“When you say ‘self’ who ever do you mean?” asked my sponsor. “Do you mean the lovely velvet child or the facade you built to show others?”
“Well, I wish I could answer you, I do,” my reply.
“I see the shrine you construct in your sobriety. I love that you made it. When you talk about ridding yourself of ‘self’ I doubt you mean this edifice. Do you speak of some creature in the past? Do you know of whom you speak? Are you parroting then assuming this thing exists solely for you to now dispose of it?”
“I thought ‘self’ was self-evident,” I feebly interject.
“I want names and locations. If you only suspect some of these entities please provide me with a full accounting of your suspicions. I also want, to the best of your ability, the origin of these individuals. I am unwilling to cosign their disposal without a proper bookkeeping. I see by the bright look on your face I have made myself clear,” she said with conviction.
“So, this is what you meant by self inventory,” I say and sigh.
Draw a maze of exit from a dilemma.
The Tide in Texas
I cannot tell you of my pain,
how the liars took me off my land,
how my heart lay shattered all around,
how I’m so foolish and left in town.
I cannot show you the big red ball,
which to me is a shame
or how it bobs and sways or how the tail of it hangs
out of reach and taunts me all the day.
But growing up to face the facts
and finding my strong legs
has put me to another tact
and sucks the mud away.
Sharing my disappointment and my grief
is like adding ballast to the boats.
It lifts us all instead of sinking me.
Not much of a price to pay.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault