Every day, whether you are looking or not, she will prove over and over and over and over and over again that she can beat this thing.  She can beat it for herself, but she can keep beating it for the rest of her life, for you.  So, leave.  Now.  Before her addiction makes you forget that there is a woman in there that you want to spend the rest of your life with.  Leave before you see her worst.  Leave before you hate her.  Leave so she can come back. 

Let Valentine’s Day do what Valentine’s Day does: pinch you in the tender places.  It’s just a sting, it will dull shortly.  And it’s ok to have the impulse to mow over roses and take a knitting needle to a heart-shaped, mylar balloon.  But remember, great love needs neither dog nor pony to show off.  It needs bad days to bolster its endurance.  Ah, and I almost forgot—the one love you aren’t supposed to forget—philautia.  Self-love.  Its hard sometimes, I know.  Believe me, I know. But if you are an addict in recovery, you chose to be better for all of your other great loves.  Love yourself a little for that. Buy yourself some flowers. Set them on your desk. Admire them while you read about great love.

The work we do is standard, but constant. We were not endowed with psychological stability from birth, we have to bake it from scratch. The easy way to feel welcome in our own heads was to drink. Do the drugs. And the easy way was just that; easy. Until it was chaos. Now we have to do it the hard way. Exercise isn’t difficult, AA meetings aren’t difficult, therapy isn’t difficult, but perseverance is extremely difficult. Recovery isn’t like a diet, we can’t splurge on occasion when someone leaves donuts in the breakroom. We can never rest from our bolstering good habits because breaks are like drinks to us; if we take 1, we’ll take 20. That’s just how our addict brains work. We aren’t capable of moderation. It took us far too long to get sober because we were terrified of words like “never” and “always” when they were applied to the only thing that gave us comfort. Hindsight has made our current selves terrified of phrases like, “just this once” and “I’ll start again tomorrow” because those excuses kept us anchored to booze and drugs for years.

I’m not hyperbolizing when I say that I find this life that I’m living to be beautiful.  Commuter traffic and pharmacy lines are Heaven on Earth to me, so imagine how much love I feel when I see the smile and hear the giggle of a little boy who I once thought would be better off not ever knowing that there was an “Aunt Kay-ah.”  Its more than beautiful—its absolute magic.  It’s the kind of high I never thought I could achieve with or without a potion in my veins.  I’m high enough that I often come down off a good, deep bout of laughter and have to remind myself that I am completely sober.  And I know how that idea will hit someone who still struggles.  It’s like seeing a ghost or falling in love—its unfathomable until it happens to you.  No one believed in the possibility less, or was deeper into the throws of addiction than me… yet, here I am.  Healthy.  Happy.  Thriving.

Commiserating with an alcoholic in recovery is not folie a deux.  We shared a madness, but not with each other, not now.  We split a madness with alcohol ante facto.  Now we share an understanding.  I won’t ask, “how could you do that to your children?!” No need. I already know the answer.  I know she didn’t “pick alcohol over her family.”  

A voice from her anxious, addicted brain said to her, straight-faced, “you need alcohol to be the best you.”  Of course, she wanted her children to have the best.  So, she drank.  I know this because the same voice whispered in my ear, “You’re a shitty friend.  You’re a shitty daughter. You’re a shitty sister. You’re a shitty Aunt.  You’re a shitty wife.” … until I had a drink.  Then the voice said, “You know what, Kara?  You’re alright.”  

People in the cocoon of addiction recovery get that.  Everywhere else is a jungle.

Arrogance begets my epic stubbornness.  If I see something slipping away from me—something I care about—I don’t fight to keep it, I double-down and give it a shove.  I delicately calculate my words when I speak about myself to make me sound like a better person, without having to blatantly lie.  For instance, two sentences ago I said “something” when I really meant “someone,” but I didn’t want to show weakness. 

When I’m angry, I spew venom.  I thought kneejerk hatefulness was a just reflex of Drunk Kara when she felt threatened… but it turns out that Plain Old Kara feels threatened sometimes too. When I do, I can be pretty damn cruel.  I’ll go for the low-blows and the easiest targets in tandem.  I’ll maim what I can’t destroy. 

The time, the effort, and the inventory are necessary for credibility.  Credibility is necessary because, when I do look someone in the eye and say, “I am sorry,” I need them to believe me.  If they can believe that I am sorry, then there is a chance they will believe the important things that I need them to hear:  You did absolutely everything you could to help me.  None of it was your fault.  You did nothing wrong.  You couldn’t have done anything differently.  You did not deserve to be treated the way that I treated you. My words cannot just be noise when I need the people I love to feel the truth.