I sat outside of Mr. Johns office with my coat on my lap, backpack between my knees, my withdrawal form curled into a cylinder, clasped in both my hands. He came down the hallway in a bright pink shirt and complimentary tie, smiling like he always does. We made our way into his office and I sat down in the seat facing his, unfurling my form and looking up at him. Glancing down at the form, then up at me, and back down at the form again his face went into complete shock. “What? Oh no. Please tell me you’re just trying to get into something for next term.”
“Nope. I’m actually trying to get out of something this term.”
I am a baby deer. Timid steps and quick to spook. Sober for 309 days and still not sure if I know how to do anything new. We get so set in our habits, so sure that things are the way they are. The way they have been. The way they will be. I start to plan accordingly even when I have no evidence of everything crashing around me. I never learned how to embrace stability, how to trust love, how to build something without constantly questioning my foundation or worthiness.
But I’d like to.
So I start to pull back the covers. Stop trying to point fingers at all sorts of made up problems and finally lean into the idea that I’m just terrified of not facing a great tragedy. Absolutely petrified by the idea that maybe the things around me are solid. That I can count on them and that it’s okay to act accordingly. It’s okay to relax. To stop digging around in the dirt for a molehill to make a mountain out of. You can breathe now, kid. It’s okay. Continue reading →