Sober

I really am. I really have become, serious, sensible and solemn.

That may be the serious, sensible and solemn thing to do when you live with someone filled with addictions.

Glancing through my most useful tool to grasp life, the dictionary, I am soothed and alarmed at the myriad synonyms to comprehend my current hyper-aware sensitivity.

Thoughtful, grave, sombre, severe, earnest, sedate, staid, dignified, steady, level-headed, serious-minded, businesslike, down to earth, commonsensical , pragmatic, self-controlled,  restrained, conservative, strict, puritanical, unemotional, dispassionate, factual, realistic, objective, low key, no-nonsense, rational, logical, straightforward, well considered, plain, and finally matter of fact.

Well, as a matter of fact, yes, I really easily identify with pretty much of all of this.

It was not always this way. I know there has been great passion, reckless determination, and a lot of laughter, tenderness and dream like wonder to so much of my life. I knew mostly this was my nature, and yet, my sincere task was to also find within, my flamboyant self. Both existed, and both were valid parts of myself and both aspects were to be enjoyed.

But I am living with someone who transcends difficulty, or observation of reality with dope and alcohol. Each high a new experiment in distance from the person he claims to love.

I was reading a sweet book recently, A Fistful of Love, compiled by some fake swami or other, and there was a funny story. A man goes to see the monk for some guidance, and says, “Swami, after fourteen years I feel I must divorce my wife”.

The Swami, a little concerned, offers a non judgemental “Why”?

The husband explains, “My wife really can not stand me when I am drunk. And, I really can not stand her when I am sober”.

*

The control that a sober person exhibits is in direct correlation to the lack that an unsober person regularly displays. They seek to be without inhibitions, and yet, often are the ones that remain quiet, secretive, furtive, inexpressive of their sorrow, or joy, and actually more tied up with inhibition that they realize.

They choose their shame.

On the other hand, I do not choose mine. I am obviously between the proverbial rock and hard place. If I remain sober, no-nonsense, pragmatic, I am judged for being just too dull and disrespected as unimportant.

If a slither of my flamboyance rears it’s head, a shimmer of uninhibited self wants to dance, shake things up, and ride this roller-coaster with grace, than I am hysterical and irrational.

You know what, I am starting to see it for what it is.

You dear friend, you look in the mirror.

You may no longer look to me for approval and nurturing faith.

Or when you feel like it sex.

Or meaningless, time pass exchange of comfort and hope.

My friend, you pushed me into a very silent and solemn world.

I have got very used to it now. And my scorched wings are repairing.

You must look to yourself now for guidance. Where my friend are the lines in the sand?

I do not know where they are for you,and a mixture of compassion, reality, and common-sense, tells me, only you can know that for yourself.

*

And day by day, moment by moment, I will walk, with my entire being, allowing, permitting, welcoming, the grain by grain detail to come back into view. The clarity is already growing. The path for now, is overgrown with all we have thrown there for these past two years, our discarded denials, our frivolous  fights, our unresolved dis-unity. Among the remnants, the path with it’s shattered clay pots and disused fairy lights holds its’ ever generous hand to us both and whispers, come, come and see this life from a place of love. Come, leave your anesthetic behind you. Come and see Life as it is.

Even a rational, staid, unemotional bad Indian wife can dream of something more magical.

Photo credit: Yvonne Murphy.

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