Alcoholism hits me like a kind of blindness. I stagger through the living room cursing anyone who changes familiar placement or published timetables. Just like every aspect of this disease, shocked sightlessness, is mine to deal with. I must pick up the white cane, procure the Seeing Eye pup, learn to read clustered braille. When my vision clears in these well worked spaces I am relieved, but I must accept that when I walk into a new room more often then not I will be blind again and must pick up my walking stick once more.
Apply a timeframe to misery
Hanging out on the corner of Disillusion Boulevard and Grief Road
Then returning to that special spot on Despair Avenue
Was my daily routine.
I made the circle and never looked far afield
Widening my circuit
Allowed me to find Anticipation Place and Hopeful Terrace
I pushed my search and found roads
Whose existence I never fathomed intersected
Creating areas of intrigue
Optimism Court interfacing with Realization Way
Is the fairest of my finds
But many a fine street corner has me lurking
Catching stray sunshine and encouragement
I make my home wherever the hospitality is available
And return less often to the dark and stifling places of the past
Happiness is where you find it
Just make sure to read the signs.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault