I’ve always been a very mushy, romantic, optimistic, look for the “God” in everything, kind of person. After losing my stepfather, learning that my biological father has terminal cancer, and losing my unborn baby on my wedding day all in the last two years, I’ve become a bit cynical.
Ok, let’s be honest…I’ve become an angry, resentful, hopeless, terrified, hormonal mess. I have trouble referring to myself as a woman in this grieving process (whatever that is) because I have felt more like a wounded child this past year than ever before.
When I got sober seven years ago, I truly believed that if I did the steps, told the truth, became a vegan, found the love of my life and had babies, everything would be okay.
I experienced real pain and loss before I entered recovery, but I was sleepwalking through life. I was checked out and drugged up, and had not a care in the world. Fear would crop up and I would immediately push it down and take another hit of whatever was in front of me that would properly fill the void.
Fast forward to a few years ago, I’m sober, telling the truth most of the time, a macrobiotic vegan, and in a relationship with a boy who “loved me, but couldn’t be in a relationship with me, because he wasn’t ready.”
I made it through photography school and moved into a Christian commune in the Catskills. I sort-of found Jesus (memorizing biblical creeds and dressing modestly while abstaining from anything sexual before marriage and eating organic food counts, right?).
I worshipped, sang my heart out, and made beautiful life-long friendships. I fixed all physical ailments with clay packs and homeopathic creams, all the while ignoring a sweet, yet powerful voice within me telling me to go home. I had literally tried “everything,” and none of it had provided the awakening I so desperately wanted. I knew in my heart that the only thing I hadn’t tried on this journey was the 12-steps. I finally got to the point where I couldn’t ignore it anymore, and I began going through the work.
Maybe it was good ‘ol fear laced with impulse (my usual go-to), or maybe one too many Hail Marys. Maybe it was the man I had met before I moved to the commune; the one who loved me unconditionally and entirely had finally got through to me. Either way, God intervened, and I went home.
That was two years ago.
I married a beautiful man who loves me unconditionally and entirely.
We are perfectly imperfect and messy. We are stubborn and prideful, far from vegan, and inappropriate spiritually flip-flopping mongrels, but he was made for me. I believe we were created to walk this weird, painful and heartbreakingly beautiful path together. On the day of our wedding as I was experiencing the most painful and terrifying moment of my life, miscarrying the tiny miracle created by our love, my husband disregarded that, “you’re not allowed to see your bride before you say your vows” rules, and held me in his arms with a strength and love I had never felt before.
I have no answers, even though I spend most of my days trying to find them. What I do know, the only thing I know, is that love is real and whatever you have to do, however you must get there, is ok.
There is no right path to Love.
Freak out, sleep around, do the steps, don’t do the steps, yell at God, curse the truth, I’ve done it all. No matter what you do, you are worthy of Love and you will find it eventually because it is inside of you, waiting for you.
It always has been.
The past two years have been the most difficult of my life and my recovery thus far; and through it all, I stayed sober. Trust me, there were days that I wanted to run far away and grieve alone until the cows came home, but I stayed, and I sat with it. I felt it all.
I know today that in my eyes, I will never be perfect. Fear will continue to crop up, and life will continue to happen. As long as I keep showing up, reaching outside of myself, helping others, and staying true to that beautiful little voice inside of me, I will grow…and everything will be ok.
This beautifully honest post was submitted by Allycia Waxman.
Photo credit: Alison Pharmakis