The son also rises

I can be anything but the one thing that kills me.

In this house, resurrection is a daily ritual.

Each morning, there’s a tall glass of lemon water with molasses waiting for me on the kitchen counter. It’s good for a waking body.

There’s a parrot too, eyeing me up and down from the top of the lamp — “Whatcha doing?” He runs the house.

My mother’s either in the backyard, admiring her garden, or she’s leaning against the kitchen counter admiring her other garden. The one she coaxed from seed in the harshest climate of all.

The one that is me.

Over the last 18 months, loved ones have basically poured their entire life force into bringing me back from the dead.

Today, with the resuscitation apparently a success, we’re asking ourselves: what next?

And I’ve got more ideas than I know what to do with.

That's the pink cloud—the burst of optimism many people experience in recovery. It swallowed me whole. Watching a medical drama has me wondering if I should become a doctor. A courtroom show leaves me researching law school. Ten minutes of Baywatch and I'm Googling professional lifeguard training. Even the mail carrier looks like he's found his calling.

What do I do with myself now addiction has been lifted from these bones?

Years in the wasteland don’t shine on a résumé. Feel like giving me a job? I don’t blame you. Crack smokers aren’t famous for reliability, organization, and showing up when they’re supposed to. The problem isn’t only convincing employers — it’s convincing yourself you’re employable.

The pink cloud only changes the hearts and minds of those who live inside it.

So what are this ex-junkie's options? Ideally, I wouldn’t have to leave home.
How do you leave the place that saved your life?

Believe me. Resurrection has its perks.

My mother devoted herself to raising the dead.

One rainy afternoon, she let me walk out the door carrying a couple of bags. We both knew what that meant. Neither of us tried very hard to stop it. There comes a point where addiction convinces everyone — including the people who love you most — that you’re already gone.

Now, it’s hard not to leave the house without a parrot asking, “Whatcha doing?” and my mother urging me to drive carefully.

I wonder how I could ever leave them.

Besides, how do I live alone again — without, you know, falling back on old habits? I don’t want to risk losing the version of myself everyone fought so hard to resurrect. This journey wouldn’t be so fun a second time around.

Here’s the part where I tell you that I’ve got this. But the truth is, every day, I’m inching closer to a sprawling void of uncertainty. Maybe I really will be an astronaut. Or maybe I’ll be a police detective in Bucharest. Or a dishwasher. But please, pink cloud, not a crackhead again.

Because I can be anything else in the future — an unemployed jellyfish, even — and I’d be happy. Just let me stay alive long enough to find out.