



I have fifteen years in recovery. Fifteen years of declining the invitation to say fuck it all. I have to find daily ways to cope with disappointment. I have to deal with resentments. I deal with track marks that have turned into sink holes. I have abscess scars that look like the landscape of the moon. I have cellulite because I took up eating as a recreational activity. I have some fabulous tattoos, a wedding ring, some grey hairs, and some dark circles under my eyes.





Am I happy with my life? Absolutely! Simple things make me happy in my daily life. I am not focused on the next hit. I am not worried about getting ripped off. I am not hiding from the police. I haven't ripped anyone off. I haven't compromised my life for a few hours of relief in the bottom of a spoon.





How do I explain my happiness? I wake up in the morning, I wake up. I am not kicked awake by the police. I am not pulled awake by illness. I wake up next to someone who loves me. I get to eat food. I can pee in a bathroom that has toilet paper. I hear happy kids screaming "mommmmeeee!" They need me. I need them too.





My life is pretty fucking boring. I get cereal and coffee. Well first I have to get my son. He likes to cuddle on my lap. He gives me hugs and snuggles while I trick him into eating healthy cereal. If I eating it, he wants some of it. Some mornings, one kid is snuggled next to me while two sit on my lap.



I go off to my job. People respect me there. I get to help people fulfill their dreams. I help people get decent jobs. I get paid well to do a job that I makes me feel like a rock star.





I come home to animals jumping all over me. It is fairly quiet before the kids come home. I sit down on my couch. I like to leave the front door open so the sun can bounce off the ocean and warm up the front of the house. I usually cook some food. I use all kinds of different vegetables.





I do not know where I am going with this post. I may not know where I am going with my day. There is one thing I am sure about- it will not be driven by the need to inject chemicals into my body to make me feel human. And I am okay with this fact. I may be self critical but I am not crazy. My life is awesome.





PS this is a persimmon and they are my favorite.







Right now the cat is sitting on my lap picking at his skin. He over grooms himself to the point that he leaves bald spots and scabs. I relate to my cat. I am abrasive like the tongue of a cat. I dig at myself with barbs of insecurity. I rub away my healthy exterior and dig until I reach the vulnerable places. When I reach my sore spot, I am left with an ugly spot on an otherwise beautiful person.