My roommate and I are tied closely together at the waist, and have been asked by our therapist to summit this 30 foot rock wall together, while tied. And, you know, with only enough hand and foot-holds for one person, not two. I push my helmet back and look up again. It's at least 100 degrees out, and it's not even hit noon.
"Oh boy," I mutter to myself. I look at Linda. "You ready?" She grins, says "Yup," and her enthusiasm helps me feel a little better. If there is anyone I would feel brave enough to do this seemingly impossible task with, it would be Linda - my roommate, and my soul-sister in many ways. All the rest of the girls affectionately refer to us as the "Young Grandmas," because we both go to bed at a rollicking 10 pm. (It's always a party in room 9!) I'm so happy she came to treatment, because I know already that I can't ever live without this incredibly brave and beautiful woman.
"This glass of water," she begins again, "represent all of your sisters here in treatment. You need to get them all to the top safely with both of you guys." I moan. Like LITERALLY moan. She cuts me off before I can begin my whining: "Brie, she says quietly, more seriously than I anticipate, they matter too. This carrying is important."
And so Linda and I begin our climb.
The climb would be easy under many circumstances. But, like I said, tied together, and with only enough hand and foot-holds for one person, it was incredibly difficult. As we climbed, one of us was often climbing only one-handed, because of that glass of water and our "recovery family" we were working like crazy to keep ahold of. There was even a time when I was keeping the glass of water clenched in my teeth while I climbed. I'd look up to see how far we still needed to go, and tilting my head back, the cup of water firmly clenched in my teeth, I'd douse myself with water - Great, now my "recovery family" is water-boarding me... this climb was seeming like it would indeed be impossible, and not worth all this effort.
Linda and I struggled on that wall for quite awhile - in searing heat. We'd each take turns carrying up that glass of water; we'd rest when one was too tired to keep going. We'd urge each other on, too. Our sisters below us, on the ground, constantly clapped and cheered and kept their ever watchful gaze on us. We wanted to quit - but there was never any question that we would. We were learning that we can do hard things.
At some point, with perhaps only a few feet to go, our therapist - waiting for us at the top - pulled us up quickly, where we both literally collapsed in the cool shade on top of that tower. We were bruised, scratched, and sunburned. Our whole bodies were literally shaking from the exertion of what we had just done.
But it felt good. We'd just accomplished something really hard, and that was worthwhile. Linda hugged me, and we were both wet through with our sweat. And we didn't care. We'd done it. We'd reached a summit that seemed impossible from the bottom. And we'd done it together.
Fast forward six weeks:
I am graduating from rehab; what we call "coining out" -- meaning, we get a coin (think a chip in the AA world) and the coin is passed around the circle, and everyone says goodbye to me, and leaves something for me in the coin - courage, love, honesty, etc. And then I get a chance afterward to say goodbye to everyone who is still in rehab, and to impart any advice or wisdom I learned while I was sitting where they currently are now.
I tell all of these women - these crazy and tattooed and messy and incredibly intelligent and witty and wise-cracking and brilliant women that I now know why Linda and I had been asked to carry up that glass of water up that tower - I look at them, and I suddenly start crying. And I say, "Please, I don't want to lose any of you. You're my recovery family - MY FAMILY - and we can all do this, okay? Please. Please make it! I'm always here for you. Call me. I will find you and I will do all I can to haul you to where you need to be. We can do this. I love you all."
They all nod back, tears in their eyes. We have oft heard the terrifying statistics: that less than half of us will make it - will live, or achieve sobriety. I hated hearing those statistics because I couldn't bear the thought of losing even one of them to this vile disease of addiction.
Statistics can be changed, you guys, I say fiercely. Let's change them together. Let's ALL make it. We can all make it to the top - it's hard to get there, and it's tiring, and it seems impossible, but it's not. Let's summit together. Let's take turns helping and holding each other up. We can do this.
I hug them all goodbye, individually, and tightly, and fiercely. Being in rehab has taught me how to give - and get - a proper hug. None of this limp arms business - if you're going to give a hug, mean it - hold tightly. For so long, for so many of us, we didn't feel lovable. But our mere friendships with each other have shown us that we're ALL worthy of love, and for no other reason that we're all here together. Our age gaps span decades, our DOC's vary from pot to alcohol to crack and heroin. Some of us are rich, some of us are homeless. We don't see any of that. We see each other - vulnerable, tenable women. And thus, worthy of love.
When I hug my friend Katrina, I say, "You deserve to be here, you understand me? YOU DESERVE TO BE HERE. You deserve happiness. You deserve recovery." Katrina nods her head in my hair, wetting my shoulder with her tears. I hug her for a long time, and I hug her hard. I have grown to love this brave and battle-worn sister of mine.
Five days later, she is dead. My hilarious, wise-cracking, vulnerable, wholly deserving sister is gone.
Katrina ran away from treatment, and accidentally over-dosed on heroin. When I hear this news, I am glad I am sitting, because I feel as if I've been punched in the stomach. But I had just had her in my arms! I had just looked in her clear, solemn, sober eyes, and I had seen hope.
My heart is heavy, my mind starts running on fear, and fear alone. What about me? What about my recovery family? All of my sisters I've met and known? What is going to happen to all of us? I hate this disease. I hate this disease. I hate this disease.
And I cry. I cry a lot. And then I get up, and I answer my phone. It is Kathy, a 65 year old woman who saved my life in rehab more times than I can count, and who is my best friend, mama, and partner in crime. She wants to go to a movie with Karen, who also just got out, and who is 66. She asks if Linda and I want to go. For a minute, I almost say no. I'm thinking of Katrina, no longer with us. I'm thinking of my fears. But then I answer loudly and enthusiastically, YES! "Okay dear," Kathy says on the other end of the phone. "Glad you're excited!" And she doesn't know. She doesn't know how excited I am to be with my sisters, hearts beating, minds clear, ever hopeful, ever fighting.
And that's what we did. A 66, 65, 33, and 30 year old bunch of bad-ass warrior sisters went and saw a movie this weekend. I wonder, now, what people must have thought when they saw such a random assortment of women at the movies - different ages and walks of life, different DOC's certainly. Linda and I help Karen up the many stairs in the theater and help her get her food and tray arranged. I can tell Kathy is getting jittery for a cig about halfway through the movie. I keep looking at Linda in the movie and smiling. Smiling because, we made it. We all summited that climb, and we have some of our recovery family with us, at this very moment.
Hey guys, I whisper during the movie, Look! We're watching a movie together!
Linda giggles.
A few minutes later: Hey guys, look! We're sober right now!
Kathy sighs.
A few minutes more:
Hey guys, look! We're watching a movie AND completely sober right now!
We all giggle.
Because we know. We get it. We know that something so simple as watching a movie is a gift. It's a gift because we're alive - and we're sober. That is something that we have not been able to be in a very, very long time.
After the movie ends, Linda and I help Karen down the stairs and outside. I hug each of these women fiercely - this strange demographic of young(er) to old(er) women that people keep scratching their heads at. It matters not to me. Our hearts are the same. We are the same.
Linda drops Kathy and Karen back off at sober living, (both have lost their licenses) and then drives to my house. We had excitedly been planning a super crazy slumber party consisting of nobody but the two of us, some Diet Coke, popcorn, and a movie. We start talking, and I relax. We fall asleep on the sofa, never having popped any popcorn, or started the movie - it's 10 o'clock after all, and us "Young Grandmas" need our sleep.
I smile as I drift off. We're free. For that beautiful day, we are free. So is Kathy, and Karen. We're fighting to stay clean, to change our lives. To go to the movies and revel in the simple joys of friendship. And we did it. We are free.
And then my heart hurts - because I remember that Katrina will never be able to go to the movies again, or to talk to or give any of us a hug. But then I know - it hits me -- Katrina is free, too. It might not be the kind of free I want, because I want her here, with me. But I know that God has her wrapped in his arms, and that she isn't cold, or hungry, or in pain, or afraid, or desperate, or hopeless. And then I see her eyes - HER eyes, not her addiction's eyes - those eyes I saw on the day I coined out: her clear, solemn, sober eyes; eyes full of hope. I release the tears of relief and of thanks to my Father in Heaven. She is free. And I know that God will bless her, and keep her, until I see her again.
I drop off to sleep, dreaming of freedom: of that tall tower Linda and I climbed. Of the feeling of victory once it was summited. Of making dinner with Katrina, and laughing with her. Hugging Kathy in her fiercely strong arms. Cracking up with Linda. Freedom, Freedom.
Katrina may be with her Heavenly Father now, but she is still apart of my Recovery Family. I will still carry her with me, everywhere I go, in my heart. And when I reach my sobriety milestones, I'll whisper to her that we did it. WE. The carrying isn't done, you see. It's never done. I'll never stop fighting for and carrying my sisters up this tower to recovery and sobriety - and I am relieved because I know, that if I ever falter, there will always be someone who says "Hell naw, Brie!" and begins fighting like hell to get me to the top. We are a complicated and messy and ridiculously awesome bunch.
And we will never stop seeking freedom.
We just won't.
We won't.
Carrying you always, Katrina. Rest easy, my beautiful friend.
She Used to Be Mine by Sara Bareilles:
