Reflections Of An Alcoholic Returning Home
A reminiscence on life after rehab, striving for recovery and fortitude.
A month has passed, since a seizure landed me on the floor of the courthouse entryway. Its cause was alcohol withdrawal, intensified by psychiatric medications I take for my mental illness.
I was on the way to seeing my probation officer. Mental health court is a blessing for me — I could’ve been sent to prison. I didn’t commit the crimes I was accused of, but others can’t always see that.
I pull away from the recovery center, and the picturesque Pacific Northwest countryside overtakes my vision like a dreamscape.
This was my only Christmas spent inside an institution. It’s a new year now, and my resolution is to stay sober. I don’t yet realize how fragile I am, how much I will continue to struggle. I’m in my late twenties, cocooned like a larva in time.
The dusty studio apartment I call home waits for me. As I walk through the door, I think I can make out the faint smell of alcohol.
My name’s James, and I’m an alcoholic. The familiar line that has become the caricature of media-portrayed addiction escapes my lips. I feel like a walking stereotype speaking it. But say it I do, and it sinks into my identity.
