“Try to stop talking when people stop listening,” said my sponsor. “And try not to take it personally.”
“Why is that?” I query.
“Most individuals can’t handle much of anything real. Try as they may, they are unable to listen to anyone speaking the truth. Tell them a story; you can hold their attention all day. Sprinkle bits of honesty into the tale and you still will keep your audience. But strafe them with bullets of the truth and they will run for cover.”
“I’ve seen it happen. I never knew what made them scurry, but I have seen them sprint away.”
“It’s a coping mechanism. If you try to turn their heart too quickly, they’re afraid it will stop beating.”
“Why is it you never worry about that with me? You tell me the facts whether I want to hear it or not.”
“I can tell you because you take step 3.”
Color a page using only three crayons.
How many times
have I given the credit to night blind fear,
credit due the brave persistent child?
How many times
have I blamed the willing diligent pursuer
when the fault was the backstabbing delay of mistrust?
I resist the onset of freedom.
Fear was my oldest familiar
and I put from my mind that it was my jailer, captor;
Kidnapped me from my cradle
and kept me locked from God’s fine intentions.
Fearlessness sounds debilitating to my crippled ears,
Organs who hear well the disclaimers
and are deaf to the claims.
I am the producer of bile and addicted to dread,
Endorphins wear white hats
and win the day
once this yellow belly is put to bed.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault