They speak of “bottoming out” when you’re in addiction recovery; that point at which you have absolutely nothing left to lose and no options left. I haven’t ever stepped my way out of a relationship with substances, but I have made a few precarious life-leaps. My twelve parcours.
A parcours is described as a route or course. In my youth I’d climb out of the window of a particular nightclub and traverse a full city block on the rooftops, leaping from ledge to ledge in an act of reckless youthfulness. It’s tremendous fun to know that the only thing keeping you from falling is your sense of bravado and a few beers, but, in retrospect, it also represents a stunning lack of wisdom.
I’m not too good at learning my lesson, so this risky format has somewhat defined my life. A plunge here, a grasp at the brittle roots on a cliff face there. Despite everything, I haven’t yet ended up as a raspberry-coloured blotch on the tarmac below, although I have come pretty close.
I mean, who would pack in a career they loved to take on one they hated? I did that. Went from running a bookshop to working in a car service centre. Hell, I don’t even drive. But the lesson it taught me was important: the change was more important than the result. Although I loathed being a customer service person, it stretched me. Twelve years in the book trade had been fulfilling but also atrophied my sense of adventure.
The car dealership folded and I was retrenched. With a handful of children (three children are a handful) this was no time for adventure. I took what work I could until I ended up volunteering with a local NGO.
In between, I’d used writing to make some cash, and found it every bit as exhilarating as a rooftop leap. You see, when you’re faced with a blank page and a deadline, you have no idea if, once your feet have left the ledge, you’ll land safely or drop like a stone. Your ability to earn isn’t based on your physical strength but on something which doesn’t even exist: a jumble of words in your head.
I was offered a chance to take a risk and join this NGO writing about topics I’d never even thought about before. That’s when I realised that writing leaps are made when you write what you don’t know, contrary to popular advice.
The writing work grew while my marriage imploded. With no disrespect to my former wife, the leap from being in a relationship for two decades to being single was utterly terrifying. There was no ledge.
Drinking helped. Not practically, but in an “I can’t see this, it can’t hurt me, la-la-la” way. Until it stopped helping. You can’t even stand up, never mind keep leaping if you’re pissed. A violent home invasion that coincided with a second retrenchment left me without resources and traumatised.
I tried to opt out of life with a scattering of pills, but, instead, woke up with the most really-really-real hangover ever experienced: life goes on.
And, bit by bit, the leaping started again. Love caught me in a surprising safety net and flipped me into a different space altogether. It’s easier to bounce when you fall if someone is encouraging you. After a period I found myself working as a full-time writer again, and skipping happily forward.
The leaps used to scare me, but now I know that life can push you off your perch of foolish refuge and into the blue before you can scream “nooo!” I guess the trick is to keep looking at where your feet will land rather than the place from which you dropped.
Why not join me? The air is lovely and fresh up here where the ledges are at their most precarious.
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