My drinking.
It got to Suzanna.
She was finishing
her master’s degree
in psychology
with a specialization
in chemical dependency.
She told me it was the bottle or her.
I’d watch her before bed.
She kneeled, head bowed
in prayer hands.
I chose the bottle.
And Suzanna packed
a duffle bag,
said she was going back
to her dad’s.
My drinking.
It got to me.
I went through nights
wrestling with my demons
only to tap out in defeat.
I dropped to my knees
and did some praying of my own.
I’d win some days, other days,
I’d throw in the towel.
I wanted sobriety for myself,
not being drunk like my stepfather.
It was five years later when
I’d grabbed addiction by the horns.
On a stroll through Eden Park,
I saw a paper about addiction
stapled to a tree.
I stood there, staring at it
with my hands shoved in my
jacket pockets.
How’d I get to this?
It doesn’t matter much
how I got here.
What matters is where
I go from here.
Part of me felt weak
for seeking help.
Weak or not,
I needed the help.
I scratched the back
of my neck and looked either way
as though I were on a secret mission.
And I kind of was.
I took a picture of the number.
I sat on the park bench.
The light snow started again.
The flakes felt like angels
dancing on my face.
The focused stillness of the icy lake
resonated with my ambitions,
with my prayers for change.
I called the number the following day.
The secretary invited me
to the next meeting.
I went that night,
and Suzanna finished her degree
as she led the group counseling session.
Our eyes met, and I turned to leave.
But she called my name and motioned
me over for help.
I continued attending for months.
I stopped drinking,
and I moved in with Suzanna.