Today marks an anniversary of momentous proportions for me; it has now been 9 months since my last alcoholic blackout, but also seven years ago today, I lost a child. What began as the precious gift of life, a bundle of embryonic cells in utero, ended as a deadly synergism of substances that I ingested daily had annihilated its microscopic light. I knew not that I was pregnant until it was far too late, only the growing suspicion in the back of my coked-out, opiate-fugue-muddled brain that something was very different in my physiology. Today marks the seventh yearly observance of the day that I went in for a dilatation and curettage to remove fetal matter from an inhospitable uterus. I was then told by different physicians that I would never be able to bear children, due to multiple factors.

The one thing that has brought redemption from acts that are reprehensible is the fact that my son, now a happy and healthy four year old miracle, was concieved on the date that would have been his older sibling's estimated date of birth. For years, I have tried to deal with this miscarriage, which ended the one thing I never knew I wanted until it was gone. I underwent a subsequent miscarriage which occurred shortly after my stay in inpatient rehab, when my son was just over a year old. I carry the shame and guilt of losing the unborn, of exposing one to a multitude of substances, of losing the later pregancy due to other health reasons, and the blood is on my hands. I also accept that everything happens for a reason, and am in deep gratitude every waking moment for the phenomenon and wonder that is my son.

In a recurring dream, I see myself high above the ocean, soaring with the wind, then plunging into the cold depths as my wings are cut. The scene nearly always changes to me being arrested for murder, and the dream ends in my cold sweat, awakening in the dark with the image of me wiping blood on the cement walls of a dimly lit prison. It is no wonder to me what this dream signifies; the blood is on my hands.

Ever since the alcoholic blackout that I instigated last April, I have been praying for God's guidance. Every day, I have been asking Him to show me the path that I am meant to take, to give me some sort of signal. I went to a meeting tonight, and something that was said stopped me dead in my thoughts and right then and there, it was obvious to me that God has given me exactly what I have been asking of Him. It is as if He has been beaming a light that flashes "RECOVERY," trying to get my attention and give me this most obvious of messages. I admit that sometimes I am very dense. I'll just face it. I am oblivious. My biography's title would be 'Out to Lunch.'

On this most introspective of days, I am witnessing the impact of recovery and of God's restoration of my sanity, and I share this with you. Though I realize that I have been forgiven for my past, and I have forgiven others for what has been done, I have not forgiven myself. This will come in time. The statement that another member said tonight that initiated that lightbulb moment for me was that there are no such things as coincidences, that God's hands will guide you whichever way you are meant to go, no matter what you do to the contrary.