Rainbow Dreams

I finally got a good night’s sleep — the first one since I arrived here in Arizona. Yesterday was rough; I was in so much pain that I stayed in bed most of the day. I made it to my morning meeting, but after that, the only reason I went outside was to take Nicky out.

Even with the pain, I’ve noticed something huge: my baseline has been shifting. I feel better. Healthier. I’m noticing new allergens, and the heat is definitely an adjustment — probably more for Nicky than for me — but I’m learning which times of day work best for certain things.

The sun, though, has been more challenging than I expected. While I came here for the sunny, dry environment, the brightness has triggered more frequent “kaleidoscope vision” episodes. If you’ve never had it, it’s like looking through a prism — rainbow auras and fragmented shapes distort everything. When I’m standing still, I can close my eyes, open them slowly, and almost enjoy the strange beauty of it. But driving when it happens? That’s terrifying. Unsafe.

I’ve decided it’s time to stop driving. This wasn’t in the plan, but I can accept it. I was already having these episodes back in Connecticut and had half-joked about “taking my own license away.” Now, it’s just reality — one more change to navigate.

My biggest hope for Arizona is simple: to feel better. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. Today, I called the Mayo Clinic and they’re connecting me with a social worker. I’m looking forward to building a full medical team — neurologist, psychiatrist, and whoever else can help me be the most functional version of myself.

The truth is, I carry a lot of PTSD. Some from car accidents, some from people, some from places. Arizona, for me, is about positivity — not because life is suddenly perfect, but because I’m choosing it. Moving was hard, especially on such short notice. But here I am, learning.

This morning, I rolled into my meeting late (okay… really late), but I made it. Afterwards, Nicky and I took a long, early walk — about a mile and a half — before the heat kicked in. Then, for the first time since I arrived, I ran errands. U-Haul was welcoming; the manager even gave me her cell number. I visited the post office (just a few more steps before I get my P.O. box), grabbed some groceries for the both of us, and kept things simple. Right now, I’d rather focus on getting settled than spend hours cooking.

Money is tighter than I’d like, so budgeting will be a new skill I need to master. My belongings haven’t arrived yet, so I’m on an air mattress with a sleeping bag I don’t love. I miss my art supplies. I miss creating. But I’m filling the space with writing, training, and playing with Nicky.

I still need to get to in-person AA meetings — that’s where I’ll make friends. I want to build a morning walking routine with Nicky and maybe add yoga or tai chi in the evenings in my big open living room.

As for where I’m living, I can say this: I’m safe. I’m happy. Working in a sober house comes with strict confidentiality, which protects everyone here, including me.

One of the main reasons I moved here was the feeling of being “on a leash” — micromanaged and controlled by too many voices, even if they meant well. Here, I get a fresh start. When people meet me in Arizona, they meet Elfy as she is now — not the version from before my illness, not the one from my drinking days, not even the one from my early sobriety. Just me, today.

And nothing makes me prouder than the woman I’ve become in these last five years.

Here’s to hope. Here’s to dreams. And here’s to the wide, open desert where both have room to grow.