When You Love Somebody, Or

There's Something About Sober Living And Sober Thinking, About Facing Long Afternoons Without The Numbing Distraction Of Anesthesia That Disabuses You Of The Belief In The Externals, Shows You That Strength And Hope Come Not From Circumstances Or The Acquisition Of Things, But From The Simple Accumulation Of Active Experience, From Gritting The Teeth And Checking The Items Off The List, One By One, Even If It's Painful And You're Afraid.

Dogs Possess A Quality That's Rare Among Humans -- The Ability To Make You Feel Valued Just By Being You -- And It Was Something Of A Miracle To Me To Be On The Receiving End Of All That Acceptance. The Dog Didn't Care What I Looked Like, Or What I Did For A Living, Or What A Train Wreck Of A Life I'd Led Before I Got Her, Or What We Did From Day To Day. She Just Wanted To Be With Me, And That Awareness Gave Me A Singular Sensation Of Delight.

When I Drank, The Part That Felt Dangerous And Needy Grew Bright And Strong And Real. The Part That Coveted Love Kicked Into Gear. The Yes Grew Louder Than The No.

By Definition, Memoir Demands A Certain Degree Of Introspection And Self-disclosure: In Order To Fully Engage A Reader, The Narrator Has To Make Herself Known, Has To Allow Her Own Self-awareness To Inform The Events She Describes.

The Key, I Suppose, Has Less To Do With Insight Than With Willingness, The Former Being Relatively Useless Without The Latter.