BLACK GLOOMY THE DRAGON

It was in my nightmares in rehab when I first called my disease "The Dragon." The label had to do with the disease in general, but, particularly the cravings and desire to chuck it all and simply give in. Such feelings never happened on days when I was feeling great, the weather was invigorating, I was healthy, and the work was going well. Days like that seemed few in my early recovery. As we have said here before: A grateful recovering addict never uses, but gratitude was in short supply during those first few months.

Time passed, though, I didn't use, things got better, and who knew? I became one of those grateful recovering addicts. After thirty-five years of this recovery, one might think I might be confidently placed in everyone's "safe" column. Naaa, not so much. The only "safe" for a recovering addict is either at a meeting or in the grave.

See, yesterday . . . Well, it began with two story problems, one each in two different novels, popping up with solutions! What to do had been dogging me for many months and I was not coming up with any answers, then *Pop, Pop!* there the answers were! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' to coin an exclamation.

Then there was some email to answer and to clean up. The filing and deleting was moving right along, I answered a few letters and was confident of getting in a great day of writing. I chortled in my joy.

Then I was notified that my summer home away from home, a convention that I had attended for decades, that, for as many decades my wife and I had regarded as our Summer break from endless rounds of hospitals and keyboards, no longer cared to have me as a guest. "Okay!" said my disease, "Enough of this grateful recovering addict shit. Welcome back to Hell." Depression was all over me, I couldn't shake it off, and then I began collecting and stacking turds, real and imaginary, in full awareness that, should I stack those turds high enough, I will use.

Among the real pieces of crap to sorrow over was another terrorist attack, a couple of brutal murders on the news, a good man killed, a very gray day, and the snow still hadn't melted where I live. Among the imaginary pieces of crap were, "What had I done?" Was it because I offended someone? The committee found out who I voted for in the last national election? I'm really a fraud as an author? as a panelist? as a lecturer?

And guess who was waiting for me: Black Gloomy The Dragon. They told me on my first day in rehab, I don't use because I have problems. I have problems in order to give myself excuses to use. And when real problems come along, well, that is prime dragon chow. So I meditated. Then I prayed. The storm passed and I thought I would share with you the lesson: No one in recovery is ever completely safe from addiction. Is there something outside yourself that if it went the wrong way your disease would find that thread and begin to unravel your recovery? Be aware. Be aware.