Here's the prompt for last week's workshop and below it is what I wrote in response.
Up on the second floor of my house, tucked away in the chilly, dark crawlspace is a plastic box. In it is where I’ve kept things that I’ve collected over the years. Sentimental things that I could not make myself throw away. Sometimes, early in my addiction, after another period of relapse, as I would be crashing, feeling low, in despair for having, once again fell out of the wagon, I would open my box of treasures and go through the items. To hold the ceramic, brown smooth coffee cup that my best friends gave to me for my birthday in high school. My first ever birthday gift from them. To read through a hard copy of the short story I wrote in my final OAC class in high school, where I wrote about a young queer filipinx person, navigating between his chosen and biological families, deeply loving both. To read through the messages friends and family have written on the birthday cards that they’ve given me over the years. “You’re stronger than you think,” one of my best friends wrote on my birthday card. This was given a day after my birthday party I did not show up for, having disappeared for a few days to get high. This box reminded me of my good ness. It also held on to me, asking me never to give up on myself. Urging me to ask, “what if it’s impossible to fall off the wagon? What if I AM the wagon?”
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