This was my third year speaking to the senior class on retreat in the school where I work. As usual, I shared my journey in recovery and the faith that came as a result. With 12 years sober, I am fortunate that my school trusts me to share a nearly full disclosure of my history with drugs and alcohol.
“It’s just us three from here on out,” I remember thinking as I stood in my kitchen and stared at the scruffy faces of my two cats. See, I was getting divorced and it was hard not to feel like a divorced old cat lady.
Months ago I innocently tweeted: “I’m all down with the new sobriety/sober movement but please let’s not forget among the mocktails, the trendiness and the tees with cutesy slogans that for many of us, sobriety wasn’t a health trend, lifestyle choice or a socio-political statement but a matter of life and death.”
At this moment, my life is what you could politely call a shambles. Shambles, let’s go with that. A sh!tshow, a disaster, a hot mess would all work too but shambles sounds like such a classy way to say falling apart.
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