Onward

Changes are afoot in Recoveryland. Mom has decided to sell her house, and I am consequently on the hunt for a new place to live.

Along-the-way whining notwithstanding, I hadn't planned to strike out on my own quite yet. I'm simultaneously alarmed and jazzed. A chance to be(come) an adult! First the new job, now a new home. With, like, my own utility bills and stuff. This is good.

Not so good is the steady hum of panic I keep hearing in the background:

notreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotreadynotready

Nope. Not ready. Not enough money or enough sobriety. Not prepared to do own dishes on a daily basis. Or to be alone evening after evening. Or to soberly socialize with functional humans.

I can do these things, though.

Right?

Yes. I have my program, I have my critters, I have my people. I have, in a vague but meaningful sense, a Higher Power. I have all this.

I'm not ready, but that doesn't mean I'll fail.

It probably sounds ludicrous, a person of my age and intelligence freaking out over the prospect of living alone. Even in context. Plenty of alcoholics are on their own from the start; they don't have welcoming parents with spare bedrooms to run to when they fuck up their lives. They manage fine.

I guess part of my anxiety stems from the intentional tininess of the strides I've made so far. Many, many small steps toward health. I've kept myself sheltered in all kinds of ways, here in the shadows of the mountains. I've been hiding. That's been necessary and constructive. But it can't sustain. Change or die and all that.

Time to take bigger steps. And to pack. Again. Urgh.