We Cut One Person Into Three
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Reads four to eight are being finished.
Imagine a woman who has been sober for eleven years. Eleven years, one day at a time, chip after chip after chip. She still cannot sit alone in a quiet house without the walls beginning to press in on her. The drinking stopped a long time ago. The thing the drinking was covering never did. On the hard nights she stands in her kitchen with both hands flat on the counter, waiting for it to pass, doing everything she was ever taught to do, and she thinks the thing she has thought a thousand times. Something must be wrong with me.
Now imagine a man sitting in his truck in the driveway with the engine off. He has been there ten minutes. He cannot make himself go inside, into his own house, where a family that loves him is waiting. He runs a business. He coaches his son’s team. He has not missed a day of work in years. His doctor has tried four different medications, and none of them reached the gray. He cannot remember the last time he felt anything but tired and afraid, and he has become an expert at hiding it, because everyone depends on him and he is certain no one would believe him. Sitting there in the dark, he thinks the same thing the woman thinks. Something must be wrong with me.
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