I’ll be thirty-five in seven days now. Or, technically, seven days and 17 hours, since I was born at 5:36pm. When my mother and I were still speaking, she’d call me every year at that exact time, leaving messages for me if I wasn’t home. It was one of the few signs she’d ever given me that she actually loved me. I can’t remember any of the others.
Why I procrastinate on everything baffles me. I’ve got a project due on Friday that I’ve known about since, oh, February. I haven’t even started. It’s the only thing left between me and my second master’s degree. When will I probably start? Around 7pm Thursday. That’s just me, I guess, and I haven’t figured out a magical way to change it.
Another close-ish sober friend relapsed over the weekend. The Cute Carpenter is hovering around the rooms again, and another sober friend is back for another go-around as well. I don’t quite understand why they keep doing this to themselves. I know it isn’t easy, but — and I speak from oh-too-personal experience here — once you get over that speed bump or ravine or Grand fucking Canyon in the road of your sobriety, and you’re on the other side, it means something. You start to have concrete evidence that the program works. I wish they could see that far ahead, but they can’t. All they can do is see the cracks and the bumps and the problems, and the voice — the one that says “drink me! eat me!” or whatever — is more compelling than staying the course and seeing what comes next. Whatever the case, I am tired of wasting my time on people who don’t really want to be sober. You have to be willing. You have to want this. If you don’t, call someone else.
My back hurts from my earlier escapades. Ah, well. My apple blossom is ready, and then I’m going to bed to read for a while. Namaste.