Tuesday, 18 September 2012

Nothing but the truth. So help me God.

Not so long ago I was faced with boxes and boxes of oxycodone. I was Jesus, and the oxycodon was the devil, and for one whole night all of that oxycodone and me were in a delicious dance of temptation.


I had a cup of coffee with Tim Costello yesterday. When I first sat down, he looked at me apologetically. "I'm so sorry ... I have no idea who you are."

I laughed at his utter candour. More people need to be like Tim Costello. Why are we all so intent on pretense? Why do we all care so deeply about what other people think of us?

Tim and I sat talking about Africa, World Vision, extraordinary living, social issues, life, death, Spirit, redemption, how hard life is. I told him exactly who I was. Because I know who I am. Thing about Tim is, he knows who he is too. There's a certain power and strength when you arrive at knowing who you are. You're able to move forward, get shit done.

He asked me what the turning point was, to get my life together and stop going into detoxes and rehabs and psych wards. He asked this not out of a voyeuristic, pass-the-popcorn way ... but in a genuinely real and beautifully curious way. Like somehow my answer could add to the collection of things he knows in his head, maybe help somebody down the track.

Telling our stories to each other is important.

I answered his questions truthfully. I wasn't even embarrassed. I told him that statistics of recovering people aren't great, which was why I don't bother about statistics. I told him a lot of my people are dead, or back out there again. There's the same seed of potential in all of us. We either grow up, learn and evolve ... or we don't.

There's a real power in owning who you are.

Tim thanked me, and hugged me really hard when we said goodbye. He gave me his personal business card, told me that next time Bono was in town he might hook me up. I walked up the street and cried at that possibility. It will never happen, but there's now potential of it happening. It's enough. U2's music means so much to me. It's the soundtrack to my life .... my shitty, fucked up, extraordinary life.

I bought Tim's book on the way home. Hope - Moments of Inspiration in a Challenging World. 

It's a really good book. I really need to read it. I'm feeling really lost and dark at the moment, and I just don't know how I'm going to get through this, Computer.


I didn't have any of the oxycodone, that one night. That forty days in the desert night. It was so sad, holding all of the boxes. Because I didn't realise that my beautiful stepdad with the crinkly blue eyes was in such deep, dreadful pain. This whole year. Cancer you thieving beast!

I sat on Jim's bed. He was over in the cancer ward, dying. He had his own morphine pump in the end. A junkies' wet dream! The last few days of his life was horrific. He looked like a kind of breathing corpse. Death is as ugly as life. I'm completely traumatised, bereft, sad, in grief every single day and it's getting worse.

Everything is hard. I don't mean to complain. I've been withholding myself on my blog. I'm not even entirely sure what my blog even is anymore. Forgive me if there's a bit of sponsored content here. I wouldn't do it if it wasn't necessary. I'm sorry if that offends you. I'm still here, right here, breathing on this page like I always have been. It's hard, knowing people are logging on to hate-read. What's that crazy bitch gone and done now! How's your "blog" Eden!? I'm too tired to get angry. I finally understand why bloggers just gloss over stuff, and only show the good and unobtrusive parts of life. It's easier. Less controversial.

I like to think that I didn't steal those boxes of oxycodone out of respect. Most likely, I didn't take them because it wasn't enough. Nothing's ever enough, if you're an addict. This is how our brains work.

I was acutely aware that the same God that watched me travel to Africa was the same God watching me decide whether I was going to travel down another dark path in my life. Again. 

I just don't want to do that. But now it feels like I'm walking through life getting root canal with no anaesthetic. Normal people are allowed to have a few wines at dinner - it's socially acceptable. It's not socially acceptable to have a few wines at dinner and end up on a raging bender in Kings Cross four days later. Shitting your pants, coming-to out of a blackout, wanting to kill yourself.

So I eat chocolate instead. Laugh at Gangnam Style. Order pizzas instead of cooking. Hug my children so tightly and they don't even squirm away because they love me.

I'm continually breaking down. My husband is being beautiful and strong. He loves me a lot. And I keep thinking, if my mum can still get out of bed every single day, put her house on the market, go back to work and deal with life and her grief, then I can too. If my two beautiful, heartstrong sisters can make it through, then I will too. We will. Will we? Fistpump and swear and dance our way through? Is that how you do it?

Mum picked Jim's ashes up last week. He finally made it home. Just not in the way we thought he would.

                             On their wedding day, 1992

I don't know how to end this post. I know I shouldn't publish it. I've been blogging long enough to know that a lot of themes repeat themselves, in a personal website. One of my main themes has been overcoming hard things. I just don't know if I can this time. It's getting dark. And I'm tired. 


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