I Fell Off the Wagon and Onto a Dick OR Recovery, Relapse and Forgiveness.

The wicked witch of the west, she's dead.  That over dramatic bitch melted all over the place after they chucked the water on her.  And poof, just like that, she was gone... all that was left was a puddle.  No more flying monkeys sent to eviscerate the Scarecrow, no maniacal broad with a skin condition hell bent on revenge plotting against them.  They reached Oz.  They got a heart, courage, a brain, an all expenses paid trip to Kansas (which seemed kinda fucked to me dude was ready to give her anything after she exposed his bullshit scam, me personally I would have asked to have been sent somewhere in the Caribbean first - some all-inclusive resort, I mean she had just went through a hellish time and she could have made it back to that shit hole Kansas on her own after that, right?).  But I digress.

When the movie ended I thought 'but the story isn't finished.'  I really wanted for there to be a sequel to show how the characters of this twisted little fable made out after their wishes were granted and had completed this incredible journey.  I mean I imagine that the Scarecrow still woke up in a cold sweat after being chased by flying monkeys in his dreams.  The Tin Man probably had commitment issues, because yes he was given a heart but he wasn't ready or given the coping mechanisms for the reality of how easily it could be broken, how people would steal little pieces of it when he least expected it and how overwhelming it would feel to have it nearly burst with love.  And the Lion, well I wouldn't be a little bit surprised if that poor fucker needed years of therapy because being such a little bitch for so long that label would be hard to ditch and all the courage in the world wouldn't stop people from being dicks to him.  And then there's Dorothy.  Dorothy who literally went through a tornado only to end that horrific experience by killing somebody, with a house.  I mean sure, it wasn't premeditated or anything and the bitch was evil, but still murder is murder and I'm sure the guilt ate her up when she had time to process it all.  Then she meets all these fucked up individuals who journey with her to what she thinks is her heart's desire.... to go home. But who knows what happened when she got back?  I mean that chick was a hick from Kansas her experiences in Oz were beyond her normal - like me being from a small hamlet in Ontario and going to the Gay Village in Toronto for the first time, terrifyingly delightful.  And that home, that Dorothy she was she can't go back to that, even if she takes off those fabulous ruby red slippers she can't go back, because at her core she's changed.

I think about her line, "there's no place like home, there's no place like home." and I struggle.  I struggle because no matter how many times I click my shoes together (okay, so their flip flops maybe that's why it doesn't work) I don't get "home."  Maybe because there is no magical "home" and if there is, I don't know what it is.  I know that there is no Auntie Em waiting for me to engulf me in loving arms and tell me how worried she was about me and that she's so happy I'm alright.  That just doesn't exist, no matter how much I wish it did.

I went to Oz (and by Oz, I mean Toronto Western Hospital) and asked for my wish to be granted: to lose weight.  There was a part of me who hoped, against all hope that I would lose weight and that I would finally be happy.  I wished so hard for that damaged, dirty, ugly, broken part inside of me to be taken away,  for there to be an end to the loneliness, fear and hurt even though part of me believed that I deserved it.  I lost weight.  A significant amount and I felt happy, I really did.  For once in my life I nourished my body, I fed it good healthy food.  I worked out with a personal trainer who pushed me, encouraged me and helped me to feel strong and healthy and for once safe.  I looked in the mirror and I liked that woman I saw looking back. I liked her face and I loved her heart.

So the story ends there, right?

I'm fixed.

Yeah, not even close.

Life became stressful again, overwhelming and all of my old insecurities, my old demons who I thought I had battled and had beaten came back and reared their ugly heads.  I stopped listening to how I felt and honoring those feelings.  I just wanted to numb out and all my old partner's in crime were right there suited up and ready to go.  I couldn't eat a whole bunch at once, but I could graze all day, fill my poor little stomach till it hurt, because God I was hurting so much and no one knew, no one saw and I just needed to take that emotional pain away for awhile, focus it somewhere else because I just couldn't take it anymore.  That aching loneliness returned and I lost myself in another, floated away and looked down at that body that wasn't mine and ended up feeling even more alone.  Those moments where I celebrated my body and the wonderful sensations it could have became just another way I used to punish myself.

So recently I've slayed a few of my demons, I've made some changes.  Am I still an addict?  God yes.  Do I still do stupid shit?  Uh yeah, almost on a daily basis.  But I feel like in a way I've come out of that dark place I was in.  I've found some peace.  But like Dorothy, my story isn't over.  And that's the most wonderful thing I can think of, because it means that I still have a chance to change how it ends.  It's like a choose your own adventure book.  But like all stories I have to figure out the why - the point of it all - and I don't think the point of this story of my life is to reach this magical, mythical place where I'm perfect and life is wonderful and I'm all Martha Stewart-y and shit.  I think the point is to take the shit that life throws at you, learn to stand strong when you can't duck, to take responsibility for the shit that is yours, to deal with the shit from the past as it comes up, layer by layer, but most importantly to master the art of self-forgiveness.  That's a big one for me, I can forgive the trespasses of many, but fuck me I'm so hard on myself.  I said that I don't have an Auntie Em in my life who can take me in their arms and cradle me and tell me everything is okay, but I can do that for myself.  In my brokenness there is beauty, grace and an opportunity to take the broken pieces and glue them lovingly back together to form a creation that is amazing beyond words.