 I was enjoying the balmy fall weather one recent night on my porch, when some patrons from a nearby neighborhood bar ambled down my street to their cars.
One woman, well-dressed and probably in her mid-50s, had parked her SUV directly across from my house. My dogs, who were enjoying the unseasonably warm evening with me from safely behind a baby gate, boofed a few times as per usual, then settled. I was nose deep in a book on my iPad and wasn’t paying any attention to the action in front of me until I heard keys jangling, dropping, then jangling again a few minutes later. This poor lady could not find the keyhole to unlock her car. And I am here to tell you that it may have been long past sunset, but between the street lamp above her and my porch lights across from her, it wasn’t all that dark.
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 I didn’t mean to do it.
I didn’t intend to carry it so far. I just wanted a taste. Just a tiny boost. Nothing extreme. But a taste wasn’t enough. It led to another, and another. I felt myself falling into the deep chasm of obsession. Before I knew it, I was full-on in the madness. Before I knew it, I had … I had … completely redecorated my living room. Now, I don’t mean to make light of addiction. True physical and psychological addition — to drugs, alcohol, food, sex — is blinding, brutal and ravaging, and it does not discriminate.  Animal rescue gets a ton of publicity these days, as well it should. I enthusiastically support any agency that saves dogs, cats and other domesticated animals from abuse suffered at the hands of sick fucks like Michael Vick. I also support harsh penalties for said fucks. But that’s not what I want to talk about today.
See, the thing about so-called animal rescue is that the humans who adopt these sweet creatures are often the ones who end up getting rescued. At least, that’s the gospel according to Amy. Dogs don’t have to be official therapy animals to provide therapy. Just sayin’.  There is nothing under my Christmas tree this year.
That’s sounds melodramatic, doesn’t it? Yes, I’m verklempt, but it’s not because I’ve fallen on hard times or anything like that. I have a great life, a successful business, and I can afford to share a bit of my wealth. The problem is, there is nothing for me to buy for the first time in 20 years. See, the adults in my family suck at gift exchange. Christmas consists of me shoving gift certificates or cash in clever cards for my parents and brother. They almost always do the same for me. I don’t know if it’s because we’re lazy or not very creative, but we are collectively OK with that. There is no doubt we love each other, and we’re not concerned about expressing that love through material things. We show it in other ways throughout the year.  Billboards are a big deal in my life. And I’m not talking about ones you might pass along the interstate, like: “Honk if You Love Jesus, Text if You Want to Meet Him” or “Hot Naked Girls, Next Exit.”
My billboards are allegorical, but they always come to me as crystal clear signs from the universe. They basically demand I take certain actions, or not take them, as the case may be. For example, I was presented with a mile-high, neon billboard that told me without the slightest flicker of doubt that my marriage was over. I heeded the sign and never looked back. On some occasions (though just as impactful), a billboard appears as simply a quiet reminder that I am on the right path, or that I should be grateful for all my blessings. This week, I saw several of them in Technicolor. First, Mork returned to Orson. I am not normally affected by a celebrity’s death, but in the case of the brilliantly funny Robin Williams, my heart broke. It was a chilling reminder that if such a gentle, sweet soul could find himself in an emotional chasm so deep he couldn’t see a way out, it can happen to anyone.  I have a lot of alcoholics and addicts in my life. The majority of them are what I would call non-practicing, but there are a few still swirling around in the madness.
The ones in recovery all have one thing in common: they have taken responsibility for their actions. Yes, they have a sickness of the mind, but they don’t blame any outside forces for their fate. Once martyrs and victims, they now can recognize the active participation they each played in the progression of their disease and own up to it. And when I say “they,” I am including myself in the bunch. (I may get up on a soapbox here for a sec, so bear with me.) I met up with a friend from high school this past week I had not seen since we graduated. We connected on Facebook a few years ago, and he was in town from Washington, D.C. , visiting family here. Kevin is a really good dude, and I was happy to see him. Understandably though, we spent a good chunk of our conversation over dinner chatting about other high school chums. “Whatever happened to …” and “Did you hear about …?” |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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