I have been writing every day, for one year. The chronicles are lengthy and deep, laugh-inspiring and dangerous, loving and deadly, long-winded and diminutive. 365 steps in the direction of recovery, that’s what that means. But perhaps not.
Yesterday, my wife had a risky yet eye-opening foray into job-people-asshole-relationships. This foray showed us that her next steps require some sort of job search, career path. I am on board; ultimately, I want her happiness, for her to be grateful and appreciative, above all else. I love her and we will make it work. Luckily it was just a warning shot though, a burnt orange instead of a bright red, one that will allow us to take the next steps – while tenuously – on our own terms. Given how things have been articulated here, recovering herself would be a way to frame this.
As for me, I am currently stepping into a new form of self-reality (I know that self-actualization is a more proper term, but the douche factor requires a less-accurate synonym), stepping into a new understanding of myself. I started writing because we understood its value as a recovery tool for me, because we were looking for experts on me when we were the only two true ones. As a result, we know many more of my triggers, warning signals, agitators and alienators than we did one year ago. We also know that when stress gets away from me and us that dire consequences ensue: judge and jury, I give you broken hand. I also know many more of my feelings, my loves and desires, my cares and Tz’u, my purpose as Don and my hopes and faith. I feel more comfortable being who I am after 365 days, partially because we have expanded the me version of me, but also because we have explored the me version of me, which has given us an understanding of shoulds and the parts of me that are me, not black. As we discussed earlier in the week, my wife and I know that my next steps in recovery include rest and managing the inevitable stresses of living on the edge, of giving 100% to do good and be beautiful, amazing and loving.
Odd thing is, if I hadn’t been pushed off the edge two weekends ago, I wouldn’t have had cause to have the difficult conversation with my aunt last weekend. And if my wife hadn’t had her encounter of the fucked up kind, I would not have gone to my aunt for counsel about college teaching (a reach out that wouldn’t have happened without the difficult conversation), she would not have seen her potential for vivid expansion and I would not have found a potential perma-support in Kind Science
Work Friend. So is this really about recovery?
Through blogging, I have learned so much. By writing, I have faced demons with my wife, with her affair, with my family, with my brother’s illness, with my blackness. Like our summer before life happened, writing allowed growth beyond belief. However, I will stop blogging after today and this is my final Tale as the Recovering Recoverer. Not because I don’t love writing – I will continue to do that as a tool. But given the acquired understanding of the last 365 days, I now understand that this is not a path of recovery, not solely. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I am recovered by any means. I will continue to understand that I am recovering from anxiety and hyper-vigilance, perfectionism, orthorexia and disordered eating – my personal blackness. I understand that the potential for that blackness taking over will always be there. I understand that we will need to face every day one day at a time, with serenity and courage and wisdom. I understand that I and we will continue to adapt our vivid to fit the current lines and colours, to use my tools and support system and stay vigilant against the blacknesses within us.
But I understand that this is only a part of me. I have realized that I have not been writing about a path of recovery, not solely. This is not a story about recovering from a deficit; this is a story of growth. No, there is not an ending here, but that’s because this is a tale of a different sort – this is 365 days of life.