Today’s the first day of the rest of my life.

These words taste sour in my mouth, hollow even. I’ve said them before, and yet here I am again, trying to have another go at it. But not having faith that this is real, but trusting that I’ve got to try, even if for trial’s sake. ‘Cause that’s what trying to kick a dependence should be about– relentless blind faith — trusting that the hundred eighteenth time is the charm.

So… today is the first day of the rest of my life…

How do I feel?

Triumphant? No.

Cross-bound? Yeah. Back-breakingly so.

I’m confused waking from the blur that was the last episode. A little embarrassed even (self-prescribed failure embarrasses me, I could never get used to it) Plus, the first step of any recovery is about admitting that you’re powerless over your dependence and your life has become unmanageable. That you’re weak. Dependent. Unreliably Human.

So yeah, am not particularly enthused about having another go at it (more so since there’s an audience) I’ve been here before and made what could be called progress, but always slipping back, never making anything tangible that I can hold on to. Now I can’t trust the recovery system. ‘Cause whatever it is, 1 day, 1 week, 1 month, even a year clean, however laudable, it all has the potential to be turned into trash,  how everything you’ll ever fight for will reject you.

Basically, you do this long enough, you realize how futility has a name, how everything up to now has been a struggle and everything after this will still be a struggle. How your life has become a Sisyphus tableau.

Basically, how do you gauge progress without making this whole recovery thing feel like something more than just ticking days away. How do you gauge progress without actually gauging progress. One day at a time seems a little trite, plus I know better.

How do you make it about effort and reward, about process, about milestones, about something more than just getting something done.

‘Cause truth is, my internal addict is strong and I’m afraid I can’t lock him out forever, but my life hereon has to be about more than just powerlessness and fear. And dependence and shame and regret. If not for me (let’s face it, this is never about yourself, your self got you here in the first place) then let it be for those who still have faith in me.

And even though the road to progress is always under construction, you could stand and wait for it to all crumble away under the weight of your failed expectations, or you could suit up and get busy.

The Chekov’s  gun is I still need to name the disease and find it’s cure — define the problem. Seneca said the first step in a person’s salvation is knowledge of their sin. I can’t define my sin, not yet, am not sure whether being dependent on these substances, the release,  makes me addicted to my flawed self, or whether being addicted to myself makes me dependent on these substances.

There’s the dilemma right there.

And maybe documenting my recovery isn’t the best idea, but it’s the only thing I haven’t tried yet. I’ve tried to go about recovering by myself, in secret, but progress needs an audience, however vain that sounds, it’s true — try getting your shit together and have no one like even notice and see just how fruitless it all seems. But this isn’t about gathering sympathy, or making it about others, or inclusion, or knitting together a virtual support system–

I’m documenting my recovery, as a reference point, because for the first time I want to care about an opinion that doesn’t start and end with me, I want to respect something,  I don’t want to be the center of my own universe anymore


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