Getting my ass kicked in the playground of my mind was once a daily event. Now, it is a far off memory. I absent myself from the jungle gym the same way I absent myself from bars—places set with traps and schemes I am no longer attracted to. Bullies and ego trips can’t draw me toward the fence. Dares and double-dares are such ancient devices I can’t even find the trigger they used to pull. Trouble doesn’t know my new name, my sober name; I don’t answer to the old one. I hate to admit the isolation of my school yard days, but no one I knew back then will keep me on the road to the future. So, I leave the ball in their court and wish them well.
Expectations are lovely as long as you leave off the outcomes.
Not Fur but Fin
You can’t delay the river,
I’ve tried, all it does is distort.
I block the flow and swamp ensues,
mighty oaks waist deep in water.
The current is strong
and I fear being swept away,
not realizing I was born to swim.
Dreading the swim back for spawn
I try to stay too close to my origins,
never make it to open water,
never to live the life I was intended for.
I’ve heard it said,
“Don’t push the river it flows by itself,”
but I can’t stall it either.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault