The Holidays. The Bermuda Triangle for addicts: Thanksgiving; Christmas; New Year. Who will go down?
On the 23rd of December, my specially modified Lockheed Electra 10-E aircraft, the one Amelia Earheart used to make her last flight, took a nose-dive. I jumped out, but pulled my parachute strings a little too late, and I broke my recovery legs.
First I ate, then I felt the darkness flooding in; filling up my lungs with black. I found the cough syrup in the cabinet and took a few swigs, had my mom drive me to the AA share-a-thon, threw up, and nodded my way through the whole meeting. It wasn’t fun. I had no “high.” I was just sick and sleepy and depressed.
Do I still have my day count? Am I still sober for over a year? After all, it was alcohol that was the “rapacious creditor” (Step One), which had bled my body, mind, spirit and family into lifeless despair. But I get a nasty feeling that other AA’s might insist that I must start over, so I have told no one.
I am pulling away from the program, sneaking into meetings and out again with a half-hearted salute. I’m breeding resentments in my pocket: other women are bonding; no one likes me; I am now a liar; who cares anymore. Might as well just hit the streets and die.
When Amelia Earheart disappeared, there was a transmission which was logged as “questionable”: “We must be on you, but cannot see you—but gas is running low. Have been unable to reach you by radio. We are flying at 1,000 feet.” There were scattered clouds in the area and their dark shadows on the ocean surface may have led to her demise.
Amelia, can you show me which direction NOT to go?