In reflecting on tumultuous autumns at the end of this post the other day, I somehow forgot about that worst autumn of all, of my own making, as we were waiting to learn the extent of my consequences. It has taken eighteen years for that to start feeling at all like anything less than a terrifying thing I'd rather not have in my neural pathways anymore. It wasn't technically autumn when we got the word that we'd have to report it, just after getting back from Labor Day weekend in Maryland. The following weekend was wretched, as we knew I was in grave jeopardy. I'm glad Waterworld was so awful, because I'd hate to have such terrible memories associated with a movie I'd want to see again! That drive-in is gone, too.
Anyway, it would take another ten weeks to find out that I'd have to move out, another couple months thereafter to be evaluated and accepted into the treatment program, another two years before I was completely back home - a good deal of which delay ended up being outside of our control. I'm glad that I've learned that I don't have to be in control of everything, though I do still have to be reminded of that from time to time.
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