waking at six, bag packed the night before. slipping into thermal tights, wool socks, worn hiking boots. sipping coffee from a mug given to me by my cousin.
McCoy, the blue truck rumbling up - a little late, Brandon’s always running a little late, always talking on the phone with his love, always has a bottle of iced coffee in the cupholder.
the sun bursting past the ridgelines of the North Cascades, redolent and rippling like molten gold. I swear the colors were exactly the same as my lava lamp from 7th grade.
the hike through old-growth, the ice and snow growing deeper as we neared the peak. the gulley I fell into, splashing knee-deep into the hidden creek below. momentary panic, unable to scramble out of the four-foot hole til Brandon pulled me up. the gorgeous peaks above Heather Lake, spotted through trees; we couldn’t reach the lake, and i battled dissatisfaction for half the path back down.
the soaked feet, the layers shed in front of the heater. the gigantic Blizzard from DQ that was more calories than the rest of my meal combined, but so so worth it. the reminder that I am my body, and I am not my enemy, and sometimes ya girl wants a massive shake after a 6 mile hike.
the four-hour nap after, hot and sticky and exhausted in my sheets. the dead phone, always such a relief - i left it uncharged for the evening to clear my head, and it worked.
the strange hour spent in the mall, where I never go; I left with shoes I’ve wanted since I was 15 and a pair of sweats and a crush on the dreamy butch with incredible customer service hustle.
the phone number from that regular I secretly admire, written in perfect handwriting, still tacked to the back of the work fridge where all my customers’ notes live - a collage of music recommendations, book titles, performance dates, and finally, her number. I left it at work unconsciously, but it’s gnawing at me.
sobriety is realizing that I’m being given an invitation to fall in love with my life again. my tendency to pour that energy into one or two people at a time, and especially to pour myself into romantic relationships (which I inevitably bolt out of as soon as life gets hard again)... it’s really present today. I’m trying to rein in the urge to try and dazzle her, and am giving myself the option to simply get to know her.
sobriety is sitting in a 10pm old-timers AA meeting where the chairperson spoke for literally 40 minutes, and half of me wants to bolt; the other half is slowly softening to a point at minute 38 where I realize I’m in pain. Just like this person sharing. We have enough similarities in our pasts (the ptsd, the childhood abuse, struggling with lesbian identity, struggling to feel at home in ourselves, struggling to let another person in - even more so, struggling to be reliable for others). It gets past my defenses and before I know it, I’m struggling not to cry. I realize that this is why I’m here; not for the daily reminder not to drink, but for the daily reminder that another life is possible. Another tack at MY life is possible. And today I’m damn proud that I am sober, that I’m falling in love with my life in these tiny incremental ways, that I’m learning how to live in community again.
I’m grateful.
