Time doesn’t matter. Ahem. I beg to differ. Sobriety countdowns say otherwise. the joy and satisfaction and even pure gratitude on someone’s face when they’re acknowledged for such an accomplishment is priceless.  More specifically when someone has one day clean … they’re told they’re the most important person in the room.  Followed with a “this is not to embarrass you … yadda yadda yadda”.

Then you have those that are part of the relapse club.  During my prior stint of uninterrupted sobriety, I never quite understood it.  Intellectually I did, of course, but way deep down I had committed to myself that I KNEW I was an alcoholic. That I wasn’t gonna use again no matter what.  People really know of what they speak when they say the simple phrase … I’m not going to pick up just for today.

Prime example of when you stop doing what works … what works stops working.  Duh you say. Really? How often have you slacked on meetings, sponsorship, step work, et cetera? Do you know how close you’ve been to picking up again?  I can tell you (in 20\20 retrospect of course) that my relapse began five years before I drank again. Yep. When I got married to Prince Charmingless and phrases like ” You’re just going to meetings to get laid” began to drift around our house.  Of course I was shocked. At the time I had ten years sober and was extremely active. I CHOSE (get the emphasis here kids?) to slowly drift away. MY CHOICE to listen to lies … both in and out of my head.

When people say “You are what you hang around.” baby they ain’t lyin. Holy hell.  Then we slide back into sick thinking and our disease gets stronger by the moment.  Even though my entire life had been recovery focused with meetings, sponsoring, conventions, Young Peoples conference committees (yes I was young once … shush), a licensed Chemical Dependency Therapist; if you stop doing it … “it” goes away. Every time.

Any joy and zest for life leaves, when you’re living a life unexamined.  Fear and resentment again become large and in charge and denial is stamped on your forehead.  Dry time. Not drinking but not sober. Happy, joyous, and free? Paugh. Miserable, fearful, and imprisoned becomes the norm.  Marking time until the inevitable.  When all healthful coping mechanisms are gone, and once more drinking/drugging becomes a viable option.  Lies layered upon lies in a huge pastry of fail.  Usher in the year of the relapse. (we’ve covered what happened in prior blog posts … read back or use your imagination. either way it would be accurate. suckage. major.)

Time, time, time.  Coming back was the shame game. Yeah but I had 15 years. How could I have done this? Blah blah blah.  The picture of disgusting non-gratitude. I was alive. Barely. But I was alive dammit.  The first year was torture. Time was on my mind every meeting.  I would hear people say “I know lots of folks with lots of time that are sick. Time doesn’t matter.”  Of course I thought BULLSHIT … the only people that say that are ones that don’t have any time. Yeah I was a sick chick.

Refrained from discussing time … or always prefaced my sobriety with “yeah but I had 15 years. I knew this … I knew that.”  I knew shit.  Really. I had it twisted you see.  Cause’ time DOES matter.  Every second, every moment that I’m not actively using; there is HOPE that it can get better.  My sick turns everything around on me.  Focusing on what I’d lost versus what was gained.

I gained an understanding of the disease that I’d not had prior.  Of how easy it was to sink into the morass of sickly self pity and shame.  That I knew to the innermost core of my soul that I indeed had this illness. And I might not die if I used again … but perhaps just wished that I would. Living as a dry drunk is a fate worse than death … I’ve been that … death would have been easier.

One thing is certain, my awareness of my illness is at an all time high.  Time lost, time gained, time as a cornerstone for healthy, time as indicator of self love, time as … hope.  “This time around” (god do I detest that phrase), I’m different (i know *eye roll* but it’s true) there ARE lessons learned through experience.  I’m a step fiend.  I do inventories more than most folk use the powder room.  Sometimes … they come in blog form. (Like this one.)

Two years. Yesterday. I went the entire day without saying “yeah but it shoulda been 18″. Bleck.  Time matters. This exact moment of recovery matters.  A million moments matter. I no longer flinch at sobriety countdowns. It’s okay when someone says “you only have two years … what do you know?”.  I grin to myself and say … “lots and lots. just for this moment in time; I know that’s it’s okay.” This time. All the time. If I give it time. Time. Matters.