"Fiddle-dee-dee, Mellie."

As an author's aside, I feel compelled to admit that I often date myself when I am writing. I may break down and seek a co-warrior to coroborate with me, but for the mean time, what you see is what you get.

After my salvation event in 1996, I remained bonded to flesh and self; immature, demanding, opinionated, judgmental, and often just down right rude. I repeated the same unattractive mistakes over and over, wondering why I hadn’t morphed into Melanie Wilkes at the point of spiritual surrender.I experienced a similar phenomenon when I got sober fifteen years before that. I didn’t morph into anything that time, either. My husband and family seemed to assume that once I quit drinking, everything would be all right. “Whew! Thank God that’s over!” And they went on with their lives.Mind you, I’m not faulting them—I caused plenty of grief and they responded with more compassion and forgiveness than I deserved. What they didn’t understand is that while the crisis was over for them, it was only beginning for me.I remained hurting, angry, remorseful, and scared and the steady flow of alcohol over the years had washed away my dam of mental filters. Sobriety only differed from active addiction in that I was lucid and could more keenly feel every emotional discomfort. I lashed out, flailing for a handhold of peace, self-forgiveness, and relief. Not surprisingly, my tantrums were met with reciprocating hostility, and I burnt more bridges sober than I ever did drunk.