Someone had to go down into Hell to rescue me. And did.
Because this night just past, I slept for the first time in weeks.
It was the prayers.
It was, perhaps, hitting the ceiling at someone who publicly told me at an AA meeting that real life had no place at a step meeting, and being able to forgive that guy when he apologized to me and to the entire room later on.
It was being taken over by this weird feeling of calm that I would survive this, even if I didn’t sleep last night either.
So I curled up next to a rather substantial 92-pound dog (GSD + Rottie + whoever was passing by at the time) and just hit the deck. The last thing I knew was it was about 10:45. The next was that was 5:30 and I was awake. Which means I’d been asleep. Which means that I believe the back of this horrid bondage was broken because I was ready to have it broken. I had to be a cooperator in my own rescue.
In the Episcopal Church, the witnesses to a baptism reaffirm their own baptismal vows by saying “I will, with God’s help.” I needed to take the first step and let God do the heavy lifting. I’d run out of options.
God had a lot of help. Anyone who responded to my friend Jane’s entreaty was part of this. Anyone who did it on his or her own.
I was in prison and you rescued me.