Third time around

Today was the third anniversary of the untimely and yet utterly inevitable passing of my one and only mother. It seems to hurt less the more time that I can put between myself and those dark days of her drawn out death, but hurt less I say because of course it still hurts basically a fuck of a lot. Mind you now my intent is never to tell another sad story, instead I pause today to contemplate the complexity of trauma, the interconnectedness of pains and the ever evolving experience of experiences as filtered through the minds eye's rearview mirror. As sure as we can only be where we are, we can only do what we can, and sometimes it seems that the responsibility of maturation lies in the truth that when we know better we do better. As I age I'm increasingly compelled to feel my feelings, speak my truths and accept the things I cannot change. The promise that more will be revealed continues to unfold before me. When asked today why I drank I found myself at a loss. Around the room people shared, varied reasons each pursued intoxication, sometimes as simply as enjoying the experience. Those who drank like I did were more apt to report drinking simply because not drinking was never an option. If I look back and account for context it becomes clear that I've had an alcoholic mind for as long as I've had consciousness. Addiction and all it's lovely add ons were the only truth I ever knew, the one consistency amidst the chaos, the only stable plank to walk. I never once knew how to not drink, until I stumbled through those doors bruised and beaten and beyond half dead on the inside.