I live with a dual diagnosis: depression and substance use disorder. that’s the name for it. but what it feels like is living on a hinge: leaning toward one world, pulled by the other.
one world is made of steady hands and gentle hearts. the soft echo of my mother’s voice from another room. abuela’s food on the stove. the hush at the memory center when someone begins to speak. small, ordinary moments that glow quietly, as if they know they’re sacred.
that’s where I feel something absolute and pure, and where I know God is.
but the other world … it’s like being trapped in a dark alley somewhere in East New York, except it’s inside my head. it’s loud, and lonely, and terrifying.
when I’m lost there, I need something to pull me toward the light. sometimes I really need a sign, a flash of the ordinary made holy.
once, I got one, in a Walmart. just a strange little shimmer. something I couldn’t quite explain. I heard humming. angels, angels, angels.
I believe God is in places like that, too. in the fluorescent, impersonal store.
in the pitch-black alley. God shows up for me in the exact place I need Him most.
not always when I ask. but always when He does. and there’s strength in that.
this song is called hiNGeAngel.
I may always be on the hinge. but the hinge isn’t failure. it’s where the door opens.
relapse doesn’t erase grace. and I keep listening for the faintest hum, following it as best I can.
cookie nieves 
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