The Journey Over There

We are ahead of the packing game for once with all of the tubs and cases loaded. I left one of my older journals out to give it some love and to give my fresh one a break. After going for a run and listening to the new episode of HOME podcast, I laid on our bed and decided to jot down a few ideas. My new paragraphs were neat and tidy. My cursive was actually pretty compared to the older, partially finished entry hanging out at the top of the page. This entry was from months and months ago… I don’t even know what I was referring to or who I was while I was writing it, but I know I was drunk. I know I was very drunk because I was always very drunk.

It’s easy to get ahead myself and think I’m not doing enough or that I should be projecting all of my light into something incredible already after 67 days of sobriety, but honestly seeing the total nonsense that was me all over this page gives me pause and appreciation for my progress. Like, WOW,  I don’t do that thing anymore. I don’t spend my entire day drinking and balancing everything around drinking. No wonder I felt so shitty and unclean… it’s all there on the page inviting me back in for a look at my wine life. If my words from back then were that confusing and physically sloppy, I’m not sure why I felt so glamorous walking 94 blocks down Park Avenue with a thermos of wine and a broken wrist.

Shedding this one aspect of my life has changed everything, or at least, it’s opened doors for the possibility of many every-things. The work is happening even if some days I feel small and inadequate just for being me. Other days I wake up loving myself harder, pushing myself farther, and feeling like a beautiful, beyond capable woman. I sense that this is much deeper than “not drinking” though that in itself has been a crushing and impossible feat for me in this life. Some days sobriety is the only visible accomplishment especially since I’m early on in my journey. Beyond this first layer, I have flash feelings of what all of this means and how independence after years of dependence is really some kind of hidden destiny/superhero story. It’s like scratching paint off of a glass window bit by bit. You know there’s more to see you just can’t complete the entire picture. You don’t know what it looks like, but you know that it’s beautiful.

I’m sitting in our room here in Winnipeg starting something. I love writing. Always have, but I’ve told myself that I’m not this kind of writer. I am too morbid, too honest, or simply unrelate-able to life. It doesn’t really matter, and I’m proud of myself for even sitting down to say anything today because it’s a lot better than ignoring the thoughts and letting them sort of fall from me casually like debris trailing behind my steps. This journey isn’t one for a few women… I feel I am part of something big. My story matters for me, and it may matter for lots of other women too. I’ve spent my whole life 5 feet from my body watching what she did and how she did it, but I never really felt like I was allowed to be the one taking her where she needed to go. The journey over there is no longer an issue because it’s right here, and it’s happening right now. I’ve never felt so alive. There’s a warm feeling of new and old that’s saying welcome home Jacqui, and I can finally hear it.

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