One month and a couple days sober. I spent this particular Sunday enjoying everything I did. Went to an 8am yoga class taught by one of my favorite people, went to my parents and worked on un-greening their pool, listened to a Tommy Rosen podcast with Seane Corn and became an instant fan girl, looked up healthy recipes and went to Trader Joe’s for all the food, made a Dahl, and am now having a heart-felt convo with my youngest daughter. Perfect day.
This is so weird.
I feel peaceful. Is it real? Is it because I’ve been immersed in recovery books and blogs and podcasts for a solid month and it’s all starting to rub off on me? Or is this all my wicked imagination? I can’t figure it it out, nor do I care to. I feel like something let go–released. Unconstipated me. I’m calm. I’m present. And I really don’t give a shit if this feeling–which it will–ends.
One of these days I will write about all my crap. My secrets. Infidelity. Sexual molestation. Abortion. Yadda, yadda. Shit that I’m afraid of writing down but is directly connected to my alcoholism. If it’s true that we are only as sick as the secrets we keep then I figure I better offer it up at some point.
But not today.