Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
It was its own kind of recovery.
And it was one I couldn't hide from anymore.
I had a strong feeling that the next several months were going to be full of triumphant highs and devastating lows. Recovery wasn't a linear path. It wasn't like getting the drugs out of my system fixed everything. It changed the physical dependence on the pills, but it had no impact on the mental addiction.
I remembered my grandfather saying when I was a kid that the hardest part about quitting smoking for him was not kicking the nicotine, but the habits. After dinner, he always went out on the porch for a smoke. When he drove in the car, he rolled down the window and smoked all the way to work. On lunch breaks, in the middle of the night when he got up to use the bathroom, and especially when he was stressed. He said that was the hardest part- figuring out what to do in place of those things.
After dinner, he helped my grandmother do dishes. On the way to work, he chewed gum. On lunch breaks, he made sure he ate inside so he couldn't give into the urge. He said the hardest part was figuring out how to cope with the stress though. It was when he always gave in and had a smoke. It took him years to completely be off the cigarettes.
He died six months after that.
Me, I had the mental addiction. I knew there would be moments when I was down and couldn't see the light anymore where it would take a lot of strength to not find some pills- to not refill a prescription.
On top of that, though, I was still in a way, wrapped up in the lifestyle. I had no idea how to untangle myself from the situation I found myself in. And until that was handled, I was in a very suspended pattern.
I had no idea what was going to happen when I eventually had to face up my demons.
I had no idea what it would mean to have to come clean to Lazarus.
I took a scoopful of soup and sat down in the living room, eyes scanning over the pages of one of Lazarus' NA books, trying to find some hidden wisdom, trying to find strength in the words of people who went through it before me.
But I found little comfort and a lot of frustration so I put the book back and my bowl down and went back into the bedroom, restlessly flicking through channels on TV, trying to find anything to catch my attention and keep the thoughts from assaulting me all at once.
But there was no stopping them.
And out of all of them, the worst was somehow what Lazarus would think of me when he finally knew the truth, when he saw all my ugly. Would he still want to roll up his sleeves and put the work in? Or would he finally decide I was too big a project, that I needed to be stripped and gutted and rebuilt anew?
At that thought, the soup that had settled like warm comfort in my belly rolled and I had to fly up off the bed and barely made it in time.
It was the same way for lunch.
And then dinner.
Don't be surprised if it gets worse when you're alone. You'll have nothing but your thoughts to drive you crazy. Don't think of it as regression if your stomach gets torn up again or you get the shakes or you are cold or hot or restless. It's all normal. It's all part of the process. Me being around has been a good distraction, but eventually all of this was going to come up anyway.
That was what he had said.
And I guess it was proving right.
I pulled on heavier layers and crawled back into the bed, surprised maybe more than I should have been when the tears stung at the backs of my eyes then started streaming down my cheeks before I could even try to fight them.
It was like a dam had cracked somewhere deep inside.
And there was no stopping it. No repairing the damage.
It all just had to drain out.
So it did.
The pillow was wet enough for me to have to turn it when my tear-swollen eyes proved too heavy to keep open anymore and I drifted into a restless sleep.
--
I didn't wake up slowly, drifting toward consciousness.
One second I was out cold, the next, fully awake and staring up at Lazarus' ceiling, my heart pumping a little hard in my chest, making it so that I could feel it in my throat, reminding me that while I might not remember my dreams, that they could still have impact.
I climbed up, feeling my heavy limbs, aching intensified either because I was too conscious of it or because of my inactivity.