XI
The coffee is especially good this morning.
Or maybe I’m just that tired.
Our dog Riley was whining at me for a few minutes to get up. Always hungry, Riley knows who to pester before dawn. I’m the morning person in the house. The only one. Normally, I don’t wake up early to feed dog. I wake up early to write. It took me five months of 4:30 wakeups to complete a novel.
Those were the days, creatively speaking.
I remember times when the story took over. These characters got me out of bed, wanting resolutions to their story. The morning is my time for that kind of writing. I can hit a stride that only slows as the day piles on its responsibilities and my mind swirls in defective thinking.
Lately, I’ve been sleeping late, on account of fatigue. Whereas normally summers are times of rest, our last summer was a whirlwind. The start to the school year has been rockier than most. I haven’t had that block of rest teachers need to charge through the school year. I sleep as late as I can before making breakfast and dressing the kids for school. I get to feeling awfully mechanical after a few months of doing only what is expected of me and little else.
But this morning is different.
It took me a few paragraphs to realize that today marks 11 years sober. My anniversary this year fell indiscriminately into the mechanism of steady routine, a routine forged in a new school for our kids and a new home for ourselves.
Celebrating sobriety is important.
My first year sober, I flew to visit the 28-day facility where I spent my first month as a new man. That was a celebration of gratitude. A lot changed in that first year. So much changed, in fact, that people didn’t recognize me. It wasn’t until I shared that, “a year ago, I couldn’t sit still for an hour. I was the person up and pacing the room, striking conversations with the wall,” that people who knew me then started to nod and smile, saying things like, “that was you!?” and “now I remember.”
That first celebration was a pilgrimage for me. I returned back along the winding path of my first year clean, re-tracing those heavy footsteps out of misery and feeling amazed and appreciative that I was able to make it out at all.
I likely celebrated my second year sober somewhere, but what I remember most was that my sobriety date fell on a school day. I was in my first year of teaching, and as the higher power I choose to call God would have it, our morning school prayer was the serenity prayer. I was blindsided as “God grant me the serenity” came over the loudspeaker. No one, and I mean no one at work knew about my newly required sober time. I got a new job in a new city to start fresh. I found somewhere to put my best foot forward and never look back.
That morning, the one when the entire school prayed for me without knowing it, I grew certain that I was exactly where I needed to be when I needed to be there. There is no greater gift in life than that.
Last year, my ten year celebration was spent with a group of friends and mentors. My sponsor spoke for me at a meeting. Unfortunately, he will be all I think of when I look back on my ten-year going forward. My sponsor died this year, and I’ve spent a good amount of time thinking about everything he said that night and all the nights before that in order to keep him alive.
I’ve celebrated milestones in recovery in many different ways, but never by neglecting to celebrate it at all.
Turning eleven years sober is as anti-climactic as turning twenty-two years old.
It would feel like just another day, except when I think about how sobriety means no day is like any other day. That “just another day” stuff happened when I was using, when each day, no matter what happened in it, was the same square dance of cravings and shivers.
Today feels like just another day except when I think that eleven years ago I wanted to die. And today, having so much to live for, I have to bend and stretch my imagination backward to recall that my addiction had robbed me of the will to live, and that, as irrational as it seems, I could return to that misery whenever I wanted. In fact, my mind tells me—I hear it often still—that misery wants me back.
It feels like just another day except when I think that recovery turns each day into an unexpected miracle.
We are taking my son to see the play Les Miserables for the first time this afternoon for his birthday present.
This could explain why I didn’t fully realize I was celebrating eleven years until a few paragraphs in. Ever since he heard a track play through my phone—Jean ValJean asking, “who am I?” to the night—he has requested to hear more and more. He has acted out the battle scenes in a hundred different takes on our front yard. He has found three dozens props to serve as rifles as the resistance against the monarchy has waged an endless battle in his imagination. I read him the book, all eight hundred pages of the Barnes & Noble version, abridged, if you can believe it. I tried out for Bob Cratchit in order for him to land a role with me in A Christmas Carol. This fall he is taking classes in musical theater. The kid just can’t get enough. So today, to celebrate his sixth birthday, we are going to watch the stage play in person for the first time.
I don’t know how many times he has asked to see the play before. There would be no keeping track. It would be like keeping track of how many birds you heard sing this year. This might explain why my anniversary date is such an afterthought.
Upon reflection, this is an incredible way to celebrate eleven years sober. I am celebrating the reminder of the single most powerful lesson I have learned in recovery: life is not about me. The greatest joy lives in the hearts of others. The greatest gifts are the unexpected ones.
Just an hour ago, my whiny dog gave me the freedom to wake up early and write, to realize what today is and relish in what that means.
Watching my son’s eyes widen as actors fight an imaginary battle for justice in the staged streets of Paris will be the most incredible thing I’ve ever done. A personal best, a mark of achievement that I can only top by losing myself more fully in my love for him in the future.
This amp goes to 11. Get it?
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Eleven years, that’s wonderful. This was the first thing I read
So glad you stopped by. Thank you. How’d you find me? I’m curious.
Congrats on number 11; and, the joy you find in your son and family – and writing. This world is a better place with you in it. Xoxo
Congratulations on 11 years of sobriety!
Congratulations.
Your words move me. It is hard to remember wanting to die…but I do as well.
But we have found that loving life and living is where the joy is.
Les mis. How exciting! I know it will be wonderful, if only to see your sons pleasure.
Happy soberversary!
Anne
Thank you Anne! It’s great to converse with others who have been through the depths. It’s a special sort of courage that moves us.
I will never forget celebrating your 10th. I’m glad I got to meet Larry. And wow, Les Miz. LOVE. Let’s get together sometime.
I’d love to have you guys at the new house! Dinner and a meeting?
For some reason I just saw this! Yes, let’s figure out a plan!
All good. December will be a good month for me.
Beautiful birthday blessings my friend. Lisa
Congratulations on Eleven years, brother. Truly awesome.
Eleven years is awesome. Whooot!
I love you son’s enthusiasm. Does your community have a theatre company for kids?
So, for now he is just taking classes. Which has been good. I got star along side him as Bob Cratchit last year. He chose to be “Optimus Cratchit”. It was an incredible experience. I wrote about it in a post called “Accidental Players”. I think that’s what I called it. We’re stoking the fire, for sure. Good to hear from you Birdie!
Congratulations on 11 awesome years, Great writing. I really enjoy your stuff.
I’m so happy for your journey and LOVING your son’s obsession with Les Mis. What a special kid!
Congratulations on your anniversary, and on all that you have received and given, in those 11 years.
Very well put–received and given. Thank you Colleen.
Mark – Congratulations on 11 years. A life well lived, is a life lived through others joy. Your son will no doubt remember this night for many years to come. Sounds like you have a budding actor. Have a great time. Audrey
Thanks Audrey. He is a budding something or other. We went to Ren Fair recently and all he wanted to do was watch the plays. Thanks for stopping by and leaving word.
Loved this. Congratulations on 11 years!
Congrats that’s amazing!
I cannot begin to describe what I felt or what I am still feeling as I have read this entry. So. Simply. Sending you love and congratulations and I so wish you guys lived closer so your boy and my six year old grand boy could travel through the experiences of experiencing Les Miserables and The Nutcracker and all of the mightiest causes. Your words, your insights, your truths – just so incredibly powerful. xoxo
Very high praise. Thank you MaryAnne. It means everything to have this sort of reaction. Well be up your way after Xmas this year! Looking forward to letting the cousins play and carry on as they do.
Thank you for all of your shares. Your candidness and openesses is showing me the way! I am also a professional and struggle with addiction. I am learning that I have to be open and accountable. One day at a time. Your’e and inspiration to many people. Thank you.
What a generous compliment. Thank you Jason for taking the time to read and comment. Hearing from you makes it all worth it. And there are definitely times (because this blogging stuff is a long hard road) that I question doing it in the first place. So, thank you.