36
“But I lied to you,” I point out—again.
Even on the phone, I can hear the shrug in April’s tone. “You’re an addict. Addicts lie.”
At last night’s meeting, my sponsor made it clear she forgave me for my relapse, but in the shamed and sober light of day, I find myself seeking reassurance. That’s the thing about my addict brain. It forgets things I know to be true.
“But you were trying to help me.” I lie back at my unmade bed and stare at the ceiling.
“No. I was trying to help—I am trying to help—myself.”
“Huh?”
“Working with you keeps me from picking up.”
She’s told me this before, but, to me, sponsorship seems like one more thankless chore of recovery.
“Stop wallowing in your s**t,” April orders. “Are you sober today?”
“Yes…”
“Do you understand that you’re powerless?”
“Absolu
