Recovery: Lather, Rinse, Repeat
“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” –Albert Camus
Sometimes, it feels like I’ve been in recovery my entire life. In this moment, it was major surgery, but as I passed through the stages of feeling totally fucked and then beginning to believe I’d be all right, it occurred to me how many times I’ve had to remind myself, “don’t give up.” There were recurring experiences with my parents’ behavior around alcohol when it felt as if the world, my world, the world of a child, was on a path to destruction marked by terrible fights, broken things, witnessing violence and mayhem, betrayal by the two people I loved the most. And then, after the chaos, the tears, the terror, the light would gently enter the beautiful rooms my architect mother had designed, and my charming, brilliant father would be present, reading The New York Times, drinking coffee, and calling me “Swipsie.” Only then could I breathe again.
photo by Ashley Diane Worsham
In eighth grade, a new friend, a shy, lonely girl, sat next to me in home economics, and I, not shy but deeply lonely after my best friend moved far away, discovered the sweetness of having someone who understood, who laughed when I sewed my wretched dress to myself, who shared snacks and small secrets, not the dark burdens I carried but silly things and so life became slightly better, the ache of missing my other friend began to lessen. She was decidedly uncool with tight pigtails and gapped front teeth and liked my company, which sadly marked her as someone who should have known better. Our home economics teacher was sour and annoyed by the fact I kept asking when we would make “real food” as opposed to the cake mixes and Jello salads she favored. My mother was a fabulous cook who made everything from scratch. Also, she kept taking our brownies and cookies away and, we decided, feeding them to her friends.
She got her revenge when we switched to sewing. Amy, that was my friend’s name, watched as I attempted to hem and finish the dress I had chosen to make. The material was thin and, in my grubby hands, looked like something you’d wash the floor with. After a few weeks, Amy invited me to see a movie over the weekend. I could not count on my parents for rides. They were busy and bored by carpools. I didn’t go, and when I went to school that Monday, the vice principal announced over the PA system that a student had been run over, had died, and that person was my friend.
Somehow, I managed to get through the day, and when I got off the school bus, I went straight to my mother’s office, where she was finishing plans for a building. She was beautiful with thick, auburn hair and a strong, pretty face. I loved her so. But I was afraid to tell her about Amy.
“Mom,” I said, “remember that girl I sit next to in home ec?”
“The one you like?”
“Yes. She’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Amy. She was hit by a car outside the mall on Sunday.”
My mother put down her mechanical pencil. “That’s terrible,” she said, “but you didn’t really know her.”
“We were friends. She was helping me with my dress.”
My mother looked at me. “Don’t feel so much,” she said.
I cut that dress into tiny pieces and was given a D.
Don’t feel so much. You find the solution. You are fifteen and terrified of how you affect men. Drink. You are twenty, and your best friend is killed. Drink. You are twenty-six, and your sister is killed. Try not to drink, take all sorts of prescribed meds, get married to a violent fool, drink and drink more.
Stop. You are sitting in a house alone, trying to find a way out, a way to escape from the insane web of tragedies, lies, violence, love, and remorse that wraps around you, blocking the light. Your oldest sister walks into the room, followed by your best friend. They look concerned but also fed up, like you are that child who won’t take a nap or someone who is so totally missing the point that there is almost no hope. They both say in their secret mermaid voice that you need to stop. You need to remember how much we loved you and how much you loved us and all those promises you made and that you are meant to write novels and have a baby and be good to everyone because you understand how things can disappear and turn to dust and memories.
No, I say. I can’t. I can’t come back anymore. I’m not a fucking phoenix, I am the ashes, I am the crashed remains, you left me.
And there it is. Recover. Find the shattered pieces of the picture and slowly recover. This Christmas, I will have thirty-nine years of that recovery.
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach