Tuesday, February 19, 2013


Triggered doesn't begin to cover it. I'm sitting on the barrel of the gun, finger wrapped around the trigger, just waiting for the squeeze that will put a bullet into everything that I've been working towards these last few months. It's mornings like this one that I wonder, no, that I know that what I have now will simply never be enough; or that what I have now is just entirely too much, depending on which perspective I'm looking at things from. It's mornings like this one that I know that this is all too temporary, that my life will not continue in this manner once I'm without the structure that I have become so incredibly reliant upon. It's mornings like this one that hope seems lost and that I welcome the darkness back into my line of sight as I train my eyes on a target that on slightly brighter days has been all but forgotten.

Will it pass? Yes, it's likely that it will. But when it passes, where does it go? Surely it doesn't disappear. I'm reminded now that it never really leaves, but rather that it simply lies in wait for its opportunity to pounce on me at the slightest sign of my weakness or hesitation. Sickness is a cunning adversary and each time that I become too sure of myself in my recovery efforts, it comes back to remind me that I am not yet free, to show me that I may never be free.

But is it worth it? Has it ever been worth it? I thought so once and right now I'm tempted to say that I still believe that it was and that it is. Right now I'm still convinced that I can hold and nourish this darkness while still functioning and living in a world of light while on some level of logic I know that this is simply impossible. But right now I'm feeling more than willing to give it one more try. This game makes me question my intelligence. Am I not smart enough to realize that doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results each time is the very definition of insanity? I am, but if I have proven one thing to myself it's that one can be both intelligent and have not a shred of sanity in the same breathe as my life of the last ten years is surely evidence.

I feel like a caged animal. There is a world out there that needs exploring, roads which I have not followed to their origin, mountains left untraversed and gallons of smog laden air that need to be consumed as the sweat pours from my skin. My world has expanded in unfamiliar ways and it has shrunk in all the areas that I once felt so comfortable with. Some days, like today, this is unsettling knowledge to sit with. On mornings like this one I yearn for a satisfaction that thirty minutes in the glass and concrete prison of recycled air and stale sweat that is the gym will simply never be able to provide. My finger is getting twitchy. It's shaking with anticipation, ready to pull repeatedly if necessary, and kill this feeling that is building up inside of me.

I ask myself, what would it really hurt? What's a couple of hours of sweat and lactic acid in the ocean of my recovery effort? And I remind myself that it's not a couple of hours that will kill me, it's a river of hours that will follow those first precious moments that will slowly submerge me in the depths of their secrecy that will lead to my death. I know this, and somehow this knowledge seems to do nothing to lift my finger from that trigger. And perhaps this is the best that I can hope to achieve. Perhaps that finger will forever remain on the trigger, ready to kill this recovery effort with a barrage of fire and smoke at a moments notice, eyes trained on their target, just waiting for me to relax and turn my back for an instant.

And perhaps that is exactly what I need to remember and learn from mornings like this; that I cannot relax or turn my back, that I am still actively fighting this fight with eyes fixed on the barrel of that gun every minute of every day at this point. I remove my eyes for an instant and I wind up with a bullet lodged in my recovery effort and just like anything else that lives and breathes and needs nourishment to survive, it doesn't take many bullets to kill this beautiful recovery that is only just beginning to blossom.

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