There are marks that leave their legacy on our life.
We can grow and outgrow, improve ourselves and even be healed to the extent that we provide for our families and contribute to our communities….thanks be to God, but…
the ghostlines remain.
The unseen patterns and lines etched into the canvas of our souls are there. Our changes in behavior and thought may remove the black lines, however,
the original marks will forever be there.
Indentations that, sometimes loudly, sometimes almost without perception, call us to not forget….
from where we have come.
I was born and raised in a farming community. When I turned 12 tender years of age, that community was forever changed by IBM. It became a bedroom community for those commuting from the great city of N.Y.
And along with all that sophistication and knowledge came the judgement on those who had made their simple home there for the years gone by.
We were the “uncultured”; the folks that didn’t matter much.
We weren’t in their circle.
Deemed the “lesser” folk.
My best friend had moved away and my parents were divorced. My mother worked.
We were left alone. I was alone. Left to ourselves. Left to myself.
In retrospect, we were feral children.
That’s what we were.
At the time, all I felt was freedom; the times were the late sixties.
What I felt at the time was not what I thought.
It wasn’t freedom.
It was fear. It was pain.
I’ve come far beyond those pain filled times, however the deep seated feeling that I’m somehow less than, remains still…..even now.
Those are some of my ghostlines- I know them for what they are.
I know they are ghosts….
they still and will always have power over me if I allow them.
I’ve had a couple of restarts since my last post. Something happens when I address my sober time as counting days, weeks, months and years… it always has.
Time is a funny thing for me in sobriety.
I pray that with time, I’ll have the ability to celebrate mile markers with everyone else…
I was sober yesterday, I am sober today and by the grace of God, I’ll be sober tomorrow.