Friday, July 06, 2012

Tuesday, July 03, 2012


Weak, so incredibly weak I can hardly stand. I cannot stand or walk without hanging onto something. I feel my life slipping through my fingers, and no matter who I see, what I change, nor how hard I try to hang on to it, it seems the flow through my fingers continues. Today I feel the currents increasing as the clocks paradoxically seem to slow. It took a few seconds for me to remember how to start my computer and open a new document.

 Pain is not a problem today. Most other days it is a hammer swinging demon clinging to my back, slamming my neck, my head, my spine, my joints until I am driven into darkness, immobility, tears, or to pills: Prescription drugs that either do too little or risk doing too much, always making the payment for reduced pain that nauseous, sleepy wooze that divorces me from my feelings, sucking every last scrap of joy and gratitude from my existence.

 When I reach that unpredictable wall of weakness and weariness, the pain usually goes away. From the time when I died before, I remember the meaning of pain's end. It is death. That's when all the aches, stings, troubles, and concerns of life end. What happens after that is still mysterious. I remember when my heart stopped I seemed to fall into an ocean of warm black cotton, then found myself flying, exploring the universe, and filling myself with knowledge that no longer had a point. It became knowing for its own sake. But that could have been imagination, a dream, or coming off whatever medications they were using in Intensive Care to treat me.

I do not know what comes after dying. I am quite certain, however, that it does not involve writing. It does not involve being with those I love. There are things I still want to accomplish, books and stories still to be written, men and women whose company I still cherish. As circumscribed as my life is, I want to live.

 But I feel like I am dying. I have felt like this many times before, and each time thus far I have come out of it still alive. Playing the odds, I should come out of it alive this time, as well. Judging from the paragraphs above, I can still write. Perhaps I can tap out a few more pages on that next book. Time to get on with getting on with it.

I heard a speaker once at an NA convention remark, "Some days it's simply putting one fucking foot in front of another." So, back to writing, go to the meeting tonight, hug those I love, take a run at a gratitude list, and if I should see another day clean tomorrow morning when I open my eyes, thank my Higher Power for extending my ticket on the ride.


A few minutes after meeting my new sponsor at his home, he sat me down at his dining room table, put a piece of paper, and a pencil in fron...