“Things have got to change.”

My words were loud and clear as if someone was listening. I lay supine on Margie’s old sofa, staring at the same clock that struck me the night before. I was the first to wake. Margie’s small home was distinctly quiet, perched high above the eclectic town of Nelson with Kootenay Lake off in the distance. Empty wine bottles sat stretching their necks to peer out the kitchen window where dreary clouds hung blanketing the early morning sky. It was April, spring elsewhere in the world, but the Canadian Rockies had yet to accept it.

My best friend George and I arrived the afternoon before with just two bottles of wine as a gift to Margie for putting us up. I cringed when I purchased them at a shop in California, but two bottles seemed safe enough. I had sworn off the stuff–well, mostly–when the chaos in my new marriage seemed to be exasperated by alcohol the year before.

At that time, I thought, If we quit drinking, the violence will stop. It did not.

In early October 2012, I fled Canada with a carry-on sized suitcase, a camp stove and Dharma, a black and white pit bull Josiah brought home before leaving to follow Furthur on their Summer Tour.

I’ll be back! I had told my husband Rob before I drove away, but it was a lie–just three small words offered to subdue him after a beating so bad, I thought I would die.

Fall and then winter passed. A full six months without my stuff, belongings said to have been piled in my old front yard and then set on fire. However, Rob lied so frequently that I was willing to make the trip back to B.C. to see what was left. I hoped I’d find baby pictures of Josiah, carefully crafted projects made of construction paper and popsicle sticks, his gi from martial arts which he quit at six when his uber-masculine instructor told him to not “cry like a girl”, defining misogyny long before we ever heard the word.

“What happened last night?” I asked when Margie woke up.

“We started here and then went downtown. Don’t you remember?” she said, smiling in response.

“No.”

Margie saw the disturbed look on my face and quickly added, “You were fine. Don’t worry. You were safe with me and George.”

I stared back at her wanting to believe what she was saying. However, a feeling rose up from the pit of my belly that screamed through the confusion, SHE’S WRONG!

Within the hour, my bestie and I were on the road. After picking up a U-Haul trailer, we headed out to Glade, back to the strawbale home where I was married into a state of marital terror rather than bliss. George spent the drive reassuring me about the night before, Nothing bad happened. You weren’t out of control.

But to me, blacking out was far from being in control. The thought of what could’ve happened had I been on my own clung to me like a ghost from the trauma of my youth.

I wanted my life to come back into alignment with who I once was. The very worst bits of my condition had deeply affected my son. He didn’t know what to make of his mother who up until his early teen years never drank anything but ice tea and spring water.

“Are you ready for this?” George asked, his distinct SoCal skateboarder twang sounding more Spicoli than therapist.

“I guess…” I responded while fading off, not knowing what to expect.

After a not-too-far drive and ten minute ferry ride, we pulled up to the set of my unrequited-love-story-turned-horror-flick. Rob was out back by the firepit. He too had a chaperone, a fully tattooed and dreadlocked, retired train hopper named Chris, who was one of the kindest Canucks I met in the sixteen months I lived there.

Inside the house, I found everything I owned lying under a six month thick layer of dust, completely untouched. Rob’s previous proclamation had only been a threat. I packed items as quickly as I could and when the man who still refused to grant me a divorce announced he was headed to the store to buy liquor, I packed faster not knowing what would happen next. George carried boxes and rubbermaid bins down to the trailer, passing Rob with small talk, acknowledging the friendship they once shared.

“Hey, George!” I called out when Rob’s Camry made its last gravel-crunching sounds and pulled out onto the pavement. “This isn’t going to take as long as I thought.”

George stared at the stuff piled around me, giving no response.

“I think it would be a good thing if we leave as soon as we can.”

George gulped. His eyes darted back and forth. He hated confrontation, but he hated what I had been through even more. “Do you think sumpthin’s gonna happen when he comes back?”

“I don’t know, but I’m worried it might.”

George was slow to respond, always thoughtful before he spoke. “Well,” he began, “there’s that memorial for Drew happening in San Francisco if we can make it back by Saturday.”

Drew was a friend who died one month earlier from an accidental overdose, his bright light and quick wit snuffed out in the blink of an eye. No one saw his death coming. It rocked our circle of friends while devastating his family.

Less than 24 hours later, we were on the road, headed towards the U.S./Canadian border. It was Friday morning and the weather report was not good. One last winter storm was heading from the coast, threatening to make the mountain pass impossible for a minivan pulling a heavy load. Snowflakes started to fall as we pulled up to border patrol.

“Here you go…” I said, leaning out of the window.

“What are the two of you up to?” the female agent inquired as she snatched the list of items I was declaring.

“Not quite two years ago, I married a Canadian and he wasn’t very nice,” I told her.

Her face softened.

“So, I’m coming home,” I finished, hoping she wouldn’t want to unpack and inspect all of my belongings.

She looked at the list. Then me. Then George.

“Welcome home,” she said, quickly handing the paper back. I let out a sigh of disbelief as anxiety drained out of the tips of my toes.

George and I drove like hell, taking turns between sleeping and driving as the last fleeting glimpses of Canada and the Pacific Northwest disappeared behind us. Fifteen hundred miles later, we pulled into the driveway of a housesitting gig in Occidental, unhitched the trailer and then sped off to Terrapin Crossroads, Phil Lesh’s place in San Rafael. The former bassist for the Grateful Dead had invited a mishmash of musicians to play a show he fashioned after Levon Helm’s legendary Midnight Ramble sessions held at Levon’s property in Woodstock, NY.

We arrived just as the music began. The lights had dimmed, but it didn’t take long to run into the group of grievers, mourning the death of our friend. Music swirled, filling the air while bodies bopped, spun and wiggled, catching the groove. I had seen it all before. What struck me most was the dark irony of mourners partying when the person not there had died from an overdose. I stood still, staring at the stage, unable to speak, unpacking the emotional baggage of the dissolution of my marriage up north–the alcohol that Rob had left to purchase while I burned a shoebox of love letters I no longer wanted in the firepit outside of our marital home.

A stranger stood still next to me while everyone else was writhing around, yelling in a loud whisper, “That guy with the guitar… that’s Anders Osborne. You should hear his story. He’s been through hell, but now he’s sober.”

I’m not sure who it was that dropped that bomb on me, but he said it and then drifted off.

I was in the midst of a near out-of-body experience, with cups of beer sloshing over, wetting the floor around me while bindles got passed with a slight of hand not sneaky enough to go unnoticed.

My eyes were locked on the guitar player while his head moved back and forth, synchronized with the notes coming out of his guitar and thought to myself, If that guy can do it–if he can be here in the midst of this madness completely sober, then so can I.

George and I drove back to Occidental late that night. I was teetering on the edge of forty years old, having spent a solid five years slowly–and inadvertently–dismantling my life. George left the next day, headed back home over four hours away while I unpacked a few things in the attempts of making my temporary place feel more like home. I set my computer up and googled the sh*t out of Anders Osborne, learning everything I could.

I found his early music to be full of life-of-the-party debauchery and heartache while his later albums were filled with recovery and hope. I didn’t know how exactly to stay sober, where to go or who to trust, so I poured myself into Anders’ music and went to his shows. Sometimes, I yelled out to the stage how much time had passed since my last drink. Occasionally, he’d call back with words of support. In 2016, with the help of some friends, I started the Lucky Ones, a group of Anders Osborne’s fans who provided sober support at shows.

People laughed when I told them I was using music to stay sober, but all I knew was it was working. Nine months after my trip to B.C., hauling those last two bottles of wine, I found my way into twelve step meetings and continued my journey in sobriety. I was beginning to understand all of the reasons why I drank. Not what alcohol did to me, but what it did for me.

Alcohol helped me to be who I was not. Rather than trapped inside of a mostly shy and anxious body, it opened the door and let me out. I felt less self-conscious when I drank, funnier, prettier and easier to connect with. It helped soften the shame I carried about my inability to provide a nuclear family for my child. It soothed the pain I felt when Josiah grew too old to consider me the center of his universe, like he was in mine. Or, at least, that’s what I thought.

With the passing time stretching my perspective, I could see how my occasional stops at the local bar to unwind, slid their way into more. Drinking like that, for those reasons, became a slippery slope. In five short, harrowing years I grew into a person I no longer liked, but that was long ago. I got sober. I did the work. I lived a life filled with hope. I had six years with my son before he was killed and left on the side of the road. I’m grateful that I was able to spend the last years of his life being the mother he deserved.

This past week, Brian and I drove into New Orleans to see Anders perform an intimate, free show. We arrived at the Louisiana Music Factory early to get a spot up front. I didn’t yell out while he was playing. In my twelfth year of sobriety, there’s no need to anymore.

If you are toying with the idea of getting sober, find a path and follow it. Don’t pay any mind to those who snicker or question why or how you’re doing it. Just take it one day at a time, find solace wherever you can and work on the stuff that’s been holding you back.

This is your one trip here on earth. How are you going to spend it?

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As much as this piece is about my path to sobriety, it’s also about a friendship that has stood the test of time. The picture below is from well over a decade ago. George, my absolute bestie back then, was always just a phone call away. He was such a huge help to both Josiah and I, never asking for anything beyond our love and friendship in return. I have met few people as selfless as George and am forever grateful for all that he did for us. ❤️