The alacrity with which Rosa tackles her addiction never ceases to amaze me. It gives me strength. When you think of someone addicted to crack cocaine, you don't think of overwhelming recovery from that addiction. The odds are usually slim. You rarely hear her bitch and moan about her struggles as well. That is my job, as it was this morning. I can whine and moan with the best of them. It makes me feel better.
"Will you not sit still?" Rosa asked me as she sat on the couch in my den.
"I am struggling something terrible today," I replied as I donned my little radio to listen to the morning news and to pace the floor.
"I really wish you could just drink a six pack and quit," she said. "It would help with that anxiety you are experiencing this morning."
"That's why I always drank," I replied. "I could be content for hours drinking beer – sometimes days. I self medicated. It helped with my schizophrenia I thought."
I woke up with this feeling – a feeling of unrest and uneasiness. A terrible affliction that can be all encompassing as I struggle to resist the urge of driving straight down the road to the convenience store and tanking up on a case of beer.
Last night was better. Charlie came by bringing some homemade vegetable soup and hot cornbread that his wife had cooked.
"I should have never sold you this house," he told me, musingly. "It looks so good that I am jealous."
I beamed with pride. I have been so pleased with this house as well. It is so nice to have a place of my own to hang my proverbial hat. Charlie had also brought me several pictures to hang in various rooms. I was especially pleased with the mural filled with ducks. It looked like something a strapping young bachelor would hang on his wall.
My father arrived at 10 PM to give me my medications for my mental illness.
"I am so glad to see you," I told him as he stepped through the threshold that is my front door. "I was terribly lonely for a moment there."
"That makes me feel so good to hear you say that," my father replied.
We sat out on my porch and talked for an hour until sleep overcame the both of us and he drove home to crawl into the bed and to answer my mother's last questions of the day which she is so apt to ask. I went to sleep listening to a documentary on TV about Rembrandt which aided in inducing slumber. Morning arrived with a flourish of anxiety, social aloofness, and a dull feeling in my mind. Against all odds, I wander through this life one day at a time. Rosa give me strength.