731 Days

It is early morning on August 16, 2007, and my eyes open a crack. I hear a faint snoring coming from my right - my husband? - but somehow the room feels all wrong. I close my eyes for a moment, hoping to fall back asleep, and it hits me. It's over.

I open my eyes fully, and I know where I am. I stare at the pockmarked, stained ceiling tiles and my thoughts race. I think: why me? I think: how could I? I think: I'm so, so tired. But one phrase goes over and over in my head: it's over. It. Is. Over. Please God let it be over.

I move my head slowly to the right, and see a middle aged woman in the twin bed next to mine, sleeping deeply with her mouth hanging open. Her dishwater grey curls are a mass of tangles, her face ashen. If it weren't for the faint snoring, I would think she was dead.

I am at a detox facility. I had left this very place two days prior after a ten day stay. I thought I was ready for the real world - I took lots of notes. I paid attention to everything the counselors told me. I listened to all the stories of heartache and pain. I promised everyone that I was okay - that I was ready to leave.

I wasn't.

Home less than 48 hours, and the Disease got me by the throat again. I know how it happened - I still thought I was in control. I still didn't believe. I still thought I could have "just one" in safety. I have never been more wrong.

I'm too tired to cry. I'm too tired to fight anymore. I thought I was strong, I thought I could beat this thing. I can't. I roll carefully on my side, and slide off the bed on to the floor. I try the one thing I haven't tried.... I get down on my knees, lean my head against the side of the bed. And I pray. I don't know who or what I'm praying to, not yet, but I know what I'm praying for. I'm praying that I will get out of my own way. I don't know it yet, but I'm finally, finally giving up, I'm finally letting go.

After a 30 day stay at a treatment center, I am told I am ready to go. I do not feel ready to go. I am terrified. This, I am told, is a good sign. It means I have surrendered - that I understand that left to my own resources I am in trouble. I am told to go straight to a meeting, put my hand up, and ask for help, so this is what I do. And help comes.

I know now that my recovery is not my doing. Sure, I'm the one putting one foot in front of the other, putting the advice I'm given into action. But I have learned how to put Faith in front of Fear, and to let go. I do not walk alone. Today marks the two year anniversary of my sobriety. But it isn't about years - it is about putting together 24 hours at a time. It is 731 days, because 2008 was a leap year - an extra day in February. In recovery it is said that the person with the most sobriety is the person who got up earliest that day. I do not project too far into the future, I do not look too far into the past. I do my best to stay in the moment, because each sober day I have is a day I couldn't have dreamed of only 731 days ago.

This morning I open my eyes early - I want to see the sun rise. We are out at our beach camp, and the sun rises up over the lighthouse next door to our cottage. I hear the faint snoring of my husband sleeping beside me. I peek out the door to the next room - at Greta and Finn, their little limbs all tangled together in a heap, sound asleep and dreaming.

I slide off the bed and get down on my knees. "Thank you," I say softly. As the first beams of sunlight stream through my bedroom window, I say it over and over. Thank you, thank you, thank you.