I relapsed last night. I should have seen the signs, should have made different decisions. I should have … I didn’t.
The signs became apparent when I saw an increased preoccupation with death. A very morbid self-reflection. My sponsor asked me when was the last time I had been to a meeting and I realized that it had almost been a week without one. I was afflicted with that feeling that I am somehow cured, because things have gotten better. The dangerous dance with self-delusion. I went to a meeting last night. Too little too late. The last entry on this blog that shows my percentage of completion on the 4th step is the last time I even looked at it.
So here I am again. I have been struggling with my inadequate performance in the military, but my guard was up. I knew this had been my undoing last time. Only a few within the recovery community knew the depth of my struggle to keep this disease in remission. I thought that was best. I wanted to talk with my slave about it, but I feared that it would put her in a role of nurse-maid, surrogate mother, fearful co-dependant that she tends to be.
I want to let my strength manifest, but in the face of some challenges my slave was facing, all I could give her were nauseating platitudes of hypocrisy. Her employer told her that she was “the weak link in the chain and that she should step down.” She is the golden link in the chain, and gold is indeed malleable. But it is not meant to be used for common purposes. It is out of place in a chain. It is meant to adorn the palaces of rulers. What that bitch employer viewed as weakness is of great value. She should kiss the feet of my slave for even being allowed in the same room with her. Her employer is a squasher. A squasher reduces human beings to units, cogs, and sees their personal mythology as unnecessary baggage. They attempt to squash out all real inspiration and replace aspiration with fearful perspiration. Such people only live because it is illegal to kill them.
But I have seen my slave talk to those who serve us, and she treats them as human beings, even goes overboard to recognize their significance. When she is asked to manage others, she considers their lives, their needs. And if you have ever worked in retail, you know that it is rare to have the significance of your life embraced. In 500 years no one will give a damn if you sold enough credit cards to meet the stores quotas (credit cards – chains for an otherwise free people) or if you have gotten bodies to stand behind registers. Someone you have be given stewardship over, a granted privilege from the web of the universe, can multiply your power into your species, and thus yourself. Your personal mythology is only as strong as the honor you give to other’s personal mythology.
My slave has gone silent. She has always been obsessed with communicating with me. But now she is silent. I went to last night’s meeting early, and drove to her workplace. Her car was not there. Maybe it was an off day, and she needed it to herself. I knew I was in trouble, because I was filling in the blanks. I rushed to the meeting. I was loved and recieved. After the meeting, I was invited to my sponsor’s house for a pizza endulgance. I left quickly and drove to his house. I arrived before everyone else because I left the after the meeting meeting. I found myself watching the cell, hoping for a text. Nothing. I left. I went by my slave’s apartment and saw the blue light of the TV – which she uses as a monitor for her computer games. I figured she was in her own escape and comfort mode. I went home. Hopeful for her.
I had burned the white sage that a Sioux had given me for the full moon. I had lifted seven petitions for others, one of which was for my slave. And look what was happening to her. Why? I know, I truly do have acceptance issues.
I returned home and watched a movie with my father. What a magnificent human being he is. God, I love him.
We watched the movie “Taken,” where a well-skilled father rescues his daughter from predators. We loved the movie. I hated myself. How many people who depend on me are fucked because of my weakness. My relapse was underway.
I looked across the internet for some contact with her. Nothing. I drank. I blacked out. I awoke this morning in my own bed, with my boots on. Therre was dirt on my boots. Where had I been? I got in the truck for work this morning, and there was my Doors CD in the passenger seat. It had been in my room. I went out last night and I don’t remember it. I have been straining all day trying to remember, and I cannot. I think I remember being in the truck. But I am not sure. I must have been. Where did I go? What did I do? I have looked for evidence of my nocturnal activities, and there is nothing.
Now the obsession is back, the craving is alive. I have got to start over. I feel like such an idiot. I know the solution, but chose not to use it. That is not an ignorant response to my disease. I am responsible. What have I done?
And my slave is silent. I guess she is suffering her own relapse. All I know is that I miss her and I can think of nothing else. And I am missing a meeting again.
“Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats. “
H. L. Mencken
Daily Reprieve 
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