Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if I slipped passed the grip of police, tore up my 302 and had taken the train that day back in November. Sliding Doors. I will never know, but it would be interesting to write about someday.
Although I still talk to the man I was supposed to meet that day, things are nowhere near the same. For a brief time, our worlds, passions and minds intertwined. But so did our illness. Although our paths were similar in the past year as we both experienced a slice of heaven and hell not many do, where we came from before we met and how we recovered are two different stories altogether. Fortunately for him, he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Unfortunately for me, I did.
I stand on the other side of a new year, witnessing veils reveal yet another piece of “recovery” that I seemed to have missed. I mean, let’s face it … I put my all into it a year ago, and still fell into mania, slipped up, became homeless, ended up in hospital after hospital and lost friends along the way. In the height of recovery, I went to IOP, therapy, wrote daily, created art and reignited my passions. I was safe. I was taking my medication. I was sober despite a few slip-ups.
Today, at least the veil is sheer and I can look through to the other side once more. The desire to recover is reigniting whereas weeks ago, I was drowning in suds and foraging for validation amongst pigs in shallow pools. Only to go home, sleep it off and do it all over again the next day.
At first, I came in to numb the pain. And it worked for a while, until it created pain all on its own.
That’s why they call it cunning.
I stuck around because misery loves company and it was better than facing my demons alone. But I quickly turned into someone I was not and put myself in dangerous positions by making piss poor decisions, despite every fiber of my being screaming out to me, “you know yourself better than this, this isn’t you!”
That’s why they call it baffling.
By that point, it was too late. Everyday, the depression and illness chipped away at any last reserve of self worth and dignity I had, until finally I had nothing left to live for and was so blinded by negativity that I couldn’t see how far I once came. I had completely forgotten who I was. Suicide slid off the rim of each drink.
That’s why they call it powerful.
At the end of each rope, there is a thread of hope. One last, splintering thread.
And I am on it.
And it is enough to rebuild. Yet again. Hopefully this time, with a bit more wisdom and vigilance.
I don’t know which is worse … the crash and damage done after sustained mania and psychosis or the alcoholism. It doesn’t really matter. Both go hand in hand for me and neither do the other any good.
We’ve all heard the quote, “we are all searching for someone whose demons play well with ours.” I don’t even have to search. I already have two that love to play. Then there is stable me … in the middle.
So, I’m off to separate the two and place them in padded rooms.
As for where the train would have taken me had I jumped on? That’s a story for another day, but first things first. Reality and Recovery. It’s a full-time job.
I’d really like to just get to a point where these two words don’t loom over me so heavily. I’m beginning to resent them. Unfortunately, I don’t think that is how it’s going to work.