Awakenings by Camille Lewis

melissa.matthys CC




Awakenings 

I have been clean for... 1 year. 11 months. 7 days. 8 hours. 26 minutes. 
41 seconds. 
42 seconds.
43 seconds. 
44 seconds... I watch my sober app ticking.

I’ve been granted another year by the universe. The seconds add up if I let them, an implied whisper in the silence: not high. Not high. Not high. Clean and serene. Happy, joyous, free. Free from the desire. Not sick. 

I pray I can keep it up. In my recovery, I have heard often that I can expect spiritual awakening. Could be plural, could be singular, could take any form, your experience my vary. See terms and conditions and call your sponsor if you have any questions.

I have experienced awakenings of the conscience. Flashbacks and fears and the Kool-Aid Man smashing through the wall of denial, not yelling yes but no, the jug suddenly filled with blood. The drug advisory website where I live is a guy called Frank. Frank says that you can never really know where a drug came from unless it’s prescribed. A bottle of tablets from a pharmacy in India, a cotton ball in the top, the cap hard to open, all signs of legitimacy to me. Counting out 100 to make sure none are missing. Dividing them into small bags, each with my preferred dose. Checking again. Scanning the floor. Did I drop one? Blink, they’re gone. Checking the carpet. There must be one more. Time has passed so slowly and all at once, again. 

I watched Awakenings once. Stars Robin Williams and Robert De Niro. A miracle drug brings patients out of their stupor, much to their amazement and renewed zest for life. An awakening of the conscience is different: the miracle is putting down the drug. How long was I under? You ask. It doesn’t answer, nor does it need to. The fare of the taxi outside continues to go up, it’s been running all this time, waiting for your return. 

There are financial, physical, spiritual and emotional debts to be paid. I give what change I can find to the driver, wordlessly get in the back seat, and agree to go wherever they might take me.  




Camille Lewis is a neurodivergent recovering addict, tired spoonie, and fledgling writer based in England. She spends her time crossing off days on a calendar until "The Winds of Winter" is released.




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