Recovery is sobering, the walls of denial tumble, and lay waste my life-long illusions. Enabling has supported a construct built to honor my arrogance. My need to be needed is fully exposed to the harsh light of reality.
I have pulled the needle out of my own arm, as I discover that care taking is not love, it is a hook and a hole every bit as dark as a drug den. The anger, fear, guilt, shame, and unending grief come rushing out of my body like sweat and stink from a fever. I quiver in my own weakness, still thinking that this disease is my fault.
Alas, to realize the disease is really the arrogant belief that everything is my fault. Fused at conception, imprinted into the limbic brain, practiced over the years, it has become my art-form. Without it, who am I? Truly, who am I now?
So I take my tiny candle, and wrap the cloak around my shoulders, and take my first few steps out into the dark howling night. Frightened and alone, I cherish the idea that each step I take is toward freedom. Deeper than my terror … a drop of gratitude, one at a time.