“The art of living,” I like this phrase. It elevates the act of survival. It is a good reminder that the fact that my lungs continued filling, my blood continued circulating, and my electrical impulses continued firing all night long is a fucking miracle. Not to mention, I got up and to work on time. Early recovery, so far, has been filled with learning how to be a functional human being again (or really, for the first time). It is the little things that show that I am making progress. I shower several times a week, brush my teeth, occassionally do laundry (not as much as I should, but it’s a start), and I’m starting to eat and sleep more normally. And, if you were interested, my bowels are recovering as well. Yes, I wish I were capable of doing more, having more, and being more, and some days I am. Most of the time though, life is pretty basic because it has to be. Taking away booze didn’t immediately land me with some quality coping mechanisms, so until those come along, I’m walking around a little bit like I’m made of fine china that’s been tentatively pasted back together.
I’m getting a little better at patting myself on the back for little successes, even though I’ve been struggling the past few days. Not necessarily to stay sober but to continue wanting all of the things that recovery is promising. Because if you want the promises, you have to stay alive and some nights I go to bed/wake up still not entirely sure that I’m not 100% trash.
I’m working on it–if only by simply surviving for now. I’ll take it.
Hang in there,
95 days sober