SERVICE AND SACRIFICE
The difference between life and death in my recovery is the equal difference between service and sacrifice. If I offer you what is in my hand, fine. If I also give you my fingertips, I am lost. Service lightens the load in my heart; sacrifice removes my tools for living. When I go into debt for your existence, the cheer and optimism is sucked from my awareness. My eyes go dead and soon I follow. The cingulotomy of obligation crucifies my future and murders true hope and love. Service feeds my heart and yours. Renovating makes space. It builds the muscles for joy and contentment, pumping and refilling my plate with spirituality.
Wriggle your toes and flex your mind.
Being actually alive does not feel as good as I imagined
the relief of not being dead would feel
therefore I have anxiety and dread,
or is it disappointment.
I feel like a failure when I am in the process of trying
I want to throw the pieces in the air and run.
Does this mean I’m weak
or does it mean I am frightened?
Is there some heavenly host of other reasons
why my crêpe paper soul twists and turns
in the breeze of the marketplace?
Some part of me was auctioned off
and its removal left a psychic scar
that even equanimity cannot ease.
I am all things wonderful and yet there is this flaw,
this toe tied thread which holds me back,
holds me down with painful accurate precision.
I look for the knife with which to cut it
all the while wondering if this will turn it into
a toe tag or a price tag.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault