Nine years and counting
At the end of the meeting a lovely gentleman asked if I'd be at the next gathering. "Yes, yes!" I chirped. "Maybe I will!"
But I won't. I don't want a keychain. I don't want to hear it's all been God's plan. I want someone to say, "Yeah, it blows. I had the little pills too, and they nearly wrecked me, but damn. They were tasty." I want to talk about my drug island instead of St. John. We won't relapse if we admit that sometimes recovery sucks, will we?
I came home from my meeting and tucked the card back into the NA book. I wondered what my grandmother would say if she were still alive. Probably something about watching Jeopardy. That was her addiction, and if I believe in anything resembling religion at all, it's that she's on some island, watching Alex Trebeck 24 hours a day--with no repercussions.
Lars doesn’t want to be there, every day, sitting in that chair, feet splayed out at an odd angle. But he can’t go anywhere until he gets a new wheelchair and he can’t get a new wheelchair until he has a job and he can’t get a job until he has a new wheelchair. Got that?