A letter to my addicted sister; "Fear of Light"

Every day is another opportunity to face others addictions and thereby re-examining my own place in the world after more than a couple decades of sobriety, not-using and opportunity for life. Again.

To my sister, who is currently losing the struggle against alcohol.

Fear of Light

Long, long ago, in what seemed to be another person's life, certainly so far away from mine at this moment that it nearly impossible to recall all the perimeters of that life,

I was sure I would magically just disappear.

The only reason I choose to recall this period is under and in a disorderly bunch of papers in my desk. A self-written contract. Or, what is supposed to construe a contract.

One that wanted a signature of the people that demanded to see me sober and straight.

Certainly not my parents, as that was just a justification for me instead of themselves.

However, after reading my many folded square of paper, no one, not a single person, after reading this paragraph would sign it.

I know now, that that would be impossible for them to do. After all, I was asking them to 'promise', guarantee, in other words that I would be happy if I gave up my muse, my sustenance. At that time, I used it as a validation that I could not have both. Of course.

In this hand written scrap of paper, the word 'Happiness' is underscored and has several exclamation marks. It is certainly the focal point of the paragraph, heavily written and flourished just so. Which is not long in itself.

Dirty by now, I look at it every ten years or so while stumbling around for something else and come upon it. It always startles me. Those first years, I felt shame when I reread it. More recently I feel sadness for others who have their own version of this contract.

But in no way did I write down that I was terrified of disappearing, if in fact this paper slipped off somewhere to a place that wanted me to be crazy, instead of an addict. I felt crazy, but knew under it all, I did not live up to insanity.

It was stripped down to the simple fact that if I stopped drinking, which was my acknowledged way to keep myself together, I would let lose the tether that still held me here in this place on earth and I would be gone.

Just gone. Gone.

So blind.

The mysterious panic of disappearance was not something I wanted to do or aspired to.

Even though my life may have looked that way on the surface.

Escape, escape, to where? At least not in a knowing, conscious manner. But it was one of the many gray, stiff underlays while vacuuming the living room, bringing the kids to hockey, picking up milk at the corner store, packing out for camping, washing the windows for spring. It was the sadness, loneliness and lack of wholeness that I blamed on others. It was the lack of love, from and for others. It was the “we are going to have fun if it f*****g kills us!”

It was the martyr, the victim, the mother, the daughter, the hatred, the control, the fear, the panic, the desolation.

It was a giant suffocating slug growing on my neck over decades, slippery and repugnant, exposing my own glaring vulnerability, cutting off my speech leading only to screams of cheat, cheat and whines of pain.

Self imposed oblivion allowed no cracks, no light, surely no glimmer. Abeyance. Waiting for the real owner of this putrefying body.

Balance.

Balancing living and dying.

The effort dogged my every move, step, jump and every last failure. Of which there were many, I may add. I denied it, believed no one, inspected or considered absolutely no other alternatives. I was paralyzed by this stagnating and oppressive state of being alive.

Better to be dead.

Today, I have what I consider to be a “good life”. I am poor, I am an artist, I read, I garden. Getting old at 58 and starting the slow rot and disintegration of my aging years.

Understanding my limitations, the world no longer holds an open palm. This is reassuring in many ways. The loss of years to an addiction makes me more aware of what is important, as there is less time to fulfill those hopes.

I have moments of great joy. And friends that I enjoy and can be honest with. A family that still has many more growing struggles to go through, but are able to handle them.

I suspect this is more than many will have to define the outlines of their lives.

Because I have made the choice to live, I am no longer afraid to die.

Author's Note

A letter to a suffering alcoholic, who is not able to see through the illness' denial and the constant stream of blood in her piss.