pain is not a flower pain is a root

Every day I take a bitter pill that gets me on my way,
for the little aches and pains the ones I have from day to day.
To help me think a little less about the things I miss.
To help me not to wonder how I ended up like this.

Useless Desires
Patty Griffin

Corinne says I’m “thawing out.” Nikki says months 6 through 12 are often difficult. Jon (my sponsor) says I have nothing to offer him anyway because I’m not through the steps. Charlatans (treatment providers) remind me that feelings are just that; feelings, not reality. I disagree. Feelings are real, they just aren’t truth.

There was one remaining item of clothing that I had failed to bring with me to Nikki’s yesterday, and therefor hadn’t gotten back to it’s owner. The hoodie. After he went away I wore that thing to bed every night till it didn’t smell like him anymore. When suddenly I had the opportunity to drop it off at the workshop he’s volunteering at this afternoon, I did. I returned the last remaining material possession that reminded me of him. Keeping it around simply made me too sad. He texted me to say he was going to the Y and he’d call me later. Which he didn’t. And I knew he wouldn’t.

This is all advanced recovery stuff. Getting sober is one thing. Recovery is another. I see now that recovery involves learning to have loving relationships. Not romantic relationships, though those may be loving, too, but loving relationships of all kinds. A person in active addiction, I, in active addiction, may be capable of love, but not at all capable of maintaining a loving relationship. So, clearly I’m grieving and rather than blotting out the pain I’m moving through it’s predictable stages. I’m going through all the emotions I used drugs to avoid.

So perhaps the feelings are overwhelming right now; much more so than I would have expected. The pain has lasted so long now that I see the point of Monette’s “Gardenias.”

still the pain is not a flower and digs like
a spade in stony soil no earthly reason
not a thing will come of it but a slag heap

Gardenias
Paul Monette

The pain is pointless. The pain is not even some poisonous flower. It is simply a root. It achieves nothing. It becomes nothing. So instead of loving him from where it hurts, I’ll love him from as far away as I can get. I’ll love me more.
I’ll grow. It will pass. This won’t last forever.

(Just keep telling yourself that, buddy.)