Starting over with sobriety…you’d think each time would get easier. Having done the dance before, it should be memorized. But it’s just the opposite.
You have the tools, you know how to use them to make them work, to rebuild. But they feel a bit less effective each time you have to start the construction process all over. Like you’re dragging ass on the job. You plow through the motions, waiting for the moment everything springs into place.
Guilt, it’s there. Blame, self-loathing, isolation—all accounted for. But those aren’t the foundation. They're the walls you use to barricade yourself inside, away from the world.
My house has been doing a fine job of that since the day Hunter died. I got sober, I did the steps, I built the house, but I forgot about the doors and windows. And the foundation.
Forgiveness.
You have to be willing to forgive yourself in order to truly open yourself up to recovery.
I know this by heart, have heard it repeated time and again at meetings. It just never felt relevant to me. As if by some magical element I’d be able to get there without having to enforce this one fundamental step within myself.
It works for a reason—because it simply works.
Whatever I would’ve found with Melody, had she stuck around, wouldn’t have lasted in the long run. I was trying to skip the biggest step to get there.
With enough punishment, maybe I can find
redemption. Then maybe I’ll be willing to forgive myself. Until then, it’s best to let her go and move on. At least I know what I want now, and that’s something. It’s more than I had before.
These thoughts swirl my head as I dive just a second too late, and the fist nails me in the temple. My world spins.
Black covers my vision.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll work on that foundation part. Or cutting some windows into the drywall. Or opening a door. And then maybe I’ll beg Jacquie mercilessly until she reveals Mel’s location. I’ll find her; but first I have to find myself.
The foot to my forehead finishes me off.
I’m thankful for the sleep.
Melody
Only when selfish hearts break
NEW YORK CITY IS not my first choice of destination on a soul-searching quest—but for this particular journey, there’s one person who may help.
Last I read in one of her emails, Sam moved into a brownstone in East Village near NYU. She made her wish of going to the college of her dreams come true. And I’m truly happy for her, but glad I took a minute out to skim through her letters before I tromped through the low country of South Carolina looking for her.
I about shit when I saw her words in bold: New York City! Holy hell, that’s a long bike ride.
Truth is, this visit is long overdue, so I summoned up the strength to make the ride. I left her hanging for too long, no word from me, no explanation for my sudden MIA, and that was a shitty thing to do.
Regardless if I had a reason or not.
I just wish I hadn’t taken off on a full-blown hangover.
But Sam deserves to hear about Dar in person, not over the phone. Or in email, or a text. And I need someone who I can count on to give it to me straight. She’s the only other woman in my life I deem worthy of advice besides Dar—and I can’t lose Sam, also.
Giving it some more gas, I push the engine of my new bike harder as I climb the bridge. The New York City skyline opens up around me, buildings piercing the fluffy white and blue, soaring higher and higher as I coast over the bridge. I didn’t think I’d even make it to the halfway point of this trip.
I’ve always prided myself on the fact that I was a loner. A one-percenter. The road my companion, and all that jazz. That’s because Dar was always more a part of me than a separate person altogether. This is the first time since I escaped my hometown that I’ve traveled any real distance on my own.
Even if I had to stop a couple of times—get a room, shake off the panic. Sleep, talk myself into continuing on—I’ve gone this whole trip solo.
When it became too much—the cravings for a line, the need to lose all consciousness in a bottle—I about put down roots right in some little out of the way town in Virginia, just took up with this pintsized old lady who ran a bed and breakfast. Her husband had recently departed, and she asked if I wanted a job.
I stayed a whole day there, helped her out, made some quick cash, and truly struggled with whether I wanted to leave. It’s the first time I didn’t know what I wanted. Would I stay out of fear or because it would be a smart, fresh start?