The corpse that is my childhood is mine to protect from the wolves and rats of denial and collusion. The infant who commits suicide in self-defense is my heroine. The pure thinking of an uncluttered mind seizes on the only possible way for me to survive. Her death at her own hand is my rescue. If the bad had killed her I would have died with her. In her plan, I was left as the seed she ejected in her assent. She is gone from this place; I feel her only as the wisp of memory. The tiny body laid flat on the carpet, her pressed pinafore somehow more alive than she, is the unfinished business of prevention. As long as I see her there and do not walk away from my responsibility and never forget she protected me with the life she never lived, I am free to live this life.
Throw ice cubes up for God to catch.
Earl Grey is not my Friend
Scabby knees is what I look for;
I need to be with those who climb,
not those who slide.
I hate to say it, but looking cool
and sitting on the sidelines
does nothing for me or my sobriety.
I have to build those calluses,
require patches in my clothes,
carry a hammer to pound in those spikes.
If I don’t see tools in your hands
and bodily evidence that you have been using them,
I really don’t have time for you.
This is a “let’s go, lets go” kind of recovery for me
and if it isn’t for you then have fun
and I hope you have a good seat,
but I am not staying for your tea party;
I have no time for tarts.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault