Let Go For Dear Life
She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go. She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go. She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on how to let go. She didn’t search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go of all of the memories that held her back. She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward. She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.She didn’t promise to let go. She didn’t journal about it. She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope. She just let go. She didn’t analyze whether she should let go. She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment. She didn’t call the prayer line. She didn’t utter one word. She just let go. No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go. There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. It was what it was, and it is just that. In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore.
Storytime!
On the morning of Friday the 13th, I found myself nauseous and ashamed with shaking hands and bruise-covered legs. I reached for the handheld breathalyzer device I bought a few years prior; hoping my offer to blow whenever requested would rebuild lost trust. But, unfortunately, I can't say I was shocked to see my blood alcohol level still staggering around .006, despite not consuming any liquor since midnight on Thursday the 12th––the close of a nasty bender that had lasted roughly two weeks.
The first thought to cross my mind when I awoke hot-wired Friday morning was, "Fuck, Ashley, how on earth are we back here again?" And the second, "Wonder if I hid any last night?"
Surely a swig from the carton of what little gas station wine I'd somehow saved over from the night before would quell my sickness. However, I couldn't keep it down––not even a tiny sip. Gagging, I tried again. Nope. My body has a way of rejecting things that will likely kill me. The magnitude of this graceful gift––chance after chance after thousandth chance––is not lost on me. I don't deserve to be alive. I don't deserve forgiveness. I'm not worthy of such unrelenting love. But, I'm so damned grateful there is a power greater than me watching out for my sorry ass.
And, as the rest of the 13th day of January progressed, so did the proverbial ass-saving.
At around hour thirteen of alcohol withdrawal––roughly 3:30 pm––I got in my car and drove 180 miles to my mother's house, where my son had spent the previous night. There are two reasons I made the trip: I needed my boy and an escape––one not poisonous as those I'd taken nearly every day since New Year's Eve.
Truthfully, I'm an escapism junkie; alcohol is quick to the punch and most accessible for me, but it's all a matter of escaping someone or some feeling.
I should have looked at the weather report. After all, it's winter, and I'm driving across the North Carolina state line, heading directly into a twenty-nine-mile stretch of hairpin turns and eighteen wheelers, known as 'The Gorge.' I love hugging tight the curves of that highway now that I've made the trip hundreds of times. But a merge from two lanes into one caused a hold up––a two-hour, four-mile hold up.
I'm late, it's dark, and there's a fucking snowstorm coming right at me. I can't see shit. No one can. Swerving and brakelights. If my body hadn't rejected my attempt to taste the hair of the dog that morning, I would have drank more and more and never survived this trip.
Of course, I want to think I wouldn't have made the trip had the insanity of the first drink ensued and the phenomenon of craving quickly taken over. More likely, I'd ended up alone, passed out across my bed in a bathrobe next to a bottle of vodka (again.) But, alas, I lived to see another day––and endure the most anxiety-riddled, terrifying driving experience to date.
Navigating icy roads in the dark in bumper-to-bumper traffic––scarier than that one time in 2008 when I woke up on a New York City bus at the end of the route in Queens with no idea how I got there, nor the whereabouts of my keys, wallet, or flip phone.
Rock bottom is somewhere I've visited MANY times.
Defeat. Remorse. Vomit. It's getting exhausting.
I mention my harrowing drive across the mountains to tell you it was during which I did more talking––and listening––to the God of my understanding than ever before for as long as I can remember. Then, finally, with so much electricity, beauty, terror, and trust, I let go of control that was no longer, if ever, mine. It sounds like the perfect time for a "Jesus take the wheel" line, no?
In all seriousness, I began seeing things differently; the loss I've felt over the past month, my relationship with escape, unresolved resentment within my soul, and a fuckton of fear disguised as love. And I felt so damned free; weightless.
But it took two weeks of nasty, hurtful behavior toward myself and others to get me here.
I need to divulge of that hell to you, dear friend. And if you love an addict––especially a chronic relapser, grab the tissues. If you're an addict and you chronically relapse, grab a notebook (and probably the tissues too.)
So much can change in so little time.
To be continued.
Tune in for PART 2 / MON 1.16.2023 / DAY 4
1 Comment Add a Comment?
Catrina OQuinn
Every word you write is worth a million that you don't write. Your brave Ashley whether you see it or not. We were born with the disposition of addiction. Escaping it is not easy. Some how I have kept my kids from traveling that road. I can see the trait there and it makes me fight harder. A battle I will fight till the end. Your lucky, some have no one and you have so many willing to battle with you, not to let you give up when you want too. I guess though it's truly a battle you internally and in a way mentally battle alone. One thing you can count on Wynn will forever love his Momma no matter how many mistakes you make or hard to try to be the perfect mom. I was addicted to being the overly perfect Mom. Had I been a slacker they would have loved me anyway. I didn't know hat then. Hinds sight is 20/20. Despite what you think I love you and I could not be more proud. I told my therapist to buy your book. She will.