Day 77



The first of these terms denotes (or connotes? I’m never sure) an end.  There is a solution, a magic pill or technique that will take this all away.  There is a holy grail to find.

For the second, there is an ongoing-ness, an alcoholic who never will have a good relationship with booze and can’t walk into a bar or in my case, always going to have the blackness in my head during times of struggle.  When stress gets tough, I will have a voice in my head that tells me to seek comfort in falsities: losing weight, restricting habits, constricting myself, hiding and destroying.

However, this is not a bad thing, knowing that I am a recovering whatever-the-fuck-this-is.  The hunt doesn’t stop, but instead of solutions or singular magic pills (anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, my brother’s cannabis), strategies need to be found.  There is a journey to this, one that can be enjoyed as opposed to endured until I’m recovered, one on which I can hold her hand and know it will be there throughout, one that we can watch the penguins fly by as we find our way.  Being a recovering whatever-the-fuck is not a curse, it’s a freedom to look up, to not postpone living anymore, to not let this blackness take any more away from us than it already has and could very well continue to if we wait for “recovered.”


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