Lots of things going through my mind. The library book sale started last night and I found a book I read as a teenager but haven't read since then and I'm excited about revisiting something that inspired me thirty years ago (has it really been that long?)
I've been thinking about my past lately. I started therapy earlier this week and, since it was the first session, we went over my history. It's a strange experience. I've done enough fourth steps in AA that I can recite chapter and verse of my life. The strangeness of getting stoned with friends and family members, the escape to Monmouth, Oregon, because I knew things were going too far and if I only distanced myself enough the darkness would go away.
The slow, almost imperceptible slide into alcoholism. Heartbreak over seeing a marriage dissolve in front of me and the only thing that helped was running away, not to another town this time, but into a bottle.
But is any of that me? Telling my story so many times, it's starting to feel like someone else. Like a character I've made up. And Is the life I've now worked so hard to build, is that any more real or unreal?