody waiting for Superman

That they should try to hold on the best they can

He hasn’t dropped them, forgot them, or anything 

It’s just too heavy for Superman to lift.

The Flaming Lips, “Waiting for Superman”

 

“Barbara? Barbara…”

 

Someone is saying my name. Or so it seems. It also seems like I’ve been hearing it for a while, fading in from far away. Easy to ignore in the soft, quiet nowhere I am.

 

But I’m starting to remember. I’d just gone to sleep in the OR a minute ago. I know they’re planning to check out my liver with a scope to make sure it’s okay for donation. (The surgeon really didn’t like some of the cysts and small, stiffening spots that showed up on my MRIs. Turns out, you don’t have to be an alcoholic either to abuse alcohol, or to have scars from it.)  

Schism

Schism

“I’m gonna buy a gun.”

 

There were few worse sentences John could have slurred into the phone, his voice broken down into bits and pinging across six hundred miles worth of cell towers before reassembling itself in my horrified ear.

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

There were few sure things in that moment, with the physical miles separating us suddenly the shortest distance between us, but that was one thing. My previously calm Maine evening had been taken hostage by unbidden images of piles of unfortunate, unsuspecting, and quite dead delivery people at our doorstep, not to mention the thought of my own bespattered demise on attempting to rouse him from a signature catatonic state at just the wrong time.

 

He absolutely was not going to bring a gun into our house.

5 Times My Husband’s Substance Abuse Counselor Was Wrong (And 1 Time She Was Right)

Relapse

When you need help, really need help, you’ll take it wherever you can get it.

 

It had been almost two months since our initial visit with the transplant team, when they’d unexpectedly advised us that a liver transplant was not just the next step, but the only remaining step available. John had subsequently, spectacularly, failed tox screens for both alcohol and pot. And instead of being fast-tracked for the transplant list, so I could be reviewed for donation, the team told us they wouldn’t do anything until he was seeing a substance abuse counselor. Steps vital to survival were suddenly, maddeningly, on hold.

 

He didn’t want to do it, to go to a counselor. He told me, standing there in our kitchen, that it would be easier to just let him die. He’d prefer it.

Fictional Characters

Fictional Characters

We were talking about parts of my childhood when my therapist said, almost wistfully, “It sounds very lonely.”

 

There was a long quiet spot in the conversation while I thought about that. 

 

Lonely? Me? Surely she was mistaken. I had a family. I had friends. I liked being alone, even as a kid. And as an adult … man, I was born to quarantine. I’ve joked before about the moat I’m building. This feels especially conspicuous right now, with so many so excited that they’ll be getting back out there, seeing people, seeing friends, going to school, going to parties, laughing. 

 

Masks off.

 

I’m dreading that I’m so out of practice making up excuses as to why I can’t make it. 

 

Maybe I don’t understand what loneliness is. And not understanding it, how would I even recognize it?

 

But I was lucky, at the start. I’d found the perfect partner: someone who felt as good to be with as it felt to be alone. 

Our House of Scars

Our House of Scars

“But we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever.” – Haruki Murakami

 

There’s light at the top of the stairs.

(It was never light before. His door was closed, his window shut, his blinds drawn against people, sun, wind and stars.

It was always dark at the top of the stairs.)

So we opened the blinds, opened the window, painted the wall facing it firefly yellow.

The Angry Ghost that Lives in the Walls

The Angry Ghost that Lives in the Walls

At some point, I ceased to exist. 

 

It’s Sunday evening, 7 p.m., and he announces he’s going to a meeting. An alarm clangs in the back of my skull. I remember having mellow faith in fellow humans, enjoying the luxury of assuming you’re not being lied to, and being right. However, I tend now more to eternal, endless vigilance, and the trouble is, I know too much. There’s no meeting in our area at 7 p.m. on a Sunday evening. 

It’s the Perfect Time to Relapse

It's the Perfect Time to Relapse

Last week, I saw dozens of social media posts from people experiencing their first sober Halloween. As is customary when using the communication tool designed to allow us to compare our lives to the lives of hundreds of others, the posts were cheery and positive, with captions like, “First booze-free Halloween, and I feel great!” or, “I can’t believe what I was missing when I used to drink my way through Halloween.” Two things went through my mind when I saw so many of these posts last week, and in this order. First, I thought, that person is full of shit or trying really hard to convince him or herself. Second, I thought, wait a minute…maybe something is wrong with me because that’s not what my first sober Halloween was like at all.