We hit bottom. Then we hit bottom again. Then we wake up and we are 30-years-old and wonder, “where did I go?” How did I arrive to waking up in the gray damp squalor of a jail cell when last I was paddling an orange We•no•nah canoe to the far, far end of the lake. Through the Tunnel of Love and into the shallows with pancake sized lily pads and one two three four five painted turtles sunning themselves on a withered log.
I left off somewhere. Where did I end and the party and chaos begin? Ah, yes. Boston. Boulder. A degree that I barely scraped by getting what with missing so many finals but that was so many years ago. So many years.
She said I could do it. My therapist. She said I could go back to school and reclaim my vision. But I have kids now, I said, and I’m so much older now, I said, and and and well, I think maybe I could talk my husband into the investment of graduate school. Reclaim. Reinvest. Learn to help people who are stuck like I was stuck for so many years so many years ago.