i.

i’ve never understood

why people say

road to recovery,

as if recovery 

is a solid place,

as if once you get a bit of it,

your battle is over.

the truth could not be more different.

the road you speak of isn’t to recovery,

it is recovery.

recovery is a road filled with potholes

and rocks and dead ends 

and twists and turns.

recovery is a road you must fight to get on,

and a road you must fight to stay on.

recovery had twists and turns

and days of staring at the razor

wondering if it would help.

(spoiler alert: it won’t. but

sometimes you fall off the road

and the comforting words of

your loved ones never reach you).

recovery is a long road,

and sure, it has little pauses along the way,

but i’m not yet sure

if i’ll ever reach the end of it.

ii.

i once wrote a poem

about the road to recovery

i said that recovery isn't a solid place,

and i was right.

i said recovery is a road,

and i was right.

but when i wrote that poem,

my road, my recovery,

was filled with potholes and rocks and dead ends,

twists and turns and sudden drops,

and all i wanted to do was let go

because it took too much effort to stay

(but here's where i went wrong:

i didn't need to do it alone.

i had friends on the road,

and we caught each other when we fell,

but we tried not to fall too fast 

because we knew the others might be falling too.

this was the mistake.)

i'm still on the road,

and perhaps i always will be,

stumbling along in the dark,

hopping over rocks with sharp edges and

potholes filled with deadly water,

but i am no longer alone.

i hold two hands:

him on my left, because he favors his left and i, my right,

and this is the way we stand, this is the way we fight the world.

her on my right, because she is my right hand man

and this is the way we survive, this is the way we live.

and now, finally, this road to recovery--

no, this road of recovery

doesn't seem so long.

iii.

i wrote a poem about the road to recovery

when i was thirteen and bitter and angry.

i wrote a poem about the road of recovery

when i was fourteen and loved and scared.

and both times, i was wrong.

recovery is not a destination nor a road;

recovery is not linear at all.

recovery is not the heavy lidded avoidance 

i participated in with my friends.

it is not grasping my friends’ hands as i stumbled.

recovery is forcing my body into a panic attack

over and over again, until it stops being afraid of itself.

recovery is my therapist saying, over and over,

maybe i am mad. maybe i do think you’re a failure. maybe i do think you’re stupid, maybe i am disappointed in you, how does that feel? are you dealing with the uncertainty of not knowing yet?

recovery is my therapist watching silently as i cry

before forcing me right back into the problem.

recovery is deep breaths and muscle relaxation and the fine line between distraction and avoidance.

recovery is counting backwards from 100, by 7’s, until i fall asleep.

recovery is figuring out what exactly i dont want to do and then doing it.

recovery is staying silent and recovery is speaking up.

recovery is staring someone in the eyes.

recovery is harsh and painful and solitary.

recovery isn’t avoiding the potholes on the road;

it’s stepping in them and realizing they’re only a few inches deep.

recovery isn’t walking alongside my friends;

it’s taking the first step forward, alone.

most importantly, recovery isn’t fighting to stay on the road

it’s jumping off and realizing you could fly all along.