Friday the 13th

Okay, so today is NOT the 13th of April. This Friday, though, is another milestone in my Recovery Journey. 13 years ago today, on April 10, 2007, I drank my last alcoholic drink.

Dismally, a cosmopolitan, a cliché in a martini glass. Doesn't matter. Vodka under the bridge.

What DOES matter is that after countless false starts, this was the one that "took."

Since then, my life has been so... vividly REAL. In some ways, it's been more uncertain, scary, and emotionally fraught than it ever was before I stopped drinking.

The difference is, now I have to FEEL my feelings, face them, sit in them, and walk through them.

It's been, in a word, a journey. I used to think that word was so overused in relation to recovery.

It's not.

If anyone wakes up one day and just decides to quit drinking, and then encounters nothing but rainbows and butterflies, why, bless their li'l sober heart!

I've yet to meet that person.

Getting sober is hard.

STAYING sober is even harder at times, especially in the beginning. But, once in a while, even now.

I don't know how people do it without professional help. If I hadn't been blessed to find an awesome residential treatment program, I doubt I would still be sober.

Addictive in nature, I was equipped with an arsenal of negative and destructive coping mechanisms. Discovering what triggered those, and what the underlying causes were for using them was essential to real and lasting sobriety.

I've had to become conscious of how much anger I had, and how I weaponized my rage to control the people I love. Just learning how to think before speaking was a prolonged, painful endeavor.

And one I continue to struggle with whenever I'm stressed or hurt.

My husband works in another state, 700 miles away. When he comes home for a long weekend or a rare week, I want to be the soft place he lands, where he feels safest and most loved. To treat him and speak  to him only with kindness, respect, and love.

After 2 nearly weeks of uninterrupted togetherness due to the the COVID-19 restrictions, I snapped. I had been working my behind off for hours pruning, and then hauling a mammoth pile of yard debris to the curb for today's pickup. Exhausted, I sat down for a minute. Maybe two.

It was beginning to get dark and my sweet man came out front, surveyed the situation, and said, "Baby, let's hurry and finish this so we can be done before dark."

I lost it.

"Where were YOU when I was hauling this stuff to the street for the past 2 hours?!? I've been working myself into the ground, and I sit down for 5 seconds..."

Uh-oh.

I realized mid-sentence what I was doing, and way too late, the irrationality and hurtful nature of my venomous response.

You see, they lied to us in nursery school and kindergarten.

We were taught "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me."

But, words DO hurt. They are poisoned arrows shot straight into the heart. The damage is real and can be devastating, even irreparable.

And the damage can't be undone. You can't take words back.

You can, as I did, apologize immediately, profusely, sincerely, even tearfully. You can ask for forgiveness. You can wrap your arms tightly around your loved one and hug him and cover his face in kisses.

It might help. A little.

But, it will take time.

The trust you've built has taken a blow and crumbled a bit. Time and consistency is required for it to be rebuilt and restored.

A wise man once said, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step."

A journey is an undertaking requiring commitment and dedication. Strength and endurance are built along  the way.

There are missteps occasionally. We grow weary, sometimes to the point of wanting to just stop.

But for those of us traveling the Road to Recovery, stopping is not an option. We tread on.

Step by step.

Day by day.

And the destination is worth it all.