As my car swung into the driveway, I noticed a plain and unpretentious package sitting idly on my porch. Bending over, I picked it up and carried it into my cozy little home while searching for a return address. My breath caught in my throat as I spotted it. Setting the box on my dining room, table I peeled open the lid as the sound of the stiff, clear packing tape crackled and snapped beneath my fingers. I opened the little box slowly, with great anticipation, as one might open a newly found treasure chest reclaimed from the bottom of the ocean. My heart beat wildly as I reached into the bottom of the broken cardboard box and placed my hand upon a book, a plain and simple book which held the stories of my life.
The cover was cool and smooth and slid easily into my hand. Slowly, I lifted it out and into the light while my face felt flushed and my hand shook just a bit. As I slipped my fingers inside the cover and touched the first page, it hit me that my lifelong dream had indeed become a reality and that with the first word of that opening chapter came the closing of another. Within the pages were the lonely days of weighing nearly a quarter of a ton along with the endless nights of drunken madness which eventually bled into late afternoon hangovers. Staring at the words, I am reminded of the wasted days and nights squandered while living a life of dangerous excess.
The book itself was a chronicle of my existence, holding together all of my pain and anguish in one neat little package for the whole world to read, critique and criticize. My life was now, quite literally an open book. Standing there in the quiet shadows of my home, I felt extremely isolated and alone. After a few moments of quiet reflection, I began to realize that maybe I was not. I recognized that other people like myself, the lost, lonely and forgotten, might stumble upon this pint-sized treasure chest of emotion and maybe, just maybe, they would gather a bit of hope. Perhaps, they too might find the courage and the bravery to do battle with the demons that controlled their lives. Through my stories they might find the inspiration to try, yet one more time, to rid their lives of the physical and emotional baggage that they perpetually carried upon their backs.
Suddenly, it seemed ok to bare my soul and share the deepest darkest secrets of my past. If my heartache could help to guide just one person out of the darkness of their addictions, then the sharing of those secrets would be well worth the sacrifice. With that thought warming my heart, I carried the book to my Carmel colored chair, lit a fire and opened it to the first page and began reading the story of my life.
Follow my journey at Pickastrugglecupcake.com