I used to think you couldn't tell a story until it was over.
Until "the end" was written, until the happy ending came, it wasn't even really a story. Basically what I'm telling you is that I used to think real life was supposed to be just like a Disney movie. No one wants to see the bad guy battle scene without assurance that the prince (or whoever our gallant hero is) eventually wins. I can't imagine how traumatized I would have been as a wee one if I thought Ursula kept Ariel's voice forever, or if Prince Charming never found Cinderella and put the glass slipper on her tiny Barbie-like feet. But sometimes I felt like the way things went for me, Snow White would be asleep forever. The Tramp would tell Lady to get over herself and they would never eat spaghetti until their little noses touched for a magical moonlight dog-kiss. (I could go on for 12 years with this and love every second of it. Don't worry. I won't.) No one wants to hear the messy middle parts without the happy ending. I certainly didn't. You may have noticed, however, that the past 3 years of my life could basically be summed up by the phrase, "Megan, you're wrong." My Disney logic is no exception.
I like hanging out with messy people (and of course since we are all sort of messy, I mean the people who are honest about their messiness). I like sitting in a recovery group with a bunch of complete messes (myself included); sitting in Cafe Europa or at the Irish Rover or on the little red couch that I got for free, and hearing and telling stories without endings. I like not feeling alone, I like loving people even when they say ugly things, and I especially like being loved when I have ugly things to say. I don't like addiction. I don't like brokenness, I don't like pain or hardship or struggle or loss, and I don't like that our lives are all pretty much some cocktail of all of that junk. Of course not. But the fact of the matter is that they are, and I love love love finding those rarest of places where it is ok to be authentic about it. Because it's there - in basements or on couches or patios, in the light - that healing, wholeness, and recovery become (sometimes for the very first time) a genuine possibility.
And if getting to the low point, if feeling desperate and depressed and addicted and screwy is what has to happen to bring us to said rare places, then I might even be thankful for my messy-no-end-yet story. Which I can legitimately tell you I never ever thought I would say.
I thought there had to be a "the end" or a "happily ever after."
I thought messy stories were no good.
"Megan. You're wrong."