This was life under the shadow of the question mark. I spent long, agonizing hours on the phone with my mother, explaining my uncertainty to her, hoping she could help me decide. She asked, “What is your gut telling you?” But the question didn’t help, because my gut told me conflicting things at once—that we were soulmates, and that we were doomed—and my gut wasn’t a voice to be trusted, anyway. Recovery had taught me this. My gut wanted to drink and drink and drink. My gut didn’t realize that no matter how much I drank, I’d still be thirsty.

By the time I met C, I was sick of listening to my gut. I was ready to bring in upper management. Upper management said I was done with waffling, done with going back and forth. Upper management told me not to listen to my doubts. They were only coaxing me back into a prior version of myself.