Late February was the one-year anniversary of Irish, Barney, and I moving into the apartment that has become a home in every sense of the word. Two days later it was Irish’s and my four-year-anniversary. Both occasions were times of reflection for us.
The night we moved into the apartment, we felt like refugees who miraculously escaped the previous three years of homelessness. Ever since the phone call that morning notifying us that we were good to move in that day, we’d been in trauma mode the entire day: scrambling to get the rental van, quickly packing our belongings while a heavy snowstorm dumped on the city, finding an open store where we could buy a few things we needed right away (like the air mattress we slept on for five months), battling snowy, icy roads, and finally arriving at our apartment building at 11 pm.
We’d picked up fast food to eat while we were on the road–this year I had a vague memory of carrying a large drink cup upstairs when we brought Barney to our new home.
Those first few days were a blur. I don’t even remember the first meal I cooked in our new home. I’m sure it was something stupidly easy, like a frozen meal. Within two days of moving in, Irish fell ill with COVID and was in bed for the next ten or twelve days.
In the spring of 2023, Irish was still in full-blown addiction, so it would take more than changing our surroundings to motivate him to get sober. As soon as he recovered from his COVID, he disappeared and spent four days in the part of town we’d just left.
When he returned, it was 1 am, he was the highest I’d ever seen him, and the smell of him nearly knocked me over. As I informed him that he was free to return to the street life he preferred, he realized all his belongings were in a few black garbage bags I’d placed by the front door.
I left Irish once and what he saw in my face took him back to that day. Months later he told me it was when he finally recognized how completely out of control he was.
It took a few weeks for him to get into the recovery center and the first six months were a special kind of hell for both of us to go through. Somehow we managed to stick it out. Then I began to see who the real Irish was that the drugs had been covering up.
Today, Sober Irish is a much more likable and interesting person than Addict Irish. I’ve always loved him, but now he’s figuring out how to let himself be loved well. Because he’s become this new person, I’ve been able to focus on my freelancing business and I’m working with three clients this year.
We’ve built comfortable routines for our weekdays and weekends, I’ve dusted off my mad skills in the kitchen now that I can use proper appliances, Irish is enjoying the results of lifting at the gym 5-6 days a week, we take Barney on long walks, and we’ve gotten hooked on binge-watching different series on Netflix.
I’m proud of how Irish is doing in his college courses, and I’m grateful that he does certain household tasks (like cleaning the bathroom, doing the laundry, and taking the lead on walking Barney). I look forward to his texts letting me know he’s on his way home from campus, and I enjoy our hermit-y life together.
The progress we’ve made in just one year is astonishing and gives me great hope for what we’ll achieve this year.
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