Day 9 | Squeaky | Hell, Where Is that Stale Pack of Cigarettes?
This morning before I opened my eyes, I attempted to engage in a conversation with my liver.
Me, inside my head: Hey, Liver, how ya feeling? Nine days and no booze.
Me, inside my head: It’s better, no? Without having to muck the stuff through?
Me, out loud: Throw me a bone, will ya.
My heart thumps away.
The stark realization:
I’m not sure I feel any better.
I thought Clarity would come without the aftermath of the murky vodka cobweb and Tylenol PM and belly-bulging salt-induced chip-eating. Like, I’d wake up and I could see all these future opportunities. In golden light, no less. Things I could do for paying work, how to begin my umpteenth revision of my memoir. The “prosperity” of the Open Road.
The Open Road.
It’s always there in my back pocket.
This time around, I’d drive 3,000 miles with the dog and cat, through the same cities and farmland I drove through 22 years ago, enjoy the hell out of it, and then once standing on the Pacific shores of Manhattan Beach, realize I’m without my True Love, who is at home manning a challenging day job [and supporting me on-the-road] and in his spare time, making significant repairs to our new fixer-upper.
I’d dip my big toe in the surf and then turn around for home.
Because he’s here and I find I rely on him; Reliance on someone being something I’ve always denied myself because it suggests weakness and dependence.
[You mean, like alcohol? Food?]
I’m not ashamed, I’ll herald it to the world and beyond:
I rely on him!
Because he doesn’t judge and he gets me and embraces what I love (nature and all creatures great and small) and is kind and does the wild thing with me despite my exposed ugliness.
Maybe I should ask him to attempt to engage in a conversation with my liver.
[While writing the end of this post I did hear something inside my head: Clarity depicts the means of survival, simply]