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My Recovery and Healing Mainframe.
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> death_of_every_relationship.ps1
> recovery.ps1
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"If you could kick the person in the pants responsible for most of your trouble, you wouldn’t sit for a month."-Theodore Roosevelt
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9 months ago I burned every bridge in my life to the ground. I filmed this dance a few weeks ago on the Whatcom Creek bridge with a train crossing behind me the whole time. The post today is about what 224 days of not giving in actually looks like from the inside, and why the title is not about what you think it is about.
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Alone on the bridge over Whatcom Creek at midnight, the relapse happened. Thirty one years of buildup, no warning, nobody there to see it. I am not sorry, and honestly, I am proud of it.
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Today I told someone I bought flowers for that the sunflower always faces the sun, a metaphor almost identical to that of the bison. Earlier this year, I deleted a song because it hurt too much to hear, then danced to it again and found out grief was never something you delete, only something you finally let speak. This is a story about giving up control, walking back into what I’d been avoiding, and a piece of Lakota wisdom that was given to me, not taken, by a woman who reminded me the bison does not run from the storm.
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Pain means I still have a heart. It’s better to feel it than to be indifferent. A song, a video, and the truth that love doesn’t disappear when it changes, it just asks to be carried differently.
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Liminality on the first day of August. The farmers market, an old friend, a hug that felt like glitter, a painting that looks like my insides, a poster of suffering hitting the curb, Bigfoot, a fellow multiple exposure freak, climbing shoes and chalk, mountain bikes, ice cream, and a dance nobody saw except the 360 camera. I hit an unexpected new low, in the best way possible.
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I almost walked past a footpath that changed my whole month. Same beach, same stairs, same everything, until one small path I’d never noticed dropped me into a ravine I didn’t know existed. Turns out the dead end had the gold at the bottom of it the whole time, and so did the rest of July.
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Farmers market cherries, a hug and sweet smiles from a sparkling ray of sunshine, a skirt that won in La Conner, and a twenty foot drop I didn’t fall into at Clayton Beach. A silly, fearless, unmasked 201st day of sobriety, and I am the captain of it.
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