Day 221: Milage

Sobriety. It’s the road we set out on when we decide to live differently.

That road, however great in theory, can be pretty overwhelming and distracting. There are lots of things to consider, to dismiss, and to take note of along the way. As I attempt to get back into recovery more actively, focus on the positive in the face of unemployment, boredom, and the hard memories that the fine weather here in Portland is beginning to to drag up from the old days I decided to return to the basics.

Portland is a big part of my heart. Even when faced with difficult realities, I never really considered moving back East to be closer to my family in New York. Oregon’s beauty is a great reminder for me of what we become, and what we come to love when we take risks. I never imagined loving this place as much as I do now when I first decided to move out here. But, the more time I spend out here, the more I learn that this place makes my soul feel at peace.

New York City is a fun, fabulous, and enchanting place. And, while I love it here in Portland, I recognize there are those city girl roots that will always ground me. That part of me, gritty-city girl, has given me the power to speak my mind, candidly. Something West coasters, in general, seem to avoid. At first I thought that honesty, fearless honesty, would turn folks off. I’ve discovered that it has become one of my greatest assets here. People seem, for the most part, to genuinely appreciate my blunt nature. And, in that acceptance, I too found my place as an individual.

When I think about Portland’s place in my heart, what it means to me, it all boils down to openness. The ease with which people move here, the many lifestyles that seem to thrive here ranging from typical domestic folks to off the wall, and off the grid, counter culture folks; there seems to be a place for everyone. And, more than that, there’s a tolerance. An acceptance. The eclectic nature of the town gives it it’s character. People appreciate their crazy differences because it allows them to wake up and be in a city where you don’t know what or who you’ll see next.

In the spirit of appreciation, I took an eight mile walk this afternoon along the Eastbank Esplanade. I started up at Oaks Bottom Wildlife preserve and trekked all the way down to the Steel Bridge. I listened to my Ram Dass audiobook and soaked in the sunshine that has been long awaited here. I watched the different characters of this fair city pass me jogging, chatting, some on bikes, some on roller blades, old, young, and so vibrant and colorful. I watched the city landscape change along the river as I passed the South Waterfront and then on past the city’s many bridges. So many folks were out to celebrate their sun.

As I walked each step of my eight mile jaunt, I thought about the mental mileage I’ve been traversing. I’ve been through a lot with this city, and today, I feel a real part of it, in it, helping it to breathe. Before getting sober, I never felt like a part of the community. I was just here. I loved it, but, I wasn’t in it.

Sobriety has given me the gift of awareness. It’s allowed me to be more mindful of my experience, especially in this city. I have a new appreciation for this place that took me in and allowed me to become a part of, without having to prove anything. I’ve clocked some miles here, and today, as I breezed down the waterfront, I realized that while I have a long way to go on my own road, Portland’s road will always be here for me if I feel like getting sidetracked.

Day 189: Irish Soda Squirrels Gone Wild!

Squirrely. A much loved AA term to describe feelings of unstable craziness which may or may not lead to drinking.

It’s a perfect descriptor in many ways. It highlights the crazed and distracted mind that takes us all to places where we’d rather not go. Today, for me, it’s the pub.

St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow. It’s an important day for me. No, not just because it is known as a ‘drinking holiday,’ but, because I am very closely tied to my Irish heritage. When I lived in New York City, this day was one, yes, for drinking, but also, for celebration of my heritage. Portland, Oregon doesn’t do St. Patrick’s Day very well, if you ask me. Even while I was still in my cups, I found myself miserable here, missing home. Missing the Irish pride that is impossible to avoid on the streets of New York.

Here, St. Patrick’s Day has been a pity party for me, one where it became about drinking alone just because there isn’t a cultural outlet or celebration here to make it otherwise for me. And, this year, tomorrow, not only will I have to face yet another year without New York’s Irish spirit, but now, without a drink in my hand.

After my morning AA meeting, it started. My squirreliness reached fever pitch. I saw myself sitting at the pub. Ordering a Guinness, then a Jameson, neat. I saw myself buying shots for the regulars, raising my glass, green ribbons, springing jovially from my hair. I missed that camaraderie. And, with no plans for the evening tonight, my mind felt like it was trapped in a cage of anxiety and loneliness. I wouldn’t be able to see Lars because he had plans, and there was no one else I could think of that would make me feel happy, not in Oregon anyway.

As my visions of walking to the pub started to become all too real. I drove to the Safeway supermarket and called my rehab husband, Pete. I told him I was going crazy. I was just wandering around the store aimlessly to keep myself from wandering into the pub. He talked me down. And, as I started to feel better, I realized that I have to lose myself in something that’s going to make me happy, something that’s going to give me the Irish pride I need to exude, and to distract me.

I hung up the phone with Pete and walked straight to the baking aisle. I loaded up on whole wheat flour, baking power, baking soda, raisins, milk, butter, and caraway seeds.

It’s soda bread time.

I spent the whole night baking. I started around 9PM and didn’t feel finished until around 4AM on St. Patrick’s Day. Every year, soda bread is a part of my St. Patrick’s Day story. It’s a tradition that I hold pretty dear. And, as the holiday season proved to me, baking is by far the best way to distract me from drinking. It’s an activity where I’m able to totally lose myself, be engaged, be totally present in the moment. It’s something I love, and, it’s something I love to give away.

So this year, St. Patrick’s Day, I’ll be giving out the fruits of my labor. And, now that the squirrely moments have passed, I can see that throwing myself into baking, while being sober, actually gave me time to reflect on my culture and heritage. It gave value to the holiday beyond the party pomp and circumstance. It was me and my baking. A meditation in it’s own right.

Much like my drinking days, my baking was no exception for excess. So, I look forward to handing out the fruits of this year’s Irish bounty. I made it through, and while I may not be in New York to be with my family, I got to spend the day with Irish me…and I was present for the whole thing. And, that’s the most joy I’ve had on this day in three years.

Érin go bragh to that.

Day 136: Sea Change

I am a paper tiger.

Back in the day, when I was living with roommates in New York City’s Alphabet City, whenever we ladies went through some deep, and heartfelt change, we’d play Beck’s album Sea Change. I don’t know what it is about this album, but, it’s always comforted me and,  for lack of a better descriptor, guided me.

As I go through something strange and profound, I pop the album in my CD player. I’m taken back to a different time, a different place, a different me. A time where being something different felt scary and new. Today, being different is the change for which I’ve been waiting and praying. Unsure and isolated. It’s a strange time for exploration and contemplation. But, this time around, I’m not sure what I’m seeking.

When I was younger, living with my little coven of girls, drinking, doing drugs, playing music, running around New York City, I was seeking something very different than I seek today. Well, I think I was. Perhaps it was the same thing back then, but, back then my path to finding the peace that I am so much closer to today was far more crooked and winding. I looked for love, acceptance, and friendship in all the wrong places. And, back then, I would get what I thought I wanted, only to discover it hadn’t been what I wanted at all. So, I sought escape in substance, not heart.

Today, I know where to look for love, acceptance, friendship. Not only that, but I know where to find it. Having found those things, knowing that I have so profoundly changed, it almost hurts still having a missing piece. A strange arch of change, that leaves me on new solid ground, but, my feet won’t move.

I sit in women’s group in treatment. Feel our collective wounds as they heal and scab over. We all pick at our scabs a bit. All of us still holding on to that one familiar piece of the people we used to be, our past selves. But, the tide is pooling at our feet. It is time. Time to either stay planted and drown in the wake of the rising tide, or, to kick up our feet and swim into new, unfamiliar waters. The sea change. The the simultaneous discontent of letting go and the blurry excitement of the future, who’s view is obstructed. It’s time for trusting. Trusting one another and ourselves.

Paper tigers in the sun.

Looking through a broken diamond
To make the past what it should be
Through the ruins and the weather
Capsized boats in the sea

O deserts down below us
And storms up above
Like a stray dog gone defective
Like a paper tiger in the sun

-Beck, Paper Tiger, Sea Change

Day 110: Defining Home

When I arrived at PDX airport around 2AM, the first thing I did, obviously, was make a b-line for the designated smoking section outside the baggage claim.

As I stood there, sucking down my sweet, sweet nicotine, it hit me. I’m home.

It’s a strange feeling to have just been in the house where you grew up, surrounded by your loving family, all the familiar comforts of youth, all the streets that have been etched in your brain forever, only to return to a city, thousands of miles away, and feel like you’re really home. But, that’s what Portland has become to me. And, despite all the hardship I’ve been through in this city, I feel like I’ve become who I’m supposed to be here. It has defined me in a way that my 25 years in New York City never could.

My cab dropped me off at my apartment, where my little tabby was waiting eagerly for me. My Christmas tree, still in the corner, waiting to be plugged in. My coffee pot, just waiting for me to turn it on.

Instead of going to bed, I decided to stay up, shower, and head to the daily 6AM AA meeting that then transitions into my 7AM AA meeting. Where my other family waited for me.

In the parking lot outside of the meeting room, I smoked my cigarette. Taking in the Oregon tree tops, the quiet hum of the early morning traffic. The air, milder than New York’s, but, still cool enough to wake me up. The warm feeling inside the meeting room, seats filled with the familiar faces of my AA family, who, I really, really missed.

It struck me, that the comforting feeling of returning to my meeting, it was a lot like returning to the pub. After traveling in the past, my first stop upon arriving back home was always the bar. Yes, for a drink, but also to see those familiar faces that I hadn’t seen in a while. The stories and dramas that I’d missed. It was a part of coming home. Catching up on all the little details. And, getting back to my AA meeting felt that way. Seeing all my friends and acquaintances, listening intently to their shares, finding out who’d relapsed over the holiday. And, then, there were those folks who didn’t know I’d gone home for Christmas who were relieved to see me, who were happy and proud I was still sober.

So, this is home. This city. This apartment. This kitty cat. This program of Alcoholics Anonymous. This space I’ve created. I’ve built.

They say that home is where the heart is, but, if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that your heart can be in many, many places at any given moment. Today, for me, home means a place where I am my authentic self. Where I’m happy to be, always. It’s where I want to be.

And, I’m returning home this time with a sense of hope and renewal.

It’s knowing: This, is where I belong, always.

Days 104-109: Christmas In New York

Well, what do you know? I survived Christmas.

And now, that I’m back in Portland, sitting on my couch preparing to write my holiday recap, my cat snuggled sweetly next to me, I can’t even fathom how I made such a big deal out of the whole thing.

Well, yes, I can. It was the journey into the unknown, the first time, the “Sober Christmas” maiden voyage, and I have to respect my month-long freak out. Even though it wasn’t nearly as brutal, triggering, stressful, or earth shattering as I expected, I’m not beating myself up for the exaggerated anticipatory behavior. Yes, I overreacted. But, in the long run, I learned a valuable lesson. Annnnnnd, my first sober Christmas is in the bag. Since I don’t really give a shit about New Years, never have, and most likely never will, I consider the holiday season as good as over. A-fuckin’-men.

As for New York, there isn’t too much to report. For the most part, I was a lazy lug. Enjoying the comforts of parental attention as I lounged in my childhood home. I baked up a storm in my mother’s gorgeous, renovated kitchen. I reconnected with my cousins, who are more like siblings. It was, dare I say it, relaxing.

And, all the while I was there, I felt my sobriety was pretty strong. There were a few moments where I needed to go out on my parents front stoop and chain smoke. Like, when searching for a kitchen gadget while baking, I came across the Jim Beam White Label bottle that I’d purchased, and guzzled most of, last year. And, while I wasn’t tempted to drink it, it brought back memories that took me out of my elf-like state of baking cheer, and into the dark depths. Memories unearthed that hardly inspired Christmas cheer. But, also, the realization that I’ve come so, so far. That I’m practically a new person. That my life has this sturdy foundation. And, that was nice. To see that bottle, and, instead of thinking ‘RELIEF!’, I thought about the positive changes I’ve made, and, how my life has truly changed and improved.

I went to a Brooklyn AA meeting. Which, was fun. The format is completely different from Portland meetings, the accents are thick and it sounded like my youth. But, I was welcomed. The fellowship, thousands of miles from my home, still held strong. And, it made me so grateful for the program. Even though I didn’t need a meeting, it was so comforting and reassuring to have one. To have a group that I fit into, even if my Brooklyn accent has long since faded away. I returned to New York, to find I belong. Not just with my family, but, in the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous.

There were, as I expected, a few moments of panic and discomfort at my uncle’s home in New Jersey on Christmas day. Cousins who were clearly avoiding me, not knowing how to behave around me or what to say to me as they threw back their bottles of beer. The painfully awkward moment where we Facetimed my grandparents and my grandmother preceded to start an embarrassing rant about how proud she was of my recovery, as my whole family stood around me looking and listening, as if I were cured of leprosy. There was the moment at the end of dinner where the desserts and coffee hit the table, accompanied by, as any proper Irish-American family event does, a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. And, fuck, if I didn’t want some. But, I did what any good, recovering alchie would do, I just ate a shit-ton of cookies and a big piece of cheesecake.

Then, on the way back to Portland, the airport struck again. God, I gotta say, the airport was the worst, most trying part of the trip. The boredom. The anticipation. The delayed flight. The happy people sitting at the bar, drinking, drinking, drinking….

But, when all’s said and done, good and bad, easy and hard moments alike, I made it. And, it’s just another one of those milestones in sobriety that you have to come out on the other side of to see how it is, really. There isn’t a way to fast forward through these events in which drinking used to play a big part for us former drinkers.

Just like everything that was important to me when I drank, this Christmas was something that I had to create a new, sober memory around. And, now, I’ve got one in the bank. One of many to come, I hope. And, maybe next year, I’ll be in some totally new, awesome state of being. It’ll be different. But, it’ll be better. I know that much.

Facing the the fear, it’s so hard, but, it’s making me better, all the time.

Day 103: Airplane

Flying. Not at the top of my favorite things list.

In the past, the bar has been my saving grace. Waiting for my flight, delayed or not, never seemed too bad with a double vodka cran in hand. I forgot what a big role drinking played in my travels. It’s a time killer, a tension ease-er, and a first class way to knock yourself the fuck out.

Last year, as I waited for my flight back to NYC, I slammed five Bloody Marys at Gustav’s in PDX. The guy sitting next to me paid my tab after we’d only chatted a few minutes. I told him that wasn’t necessary, as I reached for my credit card. But, he insisted, saying that no one should be so miserable for Christmas. He wished me a happy holiday, and disappeared onto the plane.

Obviously, I was wasted already. But, as soon as we were in the air, and the clink-clank of the beverage cart became audible, I reached for my wallet. A perk of being an American Express JetBlue credit card holder is, during the holidays, you get an alcoholic beverage on the house. And, this was a great perk, it meant that I’d only have to pay for three of the little SKYY vodka bottles that would make up my two, double vodka sodas.

Then, I’d pass out. Fast forward to waking up in NYC, with a massive headache, sweating, and smelling like a distillery. Then, on to the epic cab line.

This year, the bar beckoned. Happy holiday travelers sitting at the Gustav’s bar, sipping overpriced pints of beer. Smiling, laughing. It all looked so festive. And, I was suddenly hit with a massive wave of depression. I didn’t want to be the girl with her Venti Gingerbread Latte from Starbucks and her crochet bag, sitting at the gate like a lonely child. So, I relocated to the center of the terminal where a guy was playing a baby grand piano, singing shitty arrangement’s of pop and holiday songs. And, I cried.

I cried in the middle of the airport. Surrounded by my pile of bags, smiling grandparents, laughing lovers, and overactive children in their holiday pajamas. The guy playing the piano looked over at me sadly. I’m sure he’d seen, like, two hundred versions of me since the holiday rat race began. The lone, miserable traveler.

My flight was delayed. Of course. So, I sat and reveled in my pity for another hour.

Then, I boarded the plane, and made my best attempt to let the misery go. It was time to go home. To leave some of this pain behind me as I sailed through the sky.

The beverage cart commenced it’s clink-clanking and, for the first time in years, I ordered a plain club soda. I washed back my sleeping meds. And, I slept.

And, what do you know? When I woke up, I was back in NYC. Alert and alive as ever. Fresh as a daisy.

Day 102: Ready Or Not, Here I Come

Going home. Sober.

Today has been an epic hamster wheel of preparation.

Laundry, tying up loose ends in the apartment, cleaning, making keys for the house sitter, packing.

Oh, and stressing the fuck out. Did I mention that?

I’ve been worried about this day, week, holiday for the past month. Anticipating the worst, but, truly hoping for the best. Trying to avoid my own expectations which are almost always off the mark. My counselors at rehab said to analyze my worries. Take a worry, and provide evidence, cold hard evidence, for why it is legitimate. And, in doing that, I’ve found that most of my fears are unfounded and catastrophic in nature. Rooted in my own warped reality.

In my final one-on-one session before going home my counselor said, ‘What’s the worst case scenario here?’ And, after thinking it through, all the things that seemed like the end all be all to me actually were rooted in total and complete speculation. Family being overbearing, under-bearing, UN-understanding, too understanding, coddling, judgmental, you name it: I saw it happening.

But, the truth of the matter is, the worst possible thing that could happen, well, it was the one thing that I’d been side stepping around. The one scenario that I hadn’t played out, or even considered for that matter.

The worst case scenario: Drinking.

I’m going to be in a place where I’ve never been sober before. I’m going to be with people that I’ve never been sober around. I’m going to be at an event at which alcohol has always played a pretty major role. And, in saying that out loud, I realized, all this stress and fear about going home, about family, about the faces and places, it wasn’t really about them. It was about me. It was about my drinking. My expectations of myself.

I’m not really afraid about other people being different. They’re not different. They’re going to be exactly the same. It’s me.

I’m the one who’s going to have to navigate my own course. And, everyone else, every place I go, it’s all going to follow my lead. I can’t control the wine haul my uncle will cart in the front door of our Christmas day celebration. I can’t control my cousins’ reaction to the fact that I’m not red faced, loud, and slurring my words. I can’t control that my grandmother with most likely embarrass me by calling me out in front of my whole family.

I can control me.

That, makes things easier. It allows me to let go of all the bullshit, predictable and unpredictable. Because, I don’t want to drink. And, I’m not going to drink. So, if that’s the worst case scenario, I’ve got it in the bag.

With that, I’m suddenly ready.

Watch out NYC. Here I come.

Day 97: One Traditional Bitch

Tradition.

In spirit, it’s a comforting word. Something familiar. Something we know, perhaps by route, perhaps by something deeper, by fondness or even love.

It’s a word that comes up a lot this time of year. Little traditions are all around us. Parties with family and friends, gift giving, decorating the home, making special meals and treats, going on seasonal outings. They’re all things, little and big, that we’ve come to depend on, to know, and to, in many cases, cherish and love.

I was thinking about this concept as I’m now less than a week away from flying home to New York City for my family’s Christmas celebration. Thinking about how, for a long, long time, alcohol has been my biggest tradition, around anything, but especially the holidays. And, how this year, while it’s been really hard, I think I’m doing a pretty fucking rad job of trying to make new, sober memories. And, hopefully, when next Christmas comes around, I’ll be able to repeat some of these healthy holiday behaviors and start to establish some sober traditions of my own. Start a new record.

Tonight was a night of several traditions, good and bad. And, for me, it was a barometer for just how far I’ve come, and how far I need to go. It was proof that some traditions die hard, but, so long as I pursue progress, not perfection, I can get there.

Back in New York, it was a family tradition for my folks and I to go to Carnegie Hall and see Handel’s MESSIAH, every year. And, in the three years I’ve been in Oregon, I’ve made it back a few times to carry on the tradition. But, this year, I knew I wasn’t going to. A few months back, as I planned for my sober holiday, I thought it might be nice to start the same tradition, here in Portland. So, I bought two tickets for Lars and I to go. And, ever since, I’d been looking forward to the big event.

So, the night came. I had my nice dress hanging on my door, high heels all ready to step into. Made myself look pretty. And felt, well, fucking festive. My anticipation growing, and the hour drawing closer, my stress began to rise. I wanted to be on time. No, early. And, the later it got, I started to get agitated that I hadn’t heard from Lars. Finally, we touched base, and I planned to pick him up at a time that I considered “cutting it close.” But, he assured me it would leave us plenty of time.

When I got to his place, he was ready, but certainly wasn’t moving with the sense of urgency I was feeling. And, we rolled out. As the minutes ticked by, the traffic slowed, and my blood pressure rose. Lars reassured me that were were doing fine, but, my felted black heels pressed the petal to the metal. And, I started driving in my fast, erratic, NYC style, which in turn put Lars in stress mode. After looking for parking, unsuccessfully, we finally pulled into a lot not too far from the venue. We both emerged from the car in stressed out, bad moods. I was in such a hurry to pay for the parking voucher that I inadvertently paid twice. And, in the spirit of Christmas cheer gave the ticket away to another holiday park-er.

In my heels, I powered down 11th Avenue in downtown Portland, Lars, walking behind me. His annoyance with my impatience evident. I was annoyed with him. In my mind, at that moment, he had made us late. This new tradition, ruined! Or so I thought.

As it turns out, we made it to the concert with ample time to spare. My stress and agitation for naught. I’d also put Lars into a tizzy. And, it took about the first quarter of the concert for the two of us to lean into each other and enjoy that fact that we were there, we’d made it, and it was beautiful. Surrounded by music and the spirit of the holidays. An old tradition, made new for me, and altogether new for Lars.

I’d almost let my tradition of impatience and stress destroy everything. And, in the moment it was all real and happening, I knew it. I knew it was my ingrained alcoholic behavior and personality. I knew that, even when my mind wanted to place the blame on Lars, that it was all an illusion. It was me. My stress. My head. Just getting in the way of itself.

So, all’s well that ends well. Progress not perfection. Sometimes seeing and recognizing your flaws takes being in them. And, then, getting outside of them, to make new, healthy traditions.

Once I entered that head space, I ended up having a great night, and I know Lars did too. It made the season feel bright. And, a new tradition was born.

Day 67: There’s No Place Like Home

Nostalgia.

The holiday season is wrought with so many emotions for me this year, for many reasons.

I’d like to say that my being sober is the biggest change that I’m adapting to this year as I push on into the holidays, but, in reality it’s so many things. Sobriety seems like just another speck in the whirlwind of things that will be different for me this year.

It’s my second holiday season without my ex, but, because I was so loaded for most of last year’s “celebrations,” this year is the first year that I feel like I’m going into the holidays solo. There’s a lingering, hollow emptiness. It feels dark, lonely, and cold on the walk home these days. Because, it is. And, it wasn’t last year, because, I was never walking home. I was walking to the bar. And, I was drunk on the way there, usually. So, I was too wasted to notice the dark, I had the booze to keep me company, and that booze kept my blood thick and hot.

At the bar, my fair weather family awaited me, drink sitting in front of me before uttering a word.

Then, the death of a close relative took me home for Christmas, unexpectedly and suddenly. It was hardly a holiday. It was a week of mourning. Despite surrounding tragedy, I was close to my family. In the throws of my alcoholism, but, near to the people that care for and love me. And, while my folks are coming here to Portland for this Thanksgiving holiday, and, I’m going back East to NYC for Christmas, I’m here, alone, now.

With so much going for me, I feel guilty on these nights where it just doesn’t feel like enough. When it doesn’t feel right or complete. Where, just because I am able to be alone, I’m not able to make it so want to be alone. And, after fighting that good fight everyday, sometimes, I have to resign myself to the feeling. Accept it. Live in it. And, I suppose, therein lies the triumph, if there is one tonight. I can do it alone, even though my heart aches for anything else.

Holiday decorations go up in store windows. The smell of wood fires permeates from cozy, Craftsman houses, happy families inside, gathering at the table for a simple, midweek dinner. The ends of the aisles at Safeway are set with Christmas candy displays and crappy, store-made pies. And, it makes me miss home. It makes me want my own home. It makes me miss my family. Makes me want my own family. The one I was supposed to have by now.

I’d love to say that I can live enough in the moment to let all that go. What was. What might have been. And, I know that there is a future for me, a bright one, just past this valley.

But, tonight, there’s no place like home. And, I’m just not there.

Day 62: With A Heavy Heart, Adieu

Goodbyes suck. Especially ones that are unexpected.

I mentioned last week, in Day 55’s post that my best friend in my treatment program relapsed. Luckily, it was an episode that could have been a lot worse. And, as much as it sucks, she knows that there was a valuable lesson to be learned from the events that occurred. We had a long conversation about being aware of what things you’re in control of, and, the things you’re not. It can be a slippery slope for a lot of addicts and alcoholics.

The addicted brain makes excuses, bargains, reasons (however illogically), and baits to get you back to your substance. I don’t have to relapse to know that to be true. I hear my mind running all day long. I see how it bends anything and everything to get me into that bar, or into that liquor store. Just this one last time…

Well, even after that ‘one last time,’ my friend made it through her relapse. We mended our friendship, which was not as injured as I had made it out to be. We both were in strange, unfamiliar mindsets. But, there is a new development. She’s moving back home.

My friend’s ‘back home,’ is in my home state too, New York. So, she’s moving clear across the country.

I found this out at the last minute. She flies out just two days from now. I haven’t really had any time to process the whole situation. I just know I’m sad. Sad to lose a good friend in recovery. Sad to lose a trusted confidant. Sad that I won’t see her in our groups any longer. It’s a total bummer.

I’m worried too. My friend has a lot of demons back in New York. And, I know that it’s her recovery, so, she has to make her own decisions. But, from my point of view, the return back East is a high risk situation. Given her recent relapse, I worry that because of the raw and vulnerable place that she’s in, it will be easy to fall back into the traps of the addict life she once knew, all too easily.

But, there’s nothing to do but give it over to her higher power, and, pray to mine to keep her safe. It’s out of my hands. And, I know from working my own program that I can only do what’s best for my own sobriety. Listen to others, but, decide for myself. Let God be my guide. So, I must trust that my friend’s God will look after her, too.

So, my weekend begins with a heavy heart.

All my best wishes go forth into the universe for my great friend. I pray that she finds a stronghold in her sobriety back home, and, when she’s tied up her loose ends there, perhaps she’ll return to us here in God’s country: The Great Pacific Northwest…