So, I turned 67 the other day. Really weird to type that number. In my mind I still picture myself as a young woman. No gray hair sneaking up in my roots every month. Fewer lines on my face. No double chin. No circles under my eyes. Then I look in the mirror every morning and I scare myself with what I see. Who IS this woman looking back at me? Oh, yeah. That’s me. The years are showing. After all, I am now 67. Closer to 70 than I am to 60. My body doesn’t move as well as it used to. I can still walk 5 miles on an afternoon hike, but I pay dearly for it afterwards. It’s a very strange feeling. I’d rather snuggle up beneath the covers in bed at 9:00 and read than go out. I mean, in the “old days” the night didn’t even get started until 9:00. Falling into bed at 2:00 am was the norm. Especially when I was playing out and partying after. Sometimes the night of partying didn’t end until the sun rose and the new day began. But in those days, I could get up and go to work the next day. No problem. These days, if I stay up until 10:00, I can barely function the next day. I can’t remember the last time I saw midnight on New Year’s Eve. Sometimes that feels so pathetic. Other times it feels like a punishment for all the nights I let slip into the next day with the help of my old friend cocaine. Mostly, I just take a nap and let it go.

This week, I also celebrated 30 years of being clean and sober. Quite an accomplishment one might say. But, it’s always only a day at a time. Over the years, throughout my recovery (which is ongoing as I am an addict until the day I die, in case anyone was confused by that), I’ve learned some hard lessions. Mostly I think I am a good person. But when I was an active addict, I behaved in ways that were so far from who I really am that it’s almost impossible to reconcil the addict with the everyday, slightly weird, always-too-sensitive, creative soul I was born to be. Trust me, no one ever thinks as a child, “hmmm, I want to be a selfish, narcissistic, lying, stealing, mean-spirited drug addict when I grow up.” Yet, there I was. I lost some people who couldn’t forgive my illness. I almost lost a lot of people who didn’t initially understand my illness, but who eventually learned that it was the drug, not the person, who had hurt them. For that I am so grateful it makes me cry when I take a moment and really think about it. To those I lost, I am so sorry. But I can’t and I don’t dwell on it as that would only trigger me into depression and sadness that could send me spiraling back into actively using. If I do that? If I pick up again? I die. Actually, I am a grateful, recovering addict. Grateful that my drug of choice is not readily available on a drug store or liquor store shelf. Grateful that my family – husband, children, parents, siblings, cousins – those who have known me all or most of my life have supported me and loved me no matter what. Grateful for my friends who also surround me with love and understanding. Grateful that I can find a more powerful high from the music that runs through my veins. The woods with pathways of sweetly pungent pine needles and whispers of support through the treetops. The siren call of the beach, the lover of the ocean’s waves, be they thunderous or calm, that connects me with those I love in another dimension. Twirling snowflakes in a tango with the wind that calm me and soothe me. The colors of a sunrise or a sunset that paint the sky…all without doing damage to my heart, mind and soul. All filling me with whatever was missing that made me turn to drugs in the first place.

So, I sit here at the computer, with my pups at my feet, thinking, “I just want to celebrate another day of living”. (Great song lyric!) Celebrate. Find joy. And if you need help, reach out. Don’t be afraid. It will be OK. It will take time and work and change, but it will be OK. And I can tell you, it’s definitely, definitely worth it.