Early mornings in September are dark like night. In the unlit corners of my running route, I’m left to find my way by sound, unable to see what’s ahead except what the light from the stars and moon above might reveal. Today, my steps joining one path to another were met by the sounds of the river rushing below. It surprised me – it was loud and emerged as if from nowhere. Even though I knew it was there.
Very much like in the past week, when the compass in our home was pulled once again from sobriety to its opposite. It took me by surprise, even though I knew it was there. Two weeks after completing intensive outpatient treatment, Swenny relapsed.
When I asked him what happened, he responded with silence. He said nothing, so I begged him to say something. Anything. I’m not sure if he’s struggling to find the words, or if there is nothing left to say. I told him that with his silence, he is challenging me to care enough for both of us. And I don’t.
Unlike previously, no grand gestures have been made in support of him. No calling of mentors, sponsors, friends or family. No contact with sober houses or programs not yet tried. I am not rushing into – or out of – anything. I’m weighing my options.
Because I no longer believe longterm recovery is possible for him. And I no longer believe that my staying the course will make one bit of difference. Instead, I find myself seeking an exit, knowing that like on an airplane, it might very well be behind me.