Eyes in the Embers

Take a deep breath and repeat after me, “It’s all just shit and I will survive.”

Nobody was there to tell me that the first time I lost it all. To be clear, I’ve lost it all five times and each time, I had less items, yet more to lose. I promise, it gets easier.

The first time is always the worst. I woke up with fists being pounded into my face and I knew that I had to let go of all of it. In that moment I gave up my relationship, my home, my job, the supplier for my dope habit, all means of financial support, the illusion that I was a functioning drug addict, many of my possessions and my good credit score.

The second time I gave up an apartment that I had meticulously painted and designed, any semblance of self-sufficiency and my recently acquired sobriety.

The third time I gave up my record as a good tenant, my granny’s bible, furniture my mother had beautiful upholstered, hand-made Christmas stockings, medical equipment from my daughter’s time in the NICU and both of my children.

The fourth time, I gave up my freedom. I gave up all management of my life and entered a rehab facility.

The fifth time, I gave up the father to my children and the man I had prayed, wept and fought for. He left with a demon on his back and I left with my children, my faith and all of the ‘stuff’ that meant nothing to me.

It is astounding how we can adjust to continually deteriorating conditions. At one point in my life, I was a princess. I wore gold wedding bands as toe-rings, spent far too much on lottery tickets, ate take-out nightly and had pills hidden throughout the house. And then, as if suddenly, I was living in an 8 x 5 ramshackle shed, woken up by competing roosters each morning, shitting with the chickens and selling dope to Richie Rich.

The more of our space we fill with things and people, the less room we have for God. Others might fill their space with gadgets, nights at the club, PTA meetings or a career. I had chosen to fill my space with dope and dope seekers. When I went to rehab in 2011, every creature comfort was taken from me. Phone calls and interaction with family were eliminated, there was no TV in my room or friend to complain to. I had no cigarettes, chocolate chunk brownies, internet news, video games or Facebook. I was given a single room which contained myself, my two children and a few necessary possessions. Outside of my room existed an institution of women who had been abused, neglected, forgotten and discarded, each of whom would have rather run me down with a dump truck than see me succeed.

It hurt at first, the separation from my things, from my enablers and cheerleaders. And then, as if suddenly, I learned to do without. And in the without I found God waiting.

It’s all dust. All of it but the people.

Until 2017 I worked in a jewelry store. Can you imagine how difficult it was to sell luxury items when you have no attachment to ‘stuff’? Everything in me wanted to scream out, “Go love someone! Save your money!” My coworkers would get emotional about particular items, feel a sentimental attachment, but all I saw was glass. The love, the memories, they didn’t exist in a ring or brooch. They couldn’t live or die in metal and stone. Memories, feelings, joy and attachment exist in the perfect preservation of our hearts, but when we turn our joy over to things, it is given an expiration date. All will fall.

I amended this piece, as it was written well before I lost it all for the fifth time. I suppose I held on to it, knowing I was likely on the precipice of another. It is all dust. The home, the sconces, the albums and letters. I’d gladly pitch it all into a fire for the people I’ve lost, if only it worked that way.