Good afternoon, My Fellow Miscreants

     Ah, the joys of domestic bliss. I was awakened at 5 AM this morning to find my wife on the floor. She fell off the couch again. It was a struggle to get her off the floor and hang her on to her walker just enough so I could help pick her up. Anyone who has had to pick someone up knows they're dead weight, and this is not the first time it's happened. As a matter of fact, it's happened so many times over the last ten years of our marriage. She has fallen down and hurt herself so much I can't even begin to count, concussion after concussion, scrapes, cuts, bruises, and blood. I've seen it all. It’s like a tragic slapstick routine, minus the laugh track.

     These holy terrors usually happen at night, but sometimes during the day too. I've caught her more than a few times as well. My dear misfits, I live with a nagging underlying fear that the next fall might be her last. Look, I can't be here all the time. In fact, I have to get back to work sometime soon, and I have other obligations to take care of. In the past, I've called off work, left in the middle of work, much to the consternation of my coworkers and bosses, and rushed home to take care of her. I'm sure I've lost jobs over this. My life feels like a dark sitcom episode, where the audience only half-laughs, unsure if they should be feeling sorry or amused.

     My dear misfits, I don't want to hear any shit from you about the underlying reasons for my drinking sprees. I don't want to hear any dooey-good-gooders tell me there's never an excuse to drink!  I never said there was an excuse. I'm just now trying to do this sober and try to live in my shoes for a day, dammit! Now, I know some of you know what I'm talking about, but I suspect most of you don't. There are those that would say, "Gabe, you're in a toxic relationship. Dude, you got to get out." Much easier said than done. My life isn’t a tidy little drama series where I can just walk away and the credits roll.

     I have separated from my wife a couple of times, and let me tell you, it was not a pretty sight when I came back. My wife is simply incapable of living on her own. She is truly mentally, physically, and emotionally disabled. There are some of you who would say, "Gabe, you got to put her in Shady Pines nursing home." There are those of you who are entirely capable of that. I'm not. I would hope I was raised better. I would hope I was raised to believe that a man has to care for his loved ones no matter what the cost.  You know the old, tired adage, "Until death do us part."  I certainly believe in it, and as a matter of fact, I have witnessed my own loved ones and friends walk down that same road with their loved ones. Now, some of you would say, "Gabe, you're an idiot." Maybe I am, but I'll stick to my values and ride this out with the help of my Father in heaven. I have by no means done it perfectly. But I won't stop trying.

     In "There's A Solution" in the Big Book, to paraphrase, it says something like this, "We are not saints, but we seek spiritual perfection instead of spiritual progress. I hope you Big Book purists have something to say about this.  Come on I dare you.  Anyway, that's my sorry missive for this morning now afternoon. If any of you misfits have anything constructive to say, I sure would like to hear it.

     And there you have it—a day in the life of a tragicomic misfit in recovery. If you ever wondered what keeps me going, it’s the faint hope that one day, the laugh track will kick in for me at the right moment. Until then, stay sober, stay clean, and keep busy.  I sure am.

Gabriel O.