And….You’re Back In The Rooms

I’m Hours, and I’m an alcoholic.

It’s a shame to start out this way. I wish it could be ‘My name is Hours and when you meet me I am 24 years old and dancing precariously on the hard, thick snow of a Prague winter’- Or, ‘When you meet me I am 17 years old throwing my body around to Girls Not Grey’ on the stickiest pub floor in Weymouth’. I am 16 and losing my virginity to a mohawked punk peace activist called Gordon on my bedroom carpet. I am 22 and sleeping on the floor of a famous Irish poet. Almost any other time but this one.

When I was a little girl, I was the kind of child who wanted to climb trees in my princess dress. I wanted to be a mermaid as much as the next Disney-addled child of the 80’s and spent ages one day making a tail out of green tissue paper. I loved thunderstorms and history classes and stories about magic and witches.  I hated maths and geography and watches. I refused to learn how to tell the time before the age of thirteen, because in my silent, solitary land of make-believe time was irrelevant and still is. I imagined that I would grow up to be someone who could speak all languages and travelling the world as an archeologist – working on desert digs and uncovering lost Egyptian cities; unearthing a giant head of Hathor or Sekhmet, a gigantic carved queen peering out of the dust.

coffee_zpsf0e07becI wandered these imaginary landscapes in my white flannel dress embroidered with little flowers. Now I wear ripped jeans and bargain t-shirts from mall sales, still gazing around like that little girl, starstruck, fragile, and prone to violent escapism. The name of this blog is The Hours God Sends;  I understand Time a bit better now, I learned what it meant in the treatment centre where I turned my whole life on a dime. Salient facts: they tell me I have Impulsive Borderline Personality Disorder, I also have a thing about applewood smoked cheese, I diagnosed that one myself.

So that’s the beginning (again), I started a blog of the same name in early recovery but it fell, as I did, by the wayside of life. Now I’m back, wearing my crown of salt, trying to write my way back to the wild water.