4 Days Out
My mom stopped by this morning. I was in the garage, where I can smoke, watching the Olympics. After speaking with me briefly, my mom went inside and had her talk with my wife. She came out looking relieved and hugged me and said she was proud of me.
She’s been out of town for about two weeks. And, of course, she didn’t know what might have happened in that two weeks. Prior to this year’s holiday season, she had largely gone along with the agreed upon fiction that everything was fine. I mean, she and my wife have had conversations, but for the most part maintained a unwarranted motherly faith in her son. Now she worries more. That’s the price of giving my family reason to hope. I was sober a few times in my younger years. After proving myself unworthy of that hope a few times, I was pretty resolved not to do that to them again. So I made it clear I wouldn’t getting sober anytime again.
Yet here I am. Almost 60 days without a drink, and life is gracious, and warm, and meaningful. And me? I bristle at the burden, if I let myself. Big picture thinking tells me I’m trapped both by my condition and by expectations. But today’s meeting was good, and the morning is beautiful, and I’m not going to drink today. What more do I need to know than that?