Leaving the keys

Nothing quite ends a chapter in a relationship like leaving the keys when you leave.  The last thing remaining in Cory’s house was my bed.  I honestly didn’t know how I was going to get it out of there.  Jon had suggested I find a neutral female to help me with that.  But where to find one?  One with a pickup truck.  Amazingly a reader of this blog came forward to help me.  So this evening she and I, her husband and a friend I went to college (rehab) with, all drove over to my old place, loaded my bed into their truck, and I left the house key on the coffee table.  No trauma.  No drama.  No bullshit.

I resisted the urge to rip my tomatoes out of the ground.  Neither did I take the rosemary or the lavender that I planted by the front door.  I thought about doing both.  I really didn’t want to end up making any more amends to that woman than I may already have too, though, so I checked my selfish impulse.  For the record though, I’m never planting tomatoes again.  This is the third time shit like this has happened; that other people were the beneficiaries of the fruits of my labor.  Tomatoes are obviously bad luck for me.  If God wants me to have tomatoes He’ll put them in the supermarket.

A friend of mine, Lila, is a home group member and a drug and alcohol counselor.  Because of her profession and having seen both my mother and step-father in her practice, Lila knows big chunks of my story the way few can.  She and I had a bit of a chance to chat this evening after a meeting.  I am relieved to know that this phase of excitement about the program of AA is well known among counselors who are also in the program.  She called it ‘the bleeding deacon.’  She assures me it will pass and confirmed that I should make an effort to reign in the team lest I turn anyone else off from a solution that they need.

I asked how long it lasts.  “Till you run out of blood,” she replied.