I’m still trying to find my footing and a sense of direction (if not purpose) for this whole blogging experiment. Five weeks and a dozen and a half posts later and I still find myself unsure of the next step. Or maybe it will be a leap. I just don’t know for sure.
A friend asked what prompted me to start writing about addiction and if that was my plan when I started the blog. The question surprised me a bit because, even though I’ve written every word and knew full well that a few of them were about that experience specifically, I hadn’t been overly cognizant of the developing theme. Strange, I know.
I guess I find myself writing about my experiences with a loved one’s addiction because in the telling, there is healing. More than a little of this urge is also because, when we were at the worst point in our journey to hell and back, I wish someone would have been able to pull me aside and tell me some of these things. Maybe I would have listened, maybe I could have heard. I find myself writing about these experiences because my experience tells me that addiction lurks and grows in the shadows. I don’t want to be a contributor to those shadows any longer. It’s important to me, to her, to us. I find myself writing about these experiences with addiction because, as my beloved Prius-driving cousin would say, it’s become “my truth.” I hate it when a Prius owner is right.
I’m still not ready to declare any sort of official direction. Not that it would matter if I did. Mostly, my only goal is the same as it was when I started. I want to push myself to be honest in a way that goes beyond my usual I’m-willing-to-tell-you-the-hard-truth modus operandi. I’m searching for the kind of unflinching honesty that brings with it a certain measure of vulnerability. And I’m hoping that in that scary vulnerability, there can be healing, too.