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.
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