“Don’t ask me how deep the quicksand is,” said my sponsor, “it’s your job to get out of it, not to quantify it.”
“I’m not sure how to get out. Will you come and get me?” I ask her.
“No, Darling. If I get in we will both be down for the count. The only chance we have for me to help you is if I stay out of the morass with my feet planted firmly on solid ground.”
“What if you can’t get me out?” I cry.
“I will go get more help.”
“What if all of AA can’t get me out?”
“Angel, my hope is, that if there was no way out, you wouldn’t even know you were stuck.”
Limit your limits.
Young women drown themselves before Shakespeare
immortalized, memorialized Ophelia.
But having a poster child changes us.
Cautionary tale or rallying cry,
Ophelia is a hand to hold on dark cold days
when the light is hard to find
and everything seems bent toward destruction.
Not that I think she solved anything
with her despondent act
just that she stands in the familiar frame
I find myself in from time to time.
When I imagine I’ve invented the wheel
it makes it harder to step down and walk.
Ophelia’s fate makes it easier to get off depression’s bus
and find my way back home.