Arsenic

Intermittently, I feel normal, like a gal going about her business, going to lunch, writing a rent check, sipping on a lemonade. Other times I feel as though I have been punched in the stomach, some random song, or story title, or moment of weak thoughts knocking the air out of me, and I double over, remembering that my life is NOT business as usual. I am making big changes. I am in recovery.

Today I did something mildly obsessive, and that was to visit the web site of Elias' newly created writer's group. He has been working on it as a bulletin board forum and posts are only visible to the elite members who are personally invited by him. He does have a paragraph of publically viewable text on it, though, and even though I know better than to check it, because as administrator he can view the IP addresses of any visitor and guess that it is me, I had to. I know it's like an alcoholic taking a nip, but words penned by him, in that informal syntax-less style, have been my very nourishment for two years.

I felt awful afterward, that one paragraph, maybe five sentences, spreading through me like arsenic. I really must control myself better. Even this mild contact, seemingly harmless, drains me, pushes me out of the whatever small comfortable spot I have carved for myself.

I try to remember despite all the pain we inflicted upon each other, we did give each other back our writing. That is our gift, and perhaps, our legacy. I try to hope his writing group works for him, and likely it will--he will find others to obsess with, and this makes him really produce, really write hard. Despite everything, I recognize his talent, and I envy the women (for I guarantee you they are all women) who get to read it now. I hope they keep enough distance, or are smarter than me, and get out when it gets rough.