Failing

We’re together for the first time in five years, the three of us. Three sisters. Terry, the oldest, pastes us together with persistence and illusion. She believes we can be a family, that we are a family. Julie, the youngest, bites her lower lip and wears a worried brow, even while she drives her red Miata with the top down to her job as a South Carolina attorney. She left home for law school fifteen years ago and comes back only for weddings or other landmark celebrations like this, or for Christmas every two years. And me, in the middle. I moved to Connecticut almost twenty years ago to cut free from my tangled roots, I thought, and to be near the hospital where I learned to stop drinking and to want to live again.I suspect my newest illness—Chronic Fatigue Syndrome—structures my life in a way my family must find limiting. At least that’s what I think when I hear their voices in my head. You’re tired all the time? Go to bed earlier. You can’t think straight? You’re an Ivy League graduate, for heaven’s sake. Start jogging again. You’ll feel better.But when I’m tucked away, writing in the pretty place on Long Island Sound I call home, half an hour from Manhattan, surrounded by people who drive German and Italian cars and wear Prada and Polo, I pretend their success is mine and that my medical bills and dwindling bank accounts and lost jobs and derailed relationships don’t much.When I return Upstate to the tricky terrain on chilly Lake Ontario, though, my creative ambitions seem paltry and a little suspect. I feel I’ve failed. But, I remind myself, I’m thin. And I used to have enviable, respectable jobs. And I saw the Picasso exhibit at the Met. I hang onto those vanities like life preservers tossed to me in rough seas.We’re together to celebrate our mother’s birthday, her seventy-fifth. Each of us brings her gifts to the party. Collectively, we also bring 130 years of survival skills, learned, not on some Outward-Bound wilderness adventure with a trusted coach, but in this family, where I, at least, believed no one was to be trusted.*****For three weeks, we made plans. When I called to ask Terry what I could contribute to the buffet, she discouraged me from bringing anything other than Tom. “As for sleeping arrangements,” she mused. “I’ll put Julie and Ken in the guest room. You can sleep in Katie’s room, and Tom can take the den.” She paused. “But the pullout sleeps two if you want to stay with him.” Terry and I have been sisters for forty-four years. We emerged, screaming, flailing, from the same womb, played hide and seek in the same neighborhood, suffered algebra in the same high school. But before that clause (“. . . if you want to stay with Tom.”), we never talked about touching men or sleeping with them. When I hung up and told Tom about this tender talk between my sister and me, I was baffled when he said, “I guess they think I’m okay.” How could he shape so private a moment between Terry and me into something about him? But I shook off his self-absorption. He’s not Catholic. He wasn’t raised in a home where no one touched without wriggling to get free. And he doesn’t know how important it is to try to get to know your sister when you’ve spent three decades shoring up the distance from her and you’re no longer sure why.When I called Julie, she railed because Terry decided the party date and time without asking her. “Why did I offer to help if she’s taking care of everything?”I’m the middle sister. I’m in the middle, again and always, but I welcomed Julie’s rant. Any connection would feel better than the unexplained plateau we tolerated between us since her marriage ten years earlier. “I don’t know what to wear,” she said, trying to regain her equilibrium.“Pants and a sweater maybe,” I posited gingerly, not wanting to sever the tentative thread between us. “April’s still winter upstate.”“I might need something new.” The thought of a shopping mission jumpstarted Julie’s party stride. “They’re all on special diets,” she said, “so we’ll need to make sure everyone has something to eat. Dad can’t have nuts, remember?”* * * * * *Tom and I set out late Friday morning, my mood dipping as we rode the thruway into Rockland County and beyond. The sky hung as heavy and gray as it did six months ago when we went home for Thanksgiving, me with the same faint hope. Maybe this time things will be different.When we pulled into Terry and Bill’s driveway five hours later, stiff from sitting, Dad rushed to the door, his hair whiter and thinner. For a moment I mistook him for his father. And before he hugged me, I remembered that one Father’s Day brunch, when my father raged at his father because Grandpa couldn’t hear the waitress when she rattled off the holiday specials. “Stop!” I yelled. Why did I need to tell him to stop hurting his father? All I wanted was to be his favorite girl.His favorite girl? A dicey proposition. “How’s my favorite girl?” he’d ask when he hustled in, late—again—for dinner.“We don’t have favorites,” Mom was quick to point out as she slid a reheated plate across the table to him.Stop. I pulled myself back to Terry’s foyer. We hadn’t yet said hello, and I had dredged the silt of the River Past. Say hello. My father hugged me tight—he at least was generous with his hugs, though from him they never stopped feeling dangerous. We don’t have favorites. Although I hugged back, I stiffened in his arms and drew away too quickly. “You remember Tom?” Then I kissed Mom who, smaller than she used to be, still held her affection in reserve. “Hi, hon.”“You made it.” Terry said, smiling as she came in from the kitchen, wearing a gingham apron over her Mom jeans. “How was the drive?”As soon as I answered— “An hour or two too long”—I wondered if she thought my words meant I didn’t want to be there. We attempted a hug, and I held on a little too long, searching for something bigger, warmer, because in her stiffness, I heard questions. Is she angry because I don’t do my share? (Who wouldn’t be?) That she’s the one who drives Dad to his cataract surgery and perms Mom’s hair? (Of course, she’s angry.) “Nice outfit,” she said, and I resisted suggesting a livelier hair color for her.When Terry offered her cheek for a quick kiss, I saw Julie at the edge of the foyer, half in, half out, arms crossed. “You look great,” I said, hoping to breathe a little fire into her. “Hi.” She stretched the one syllable to two, an octave higher than her normal speaking voice, trying to sound different than she looked, as if she were frozen, unable to come closer.Hungry?” Terry asked.“Starved,” I said, not letting on that, more than food, I wanted a belly full of comfort.Tom and I brought in the dinner fixings—ravioli and salad greens I bought at Stewart’s market, bread and cheesecake from Josephine’s bakery—and Terry, Julie and I set about making the meal. Before Terry lifted the lid from the cooking ravioli, I knew she would sample one before she pronounced, “They’re done.” Then she would wrap the dish towel around the pot so she wouldn’t burn herself when she lifted it from the stove and dumped the steaming pasta into her twenty-year-old stainless colander with the rickety feet in the sink.I knew, too, how Julie would stand at the counter, her shoulders sloping forward, while she diced tomatoes and chopped garlic.I knew their rhythms, their postures, but I wanted to reach to them, to ask them please, would they look at me, would they be my friends. Instead, I wondered why it seemed so hard to say something spontaneous, or to laugh from our bellies.“Stewart’s was so crowded when I shopped, I had to meditate to steady myself when I got home, even before I unloaded my bags.”They turned to me when I took a stab at something genuine, but their tilted heads, their uncomprehending eyes signaled they didn’t know know how post-shopping meditation worked or why it should be necessary.“How are the grocery prices in Connecticut?” Terry asked, and my hope for connection vaporized as rapidly as the steam rising off the ravioli.*****Party day. Relatives arrive from across the county. My cousin, Peter, the accountant, the one I was sure, when I was six, I would marry, with his wife, Marie, still perky, still chatty, still in love. My teacher cousin, Patricia, with her professor husband, Art, who sports a ponytail and more stomach than when I saw him last. Janice, married to Cousin Dave, squints as she walks in the door. “Madeleine?” She needs time to adjust to the light. “It’s been fifteen years!” She stretches out her arms and hugs me the way I want my sisters to hug me. “I’ve missed you.”One cousin, Karen, the one who took too many pills ten years ago, isn’t here. But her brothers are, and I feel like a part of them should be missing because their sister is dead. As if maybe each of them should be minus an ear or a hand, some physical part because Karen died. How is it you two are here when your sister isn’t?My uncles walk in, proud of their new plastic knees and hips. Here are my aunts, who shampooed my hair with castile soap, taught me to bake Teatime Tassies, and let me dress up in their yellowed wedding dresses in their dark attics. Each of them hobble-shuffles in, looking a little dazed by all the fuss.For almost twenty years, I kept my distance from these relatives, these potential friends, visiting every year or so for a day or two of polite, disingenuous conversation. I needed to banish myself, I suppose. After all, there was the drinking, and the fact that I hadn’t amounted to much, given all that potential they all told me I had. But at this party I look them in the eyes when I talk, trying to recover a little of what I lost by staying away. Uncle Frank tells me my maladies must emanate from some emotional twist, or from the fact that I’m alone, away from my family. Like a working man’s Gabriel Garcia Marquez, he confides magically real stories about men from the factory who went blind from jealousy or ended up in wheelchairs from unexpressed fears. “Why don’t you come home, honey?” Home? Is this still my home? Was it ever?There’s a lot of red in this house, I notice, when I scan the crowd. Except for Terry, whose hair still imitates the non-offensive light brown we were born with, each of us female cousins wear some shade or other of red hair: medium red beech; burgundy berry; Cinna berry; sunset blonde. And though my mother and her two sisters didn’t plan this, each of them is in red: tiny Aunt Emma in the knit dress she wore for last year’s Christmas portrait with her ten grandchildren; Aunt Anna in a red and black striped twinset with a black skirt; and Mom in a red blazer and skirt. They sit on the couch, one wearing a strand of pearls, another a locket, the other her “good” watch because this is a special occasion.All this red surprises me. We’re not what you’d call a red family. We may glower underneath; but as a rule, we don’t flare or flame. The Slavic temperament prefers to smolder chalky gray, while the red burns beneath the surface.They look too small, these women, sitting next to each other, after I ask to take their picture. And there’s too much distance between them. I want them to scrunch together—which they won’t—so they seem closer.No matter how far apart, though, it’s important that these three little women are together on this sofa, posing. Aunt Anna never used to let us take her picture. But maybe, like me, she knows there is something final about this portrait. Each of them is ill. Aunt Emma is diabetic; and, although we don’t yet know this, a cancer is growing in her left breast, just above her heart. Aunt Anna’s Parkinson’s disease is progressing, and Mom has a bad heart. I don’t know these specifics as I see these three women through my lens, but I know it’s inevitable. Something will happen to them soon.The flash goes off on my camera. Once. Twice. “That’s it.” Aunt Anna waves me away with her shaky arm. “Enough pictures.” She pushes herself off the couch and turns on the television to watch a golf tournament. The moment is over, but I have it on film, and in my heart.*****Mom is failing, Cousin Pat wrote in her holiday note about Aunt Emma. And when I called Aunt Anna on Christmas, she told me how she fell three times during the last month and Terry confirmed that, like Aunt Emma, Aunt Anna was failing.My father didn’t use the same word to describe my mother. Failing wasn’t a word that would come easily to him. But he apprised me in detail about Mom’s last neurologist appointment, when she would see him next, how he would adjust her medication schedule: eight in the morning, noon, four in the afternoon, and seven-thirty at night. I admired the way he structured her care. But when he barked at her to come to the phone, my stomach gripped. I worried he might be hurting her.After hanging up, I reached for the portrait of my mother and her sisters. I wondered. In twenty-five years, when my sisters and I are smaller, when we sit together for a picture on Terry’s seventy-fifth birthday, how much space would hang between us? Would we be able to reach across the distance—and our failings—to touch each other, to smile? I didn’t know. But I knew this: if I hoped to touch them in the future, I needed to reach to them now, as they are, not as I would have them be.Terry and Julie and I won’t sit for a portrait on Terry’s seventy-fifth birthday. She left us last year, victimized by a rare immune disorder, when she was sixty-two. So, there will be no photo. Only the memory of wanting one. And the hope, too long postponed, that the distance between us would narrow if we only reached to one another, even if just a little.

Zion Recovery

Zion Recovery makes it clear from the get-go that its approach to recovery is rooted in spirituality and that they are not like other treatment centers. In their unique approach, they consider each participant a "Student of Recovery" whose purpose in treatment is to attain the "tools, education, and spiritual connection" necessary to resolve their issues. Zion strongly believes that combining spiritual-based principles with the traditional 12-step program provides more effective treatment for addiction and mental health conditions than typical treatment centers. Part of that spiritual foundation comes from the serenity of the canyons found at the gateway to Zion National Park, where the facility is located.Executive Director Robert Beatty has personal experience with addiction. He built Zion Recovery nine years ago after finally discovering a path to recovery.“I have a personal knowledge of the pain and destruction caused by addiction,” he says. “I watched it destroy my family, my spirituality and my life. I made a decision nine years ago to turn my life over to the care of God, and got busy living.”In addition to addiction, Zion Recovery offers inpatient treatment for depression, chronic pain, PTSD, and trauma. They also offer intervention help and other family services. Treatment includes equine/adventure therapy -- Beatty is an avid mountain climber himself. They also offer alternative modalities such as Hypnotherapy, Neurofeedback, and Equine Assisted Therapy.Most alumni who responded to our survey entered the program for addiction disorders, with a couple seeking treatment for chronic pain. Fellow patients came from a range of income levels, professions, and age groups from their 20s to their 50s.“We were of multiple religions, backgrounds and occupations,” wrote one respondent. “We all had occupations and family situations that were unique, yet very similar aspects that brought us here. It felt as if we all gave enough of a damn to show up.”Some residents had a private room and others had roommates, but dividers were available for privacy. Living areas were described as “spacious” and beds as “comfy.” Daily life was described as structured with many activities available in addition to multiple educational sessions, group meetings, and therapy. Though residents are expected to keep their living areas clean, there were “no chores unless you asked for them.”Amenities and activities at the Zion Recovery include adventure therapy, yoga, equine therapy, hypnotherapy, individual therapy, addiction education about the 12-step program, and a pool in summer months. One former resident appreciated that there was “Plenty of acreage to be able to be outside and enjoy the beautiful scenery.” They even took a memorable trip to the Grand Canyon, which was “magnificent.” A full gym is available, as well as a sauna and hot tub, plus a pool in the summer months. A trainer is available a couple times per week.Alumni generally rated the food at the retreat highly. Healthy eating is emphasized, with portion control and minimal sugar. Zion Recovery has a dedicated cook who makes all the meals and snacks “like moms make.” Snacks are always available, from chips to fresh fruits and vegetables. One former resident loved the “crock pot meals” and enjoyed eating with the staff “like a big family.” Another described “world class smoothies,” and while one respondent did not enjoy the pot roast, overall the food was described as good healthy home cooking.When it comes to phone and internet access, most alumni reported being able to use the phone daily during free time. One alum appreciated a break from their phone, saying “I needed to get away from all that stuff, old friend, Facebook, Instagram, too much drama.” Others said that there was limited access to the internet or that online time had to be scheduled in advance. TV is available for watching in the evenings and in between classes if there’s time.Rules are described as “common sense” and easy to follow. In fact, more than one alum reported that they weren’t aware of any infractions at all. Those who did noted that staff was very calm and respectful in how they handled it, with small violations being met with warnings. More serious infractions are handled privately between the resident and staff.“I was never put down or made to feel bad, but I would walk through what I did [and] they helped me to take responsibility and that was just what I needed,” said one person.Treatment at the center was generally described as more permissive rather than staff taking a “tough love” approach. Alumni described a structured atmosphere where they were encouraged to go outside their comfort zones, but nobody is forced to get better if they don’t want to. “It was about focusing your energy toward what was good and positive and meaningful for each individual.”There are medically-trained staff on site, and doctors who demonstrated "excellent care and concern" are “available as needed via TeleMed Video chat." Most respondents rated the doctors and nurses highly, praising them for their understanding and individualized, "no cookie cutter treatment." Another was grateful and credited staff for discovering a heart condition and saving their life. On the other hand, one client was unhappy with the sleep medication they were given while in treatment.Zion Recovery uses a 12-step program, and former residents report that although spirituality is emphasized, it is not specifically religious. One alum described it as “Not Religious, but Spiritual, based upon each student’s beliefs and experiences regarding Spirituality or Higher Power.” Those who wanted to attend religious services were accommodated: “Utah is mostly LDS, so church services are offered if that is desired.”More than anything, survey respondents raved about the personalized treatment approach that avoided one-size-fits-all solutions that had failed them in the past. One former resident was allowed to bring their dogs when they couldn’t find a place for them to stay, and others enjoyed working with Robert Beatty himself.“Robert is the only one that has been able to actually teach the Steps to me in a way I related to,” wrote one alum. “He taught us individually as needed as well. He does take a faith-based approach, but tailored to each student’s experience with their own spirituality.”Most of the alumni who took our survey report that they are still clean and sober since leaving Zion Recovery, attributing their success to what they learned while in treatment: “I have such a huge tool-box of sober living strategies I developed during my stay,” said one alum. Another agrees: “Going there was one of the best things I’ve ever done and the tools and inspiration I received there have helped me in faith, family, finance, and fitness.”

How to Quit Drinking: The Princess Is in Another Castle

The first thing I did when I started to think that I probably absolutely had to stop drinking was finally reach out to a close friend for the phone number of a friend of hers who had been sober for half a decade. I had met this woman maybe twice in my life before she happily agreed to meet me for coffee and I told her the dark rot of the knowledge that I had been holding in my soul: I probably, maybe, might have just a wee bit of a drinking problem. We sat in a booth at a coffee shop on Gottingen street while I spoke and cried and she listened, and then while she spoke and I cried and listened. Then she slid a meeting list across the table to me.An AA meeting list. AA. I don’t want to go to AA. I felt my spine prickle, even though I had already looked up the meeting list online and found two agnostic/atheist meetings. I thought I had already reluctantly decided to go, but my internal reaction to her suggestion told me that I would likely have talked myself out of it.Then she said what I needed to hear, “look, it worked for me. I went every day for a year. Now I haven’t been in ages. Take what you need and leave the rest. And remember, AA is like anywhere else. You’re probably going to hate a bunch of the people there. Don’t worry about it.”It’s pretty hard to argue with that.When I was a kid I played a lot of Super Mario. Each level ends with a castle and inside the castle there is a boss that you have to battle. Until you reach the end, Toadstool, another character in the game, shows up after you defeat the boss to tell you that the princess is in another castle. For two years leading up to that coffee, I had tried in every which way to control my drinking. I kept ending up back at the beginning, but with a whole new set of obstacles on top of the old ones, new things to fear as the dark night set in. Nice try, but the princess is in another castle.For some reason, before I went into the castle where Bowser (the final boss) actually was, where the princess was hiding with the solution to my drinking problem, I had to go through all these other levels, fighting a bunch of battles, all the while belligerently dragging a 6 pack of IPA behind me.Eventually, you do end up at the final castle, either shrunk down and small or tall and whipping fireballs, and you go in to fight the final boss.This is how I killed Bowser.The final castle I stopped drinking.* (*BIG MEDICAL CAVEAT: detoxing can be deadly. It is always a good idea to speak to your primary care provider before doing so.)I know, I know. I'm sorry. I felt adrift and alone. I doubted myself. I got angry at the unfairness of it all. But it was mine. No one was going to do it for me, or even with me.I carried my fear. When anyone stops drinking, it because they found one night, one afternoon, one instance where they just said to themselves, this is it. I have to grab this time, this one time out of many, many unacceptable moments, and run with it. Those moments are strong, but like any strong emotion, they are fleeting. So, I did whatever I could to carry my fear of not stopping around with me. I didn't let myself hear the less scary story I was trying to replace my fear with. I carried my fear around and reminded myself constantly that my fear of not stopping was greater than my fear of stopping.I did it for myself but I didn't do it by myself. For me, having a sober community has been essential. There is a great deal of relief that comes from hearing from someone who has lived your experience. Hearing pieces of your soul, particularly the ones that you had been fairly certain no one else knew about or had experienced themselves, spoken out loud by another human being is incredibly comforting.Being around other people with a drinking problem also forced me to root out the denial that I had become accustomed to and had relied on for years in order to keep drinking. Hearing other people talk about being broken in the same way I was broken helped me to see all my broken pieces. And then they helped me sweep them up.I had to confront the denial. An excellent and exceptionally smart friend of mine and I were talking one day about sobriety, about all my problems with AA, about the steps and how annoyed I was with doing the steps."It could really just be two steps," she said, laughingly. "Step one: admit you have a drinking problem and can't drink. Step two: If you're wondering if you can have a drink, see step one." And that's it for me. The utility of going through it, however you go through it, is in confronting what you've been excusing for so long. It took me a couple of months to really get there. When I did it was like everything clicked into focus. Past behaviour made sense suddenly. Why did I still rack up bar tabs when I was completely broke? Why did I always want the party to keep going, even when everyone was ready for bed? Why did I keep waking up on the weekends anxious and exhausted and then find myself drinking again anyway? Click. A drinking problem. Addiction. Alcoholism. Whatever you want to call it, admitting to it is powerful. It doesn't excuse you, it just helps you figure out behaviour that once completely confounded you.Focusing on how shitty my new counsellor was, how incredibly frustrating the obstacles to my recovery were, or how much I hated AA didn't get me sober. I strongly think that bad help is worse than no help at all. Unfortunately, there is a lot of bad help out there.When I was in early recovery, I was desperately seeking the way out of my drinking problem. My way out. I was struggling with the program of AA, even though I was getting value from the meetings. I wanted to get better faster. I went to a counsellor who I had been told specialized in addiction, but who actually had no experience with it. She balked when I told her how much I used to drink. I hadn't even understood why she had asked how much I used to drink. I was three months sober at the time, what did my former volume matter? She spent the rest of the session telling me about an article she had read about porn addiction and writing down resources I told her about that she wasn't aware of. I walked back to my car enraged. What if I had been really broken down in that moment? Didn't she understand how delicate this whole thing was? But she didn't. She so obviously, painfully, didn't.It's so horrible that in order to find the actually helpful things, we have to endure the unhelpful things. The unhelpful things feel like being dunked in a bathtub full of vinegar when you’re all cut up and raw.I called my friends and complained about how unfair it all was and then I got back on the road and leapt over those obstacles like Mario leaps over a pipe with a piranha plant in it (yes, we are still in the metaphor). I never went back to that counsellor. I continued going to and quitting AA. I read many, many books.Right now, I’m reading Laura McKowen’s beautiful book called, We are the luckiest: the surprising magic of a sober life. If you think that title is insufferable, you are every bit the cynical addict I was before I too became a cheerful, kombucha chugging yogi. McKowen talks a little bit about her problems with AA, without really getting into them. She bypasses them compassionately and says, thinking about all the problems you have with AA is a bit like trying to rearrange the furniture while your house is on fire.Sure, the couch might look better over there, but isn’t the fact that the weight bearing beams are about to turn to cinder a more pressing dilemma?When I asked people how they did it, I think a small part of me wanted to hear their solutions so I could study them and dismiss them. Did they know that only x percent of people got sober through AA? Did they realize why that path or this one just wouldn’t work for me? Did they know that I had actually read x, y, or z, which told me why their way wouldn’t work?But in the end, what helped was getting help. Take what you need and leave the rest. Your path is there. You just need to leap over all the goombas and not get too down when something pierces your armour or shrinks you down.The final boss: eventually you've gotta take on BowserSo, we’ve arrived at the warp tunnel. The truth about quitting drinking is this: one day, you just do it, even though it feels impossible and hard; even though it feels totally undesirable and may even just be the last thing on earth you want to do. You quit because you’re sick of facing up these enemies again and again. You just want to face down the final boss – Bowser – and to get on with it.You stop drinking. Then you bear down. You let the grief and the consequences of that decision wash over you, pummel you, break you down to pieces. Eventually, the beauty finds you. I promise. For me, sobriety is an incredible choice I’ve made for myself, instead of a sad consequence. It was hard fought and at the end of the fight, there was no smug Toadstool telling me to look elsewhere, just a sweet little Princess Peach telling me I won. Metaphor!

Forgive and Remember

Weekday morning programming kept me company in the background. The crispy and cold bedspread gave me some solace. My parents had just left the apartment and I was curled up like a fetus at the foot of the bed. It had been a while since I entertained the unwelcome visitor. What the hell was he doing here? Everything was going great, or so I believed. Two days with them proved me wrong. What seemed to be progress in acceptance and personal growth was only a by-product of spending a year on the other side of the world. No wonder I wasn’t feeling good and stayed in that day. The illusion of the enlightened and perfect world I’d been living in was shattered. The mourning of this started as a slow downward spiral that quickly turned into a tailspin but felt more like a free fall. I had not wished I hadn’t been born for a couple years now. But it was as if it had never left my side felt stronger than ever. I was drowning and didn’t know which way was up. It seemed that no matter what I did, I’d always come back to this powerlessness. What was the point to keep on trying? “Forget this. Life is too hard. You wouldn’t have to deal with all this if you ended it”, he suggested.Awakened unresolved issues were kicking and screaming. This is a very scary place to be, especially in this dangerous company. Running in fear was actually the courageous thing to do. It was time to resort to what saved my life a couple years prior. It was time to go back to basics. I knew a lot of meeting rooms in Miami, but this one was my favorite. There were some faces I recognized and others I didn’t. Most were friendly; mine was not. There was a thick fog of negativity inside my head and it was probably clear in my blank stare. Like a good friend used to say, sometimes we go to give sometimes we go to receive. I was in dire need.Some say it’s magic, others call it God, to avoid charged debates most refer to a Higher Power. Whatever you choose to call it, there is Something that definitely moves through those present. I lost count of how many times I heard exactly what I needed in those circles. The first times it was unbelievable how the day’s conversation addressed exactly what was eating away at me. It’s not just me. Others share this surprise as well. Even though it’s happened too many times to keep count, I am still at awe when it happens. It makes me feel special and reminds me that I am not alone. It doesn’t surprise me like it did at the beginning. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t take it for granted. I guess it has to do with worthiness and accepting that I am loved and cared for. I appreciate it deeply and it definitely keeps me coming back.As soon as the chairperson started the meeting it was obvious, we’d be talking about forgiveness. There were many nuggets of wisdom as each person shared their experience, strength, and hope. I had not forgiven, or rather accepted parts of my childhood. Spending a year on the Beautiful Island made me believe I was at peace with my past, but crossing the Pacific was a wake up call I needed to escape denial once again. It’s always a rude one, but an awakening, nonetheless. Better to face the discomfort than continue to trudge along under a false impression that it’s not dormant inside oblivious to the ticking of the time bomb that will eventually go off.The last person that shared might as well have been the first and only. Her share is the only one I remember from that day and one I will never forget. She helped me see things in a new light. She was molested at a young age by her uncle. Hard to believe but she said it was fairly easy for her to forgive him. She had finally forgiven herself after years of struggle and anguish. Her reasons for this challenge had to do with guilt, shame, and self-image. It was a very moving story. It made me uncomfortable to hear, but honored and grateful at the same time. There are details that escape me, but she closed with a line that changed it all for me and I have shared with many when discussing these issues. She said, “forgive and forget? That’s bullshit! We forgive and remember without pain”.

One Hit Away: A Memoir of Recovery

Sprawled across the side entryway to Beth Israel Congregation, I roll onto my side and wipe a palmful of dew off my clammy face. Everything about this morning is brittle, cold and still. Suspended in limbo, I’m drained from squirming all night on the slick ground like a caterpillar in a cocoon. As first light swirls around me and creeps into the shadows, I’m in no rush to greet it—there’s no point jump-starting the engines until the street dealers kick off their rounds. Having suffered through too many of Portland’s sunrises in recent years, the art on the horizon has either lost its beauty or I’m too jaded to see in color anymore. Peeling my head away from an uncomfortable makeshift pillow made of rolled-up sweatpants, I see that both Simon and the surrounding streets are sleeping in. We’re nestled in darkness, lit only by the headlights of an occasional car that turns down Flanders Street. My sleeping bag is bunched under my hip to help relieve the pressure from the cold stone beneath me, but it’s not the only reason I had a hard time sleeping last night. A few hours ago, I woke up to the alarm of Simon snoring and rattling away in his sleep—it was an eerie and guttural sound like an empty spray-paint can being shaken. I was still fighting to fall back asleep, long after his sputtering faded and drifted away with the breeze. So, while he put another day behind him, I was reminded that long nights take a toll and this life never pays.We both went to sleep with full bellies and a shot, so we’re fortunate that neither one of us will be dope sick. It’s nice to catch a break now and then and wake up without wishing I would die already. But it’s never enough—I’m still skeptical about how hard Simon crashed out and wonder if he’s holding out on me. Though if I were in his shoes, there’s no doubt I’d do the same. Riding high comes naturally in a free-for-all where everyone looks out for themselves. We all have it—a grizzly survival instinct to take what we can, when we can and figure tomorrow out if it comes. This isn’t our land, but we periodically come here to stake a claim in the covered alcove guarding the ornate entryway. If unoccupied, I prefer this location because it’s a reasonably safe place to hang my boots. Not only is there protection overhead from the frequent rain that tends to ruin a good night’s sleep, but it’s also set back from the street enough that being noticed, roused and moved by the police is a rarity. The groundskeeper here is a man of quiet compassion. It isn’t in him to run us off outside of business hours, and he refuses to call the police on us. For the most part, we are often gone before he would have to step over our bodies to open the temple doors. Scattering like roaches, we are sent packing by an internal alarm that forces us to get up at first light and attend to our bad habits.Simon is still asleep. He’s had it easy after spending all day yesterday collecting free doses from every street dealer he could pin down. This is common for any junkie recently released from a stint in jail. Any time after I’ve been arrested, all I have to do is show one of my dealers my booking paperwork and they’ll set me right. A freebie from them is a cheap investment in their own job security, reigniting the habit that was broken by an unpleasant jailhouse detox. Our dealers also need us back up and running again, racking up goods and on our best game. It’s no secret that a dope sick junkie is unprofitable.I pull myself together and pack with purpose, grabbing the dope kit I stashed in a tree nearby and then my shredded shoes that I left out to dry. I often struggle to tell whether my insoles are wet or merely cold, but when water oozes out of my shoelaces as I double-knot them, I take note that at some point today I need to steal fresh socks. “Time to go,” I call out. Simon, in one of the few ways that he is needy, often depends on me rousing him. He’s never been a morning person and is still sound asleep, his face buried in his sleeping bag. “Come on, get up.” I spin in place and scan the ground to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. Eager to start the day, I nudge him with my toe a bit harder than I intended to. When that doesn’t wake him, I reach down to shake his shoulder and feel an unnatural resistance. Something, everything, is wrong. His whole body feels stiff, and as I pull harder, Simon keels over, his rigid limbs creaking out loud like a weathered deck. There is lividity in his face—his nose is dark purple and filled with puddled blood. A pair of lifeless, open eyes stare through me and into nothingness. Instinctively, my hand snaps back and Simon sinks away.I stumble back and try to make sense of my surroundings. Nobody is around yet, but soon, the world will rise.“No, no, no.” I lose control of the volume of my voice and squeeze my throat. “Don’t be dead, please, don’t do this to me,” I chant as I drop to my knees, pleading over his corpse. My hands hover over him as if trying to draw warmth from a smothered fire. I desperately grasp for a way to fix this. My heart is racing as though I just sent a speedball its way, but the surge doesn’t stop. A decision needs to be made, and fast, but before I can make sense of anything, a wisp of breath rolls down my collar and an invisible hand clutches my cheeks, forcing me to stare down death. I snap the clearest picture in my mind and my eyes sting. Even though I know a lot of junkies who walk these streets with no life left in them, this is the first dead body I’ve ever seen. Looking down at Simon, I finally understand how pathetic this existence is and how lonely this life will always be. I see nothing beyond this moment for Simon, other than being hauled away like trash on the curb. We are forever trapped here, alone and useless, likely remembered only for our crimes, selfishness and former selves. Heaven is out of the picture, and because of that, I am okay with what I have to do next. I know the act is irreversible and unforgivable, but then again, if God has abandoned us, he’s not around to judge me.Dropping my sleeping bag onto the ground, I slide my backpack off my shoulders and let it fall like a hammer. I kneel over Simon’s body, steal one last look around and wince as I rummage through the front pocket of his jeans. I know he always keeps a wake-up hit on him. His pocket is tight and fights my hand as I dip into them. My fingers scratch around but keep coming up empty-handed. Time is running out and traffic is increasing. I reach into his back pocket and soon realize the dope isn’t in his wallet either. The longer I search, the more determined I am, but I can’t bring myself to roll him over and disturb him further. By the time I give up, I sit back on my heels. I can’t believe what I’ve become. “I’m so sorry, Simon.”Please stop looking at me. I can’t take it. Pulling my sweater cuff over my palm, I reach out with a shaky hand to close his eyes. My hand gets close, then backs off as I turn my head away to exhale. When my hand reaches forward once again, my palm lands on his face but fails to brush his frozen eyelids closed.Backing away, I grab my belongings and shrink into the distance.Excerpted from One Hit Away: A Memoir of Recovery by Jordan Barnes. Available at Amazon.

Isolation, Disruption and Confusion: Coping With Dementia During a Pandemic

GARDENA, Calif. — Daisy Conant, 91, thrives off routine.One of her favorites is reading the newspaper with her morning coffee. But, lately, the news surrounding the coronavirus pandemic has been more agitating than pleasurable. “We’re dropping like flies,” she said one recent morning, throwing her hands up.“She gets fearful,” explained her grandson Erik Hayhurst, 27. “I sort of have to pull her back and walk her through the facts.”Conant hasn’t been diagnosed with dementia, but her family has a history of Alzheimer’s. She had been living independently in her home of 60 years, but Hayhurst decided to move in with her in 2018 after she showed clear signs of memory loss and fell repeatedly.For a while, Conant remained active, meeting up with friends and neighbors to walk around her neighborhood, attend church and visit the corner market. Hayhurst, a project management consultant, juggled caregiving with his job.Then COVID-19 came, wrecking Conant’s routine and isolating her from friends and loved ones. Hayhurst has had to remake his life, too. He suddenly became his grandmother’s only caregiver — other family members can visit only from the lawn.The coronavirus has upended the lives of dementia patients and their caregivers. Adult day care programs, memory cafes and support groups have shut down or moved online, providing less help for caregivers and less social and mental stimulation for patients. Fear of spreading the virus limits in-person visits from friends and family.These changes have disrupted long-standing routines that millions of people with dementia rely on to help maintain health and happiness, making life harder on them and their caregivers.“The pandemic has been devastating to older adults and their families when they are unable to see each other and provide practical and emotional support,” said Lynn Friss Feinberg, a senior strategic policy adviser at AARP Public Policy Institute.Nearly 6 million Americans age 65 and older have Alzheimer’s disease, the most common type of dementia. An estimated 70% of them live in the community, primarily in traditional home settings, according to the Alzheimer’s Association 2020 Facts and Figures journal.People with dementia, particularly those in the advanced stages of the disease, live in the moment, said Sandy Markwood, CEO of the National Association of Area Agencies on Aging. They may not understand why family members aren’t visiting or, when they do, don’t come into the house, she added.“Visitation under the current restrictions, such as a drive-by or window visit, can actually result in more confusion,” Markwood said.The burden of helping patients cope with these changes often falls on the more than 16 million people who provide unpaid care for people with Alzheimer’s or other dementias in the United States.The Alzheimer’s Association’s 24-hour Helpline has seen a shift in the type of assistance requested during the pandemic. Callers need more emotional support, their situations are more complex, and there’s a greater “heaviness” to the calls, said Susan Howland, programs director for the Alzheimer’s Association California Southland Chapter.“So many [callers] are seeking advice on how to address gaps in care,” said Beth Kallmyer, the association’s vice president of care and support. “Others are simply feeling overwhelmed and just need someone to reassure them.”Because many activities that bolstered dementia patients and their caregivers have been canceled due to physical-distancing requirements, dementia and caregiver support organizations are expanding or trying other strategies, such as virtual wellness activities, check-in calls from nurses and online caregiver support groups. EngAGED, an online resource center for older adults, maintains a directory of innovative programs developed since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic.They include pen pal services and letter-writing campaigns, robotic pets and weekly online choir rehearsals.Hayhurst has experienced some rocky moments during the pandemic.For instance, he said, it was hard for Conant to understand why she needed to wear a mask. Eventually, he made it part of the routine when they leave the house on daily walks, and Conant has even learned to put on her mask without prompting.“At first it was a challenge,” Hayhurst said. “She knows it’s part of the ritual now.”People with dementia can become agitated when being taught new things, said Dr. Lon Schneider, director of the Alzheimer’s Disease Research Center at the University of Southern California. To reduce distress, he said, caregivers should enforce mask-wearing only when necessary.That was a lesson Gina Moran of Fountain Valley, California, learned early on. Moran, 43, cares for her 85-year-old mother, Alba Moran, who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2007.“I try to use the same words every time,” Moran said. “I tell her there’s a virus going around that’s killing a lot of people, especially the elderly. And she’ll respond, ‘Oh, I’m at that age.’”If Moran forgets to explain the need for a mask or social distancing, her mother gets combative. She raises her voice and refuses to listen to Moran, much like a child throwing a tantrum, Moran said. “I can’t go into more information than that because she won’t understand,” she said. “I try to keep it simple.”The pandemic is also exacerbating feelings of isolation and loneliness, and not just for people with dementia, said Dr. Jin Hui Joo, associate professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine. “Caregivers are lonely, too.”When stay-at-home orders first came down in March, Hayhurst’s grandmother repeatedly said she felt lonesome, he recalled. “The lack of interaction has made her feel far more isolated,” he said.To keep her connected with family and friends, he regularly sets up Zoom calls.But Conant struggles with the concept of seeing familiar faces through the computer screen. During a Zoom call on her birthday last month, Conant tried to cut pieces of cake for her guests.Moran also feels isolated, in part because she’s getting less help from family. In addition to caring for her mom, Moran studies sociology online and is in the process of adopting 1-year-old Viviana.Right now, to minimize her mother’s exposure to the virus, Moran’s sister is the only person who visits a couple of times a week.“She stays with my mom and baby so I can get some sleep,” Moran said.Before COVID, she used to get out more on her own. Losing that bit of free time makes her feel lonely and sad, she admitted.“I would get my nails done, run errands by myself and go out on lunch dates with friends,” Moran said. “But not anymore.”Subscribe to KHN's free Morning Briefing.

Oregon Is on the Cusp of a Major Precedent in National Drug Reform: Decriminalizing Everything

Come November 3, Oregon residents will have a chance to approve the most far-reaching drug reform measure ever to make a state ballot when they vote on Measure 110, the Drug Addiction Treatment and Recovery Act. While the initiative indeed expands drug treatment, what makes it really revolutionary is that it would also decriminalize the possession of personal use amounts of all drugs, from psychedelics to cocaine and methamphetamine, as well as heroin and other illicit opioids.While successful marijuana legalization initiatives in a number of states—and possibly four more in November—are nothing to sneer at, even if pot were legalized nationwide, more than a million people are likely to be arrested on drug charges in a year. In 2018, the last year for which data is available, there were more than 1.65 million drug arrests; only 663,000 of them were for marijuana. Historically, just under nine out of ten drug arrests are for possession, which means that drug decriminalization nationwide would result in somewhere north of a million fewer drug arrests each year. That would be more than a million fraught encounters police avoided, every year.“Our current drug laws can ruin lives based on a single mistake, sticking you with a lifelong criminal record that prevents you from getting jobs, housing and more,” Bobby Byrd, an organizer with the More Treatment for a Better Oregon campaign, said in a press release.If Oregon voters approve the measure, the state will be in select company. At least 25 to 30 countries, mostly in Europe and Latin America, have drug decriminalization laws on the books, with the most well-known being Portugal, which pioneered the way, decriminalizing drug possession in 2001. Instead of being arrested and jailed, people caught with less than a 10-day supply of illicit drugs there are given a warning and a small fine or asked to voluntarily appear before a local commission whose aim is to determine whether the person needs drug treatment and if so, to offer it to them at no expense. (It helps that Portugal has universal health care.)Drug decriminalization has worked for Portugal. According to a Drug Policy Alliance (DPA) report, before drug decriminalization, Portugal suffered rapidly increasing drug overdose deaths, a high number of people who got HIV through needle-sharing, and the country led the European Union in drug-related AIDS. A delegation led by DPA visited Lisbon in 2018 and found that since decriminalization, though, “the number of people voluntarily entering treatment has increased significantly, while overdose deaths, HIV infections, problematic drug use, and incarceration for drug-related offenses has plummeted.” Not bad at all.It was just three years ago that the Oregon legislature approved drug defelonization—making drug possession a misdemeanor instead of a felony—but now advocates are already prepared to push further down the Portuguese path. That’s because while, according to the state Criminal Justice Commission (CJC), drug defelonization indeed resulted in felony drug convictions dropping by nearly two-thirds after the bill was passed (from 5,183 in 2016–2017 to 1,992 in 2018–2019), it also included a nearly tenfold increase in misdemeanor drug possession convictions. That translates into only a slight decline in overall drug arrests, from more than 10,000 in 2016 to 8,903 in 2018.Under Measure 110, those misdemeanor drug arrests would vanish as drug possession gets reclassified as a mere violation, punishable only by a $100 fine or by completing a health assessment with an addiction treatment professional. Those who are deemed to benefit from drug treatment could go to an addiction recovery center, one of which will be located in every organization service area in the state. Those centers, as well as additional funding for treatment, will be paid for with revenues from marijuana sales taxes.The measure is backed by Drug Policy Action, the political and lobbying arm of DPA, which has put $2.5 million into the campaign already, DPA director of media relations Matt Sutton said in an email exchange. And that’s just the beginning, he added.“We’ll continue to invest in terms of what it takes to win it,” he said. “The campaign is starting a variety of different ads and raising awareness in the final push. We’ve invested a lot already and we’re very committed to it financially. We think this is winnable.”So, why Oregon and why now?“We have to start somewhere,” said Sutton. “Oregon is a very progressive state and has really been the leader on a lot of drug policy reforms. It was one of the first to decriminalize [and legalize] marijuana, one of the first to legalize medical marijuana, one of the first to defelonize drug possession. It’s no surprise that Oregon would be an attractive state to do this in.”“The special nature of this year, with its double whammy of enduring [the] pandemic and its long, hot summer of street protests around racial justice and police brutality, makes drug decriminalization all the more relevant,” Sutton said.“Having a state like Oregon that has been a progressive leader take this on will signal to the rest of the country that this can be done and that it’s not actually that radical of a proposition,” Sutton added. “And just in terms of everything that’s happened this year—COVID-19 and the awakening to racial injustice—it just doesn’t seem [like] such a radical proposition. With COVID-19 we’ve seen the discrepancies in the health care system.”“It’s the same communities that are being overpoliced and have been hit hardest by the war on drugs,” he continued. “And people are realizing that the war on drugs is racist. The real reason behind the war on drugs was to criminalize and marginalize communities of color, and we’ve demonized drugs and the people who use them. The drug war hasn’t made drugs less accessible to youth, but instead, we get a lot more people incarcerated and dying of drug use. The more we criminalize it, the more dangerous it becomes.”In an August report, the state CJC made clear just what sort of impact drug decriminalization would have on racial inequities, and the results are impressive: Racial disparities in drug arrests would drop by an astounding 95 percent.The report also found that decriminalization would radically reduce overall drug convictions, with projected convictions of Black and Indigenous people declining by an equally astounding 94 percent.“This drop in convictions will result in fewer collateral consequences stemming from criminal justice system involvement, which include difficulties in finding employment, loss of access to student loans for education, difficulties in obtaining housing, restrictions on professional licensing, and others,” the report found.“This report only scratches the surface,” Kayse Jama, executive director of Unite Oregon, said in a press release. “Drugs are too often used as an excuse to disproportionately target Black and Brown Oregonians and economically disadvantaged communities.”“This initiative addresses those racial disparities more than anything,” said DPA’s Sutton. “It will help those communities that have been down for far too long. A lot of the economic problems we see there are a result of decades of drug war, taking generations of people out of their homes and saddling them with felony convictions. This would be a huge win in taking drug reform to the next level. It doesn’t solve all the problems of drug prohibition—people would still be charged with distribution and drug-induced homicide—but it would still be a huge step forward.”And now, a broad coalition of change agents are uniting to push the initiative to victory in November. Endorsements range from national and international groups such as the American Civil Liberties Union, AFSCME, the National Association of Social Workers, and Human Rights Watch, as well as dozens of state and local racial justice, human rights, and religious groups and groups representing health and social welfare professionals.“We’ve received an incredible amount of support, and it’s really broad,” said Sutton. “And there is no organized opposition.”If things go well in November, DPA and its lobbying and campaign arm, Drug Policy Action, are already planning next moves.“We just a few weeks ago [on August 6] released a national framework for drug decriminalization, the Drug Policy Reform Act,” Sutton added. “This has been a goal of DPA all along and where our work is focused today, all drug decriminalization. We think that people are ready for that. We decided to release the framework right now just because of everything happening in the country especially around racial justice issues. People are seeing the direct impact of the war on drugs and the racial disparities.”“We’re already looking ahead at other states where we could replicate this,” he revealed. “Some of the first states to legalize marijuana would likely be the first to consider drug decriminalization.”Once again, Oregon voters have a chance to burnish their drug reform credentials, only this time with the most dramatic attack yet on drug prohibition. If they approve Measure 110, they will truly be the drug reform vanguard—and blaze a path voters and legislators elsewhere will surely follow. This article was produced by Drug Reporter, a project of the Independent Media Institute. The Drug Policy Alliance is a funder of Drug Reporter.

Finding Emotional Sobriety in a Pandemic

I used to work at this weird hotel and one of the door guys told me when he was in prison he kept going to solitary confinement until he was sitting there one day and realized he was the problem. I was still using then and thought to myself “Weird. I’m going to go get high in one of the rooms upstairs and think about that.” Well, now I get it. Left alone with me during this quarantine I realized I was the problem.Unlike most people I was so excited for the quarantine because I cherish my alone time. I loved it! I cooked, I meditated, I read books and I did a bunch of writing. Auditions I would normally drive into the city for, I was able to do from my apartment, along with our podcast. I saved so much money in gas! I did service, and still went to meetings. I relaxed somewhat, and it seemed like a dream come true. A nice, long, staycation! Minus the complete panic over the economy, being worried about family members overseas, and my aging gracefully mother who would kill me if I called her elderly (she is). Then it happened…..The negative thinking.The repetitive, negative thinking.Feeling like a victim.Not of COVID-19, but of the past, alcoholism, and that thing that happened in 2004. Or 1997. Or the day before at Shoprite!This has happened to me many, many times since sobriety and many, many times before that but there was always a PERSON, or a SITUATION that “caused” it. Honestly, I couldn’t even blame my boyfriend during the quarantine because he kept leaving and going to his office every day. I was alone, working from home, and doing whatever I wanted. I was having a great time!I cleaned out everything! Put pictures in frames from 10 years ago! Cleaned out every drawer, closet, journal, and my entire bookcase. I donated books, clothes, shoes, and jewelry. But still – I was LOSING MY FUCKING MIND. Because unbeknownst to me I had not achieved emotional sobriety yet.And I was addicted to negative thinking.And it didn’t just happen – my realization of it just happened. I was sitting here alone with myself and my thoughts and realized I have still – after all this time – been people-pleasing. And doing it in large part to get what I want. I was like (subconsciously) “I want what I want and if I’m nice to people and do stuff for them – I AM GOING TO GET WHAT I WANT.”Well, it took sitting here alone for months to realize once and for all – there’s a 3rd step and I wasn’t doing it, and people-pleasing doesn’t work. It’s always an inside job. Inside our own heads and hearts. For me, it’s only when I let go that I have seen the evidence of my higher power.It’s so hard to trust.Once again I am seeing “spiritual road signs” on the ground whenever I am outside exercising, via fallen tree branches. For some reason I get direction from these twigs and branches and lately they are all right or left turns. So it feels like something very different, and I believe emotional sobriety is the path I am meant to turn on. It’s something I never even really thought about but it makes so much sense now. I need to be sober in my head and heart, not just my body.I mean I have heard so many people share about this – that they came for their drinking and stayed for their thinking. I have said it! And I meant it! I just didn’t realize I was the CAUSE of my negative thinking by willfully trying to “make” my life happen then getting angry everyone wasn’t doing what I wanted. So what do I do about this? Because I have realized that this negative thinking is toxic for me and my body and I can’t have that. I already had cancer once! And honestly and truly I value my sobriety more than anything. I am nothing without it. So this is the next layer of my stupid alcoholic onion. I want to grow. I know that my spiritual condition relies on daily maintenance and as I begin to train my thoughts to the positive it has become a moment to moment training. I had just been letting my thoughts go crazy all the time and I was too busy to realize it. It’s like early sobriety again – taking it moment by moment sometimes. I rage at someone in my mind and then say “No, no – let’s go with a different thought.” It’s so frustrating and tedious! I have made this analogy lately that came about from COVID-19 and the subsequent quarantine.A positive one! Say it to myself all the time.I wash my hands 30-50 times a day. At least 25!I cook all the time and was a big hand-washer before all this – regardless I wash my hands a lot – right?So why not do the spiritual work 30-50 times a day? If right now, that’s what I have to do to get my head sober then why not? Pray more. Meditate an additional time each day. Reach out to other alcoholics so I stop obsessing over myself – more often. Spiritual hand-wash all day long.I can do more work! I started to do the Traditions with my sponsor.I started to do what I did when I got cancer and beefed up my program.This is bringing me to freedom – even though I feel a little beat up from all of this. Not as beat up as after cancer treatment or at the end of my drinking and drugging! And I am almost positive I don’t feel as beat up as that poor guy being in solitary confinement. But that’s what it has taken for me to realize I’m the problem. So ultimately it has been people-pleasing and willfulness. This willfulness has come from a lack of trust in my higher power.I have this beautiful higher power that has brought me so much peace and clarity – and I haven’t trusted the strength of that higher power. It’s like there’s been a higher power budget I thought I had to be on.I can rely on my higher power to not only carry other people’s stuff but to guide me while I take care of myself around other people. I can worry about myself and my inner life and turn to my higher power to guide me where I will be the most useful next. I don’t need to manipulate anything.My sponsor always says we can be happy. We can be happy, joyous, and free – and that we work so hard for that. So this new awareness is bringing freedom. Ah, what a place to be! Awareness!It’s a beautiful thing.A beautiful, uncomfortable, and freeing thing.Sometimes freedom isn’t comfortable.I am going to put that into my higher power’s hands, along with everything else in my head and heart.There’s a lot to lose our minds over right now. Wasn’t there always? It’s not easy waking up and recovering. I am going to practice (one day at a time) not fighting anyone or anything and accepting that I am enough – as is. I don’t have to pick up a drink, drug or thought today and I don’t have to fight with myself, or anyone at Shoprite. I don’t even need to take care of anyone at Shoprite! I can also practice being grateful that this quarantine helped me to remember an amazing lesson I learned at a weird hotel in 2003 from a poor guy who--I just realized--was probably recovering, just like me.

The Stigma of Addiction

Stigma creates harmful misconceptions surrounding people suffering with substance use disorder. A term that in the dictionary is defined as "a mark of disgrace or infamy," one that has detrimental consequences to those struggling with harmful substance use or mental health issues. Although substance misuse often causes erratic behavior and impaired judgment, research shows that most of these adverse effects stem from chemical changes to the brain. Yet, those suffering from addiction continue to be stigmatized by society.Understandably, stigma causes embarrassment and shame among those suffering from addiction. The combination of personal shame and public stigma is considered one of the primary barriers to effective prevention and addiction treatment. This fear and shame prevent too many individuals from getting the help they need.Studies show that only one in ten Americans suffering from substance use disorder receives professional care for addiction. Furthermore, society's stigma, negative attitude, and perceptions towards addiction keep people under-diagnosed and under-treated. Also, research and treatment programs are under-funded, especially compared to other primary health conditions currently affecting our nation. While substance abuse continues to be one of our nation's most prominent public health issues, there is a lack of effective treatment and mental health resources.Substance Use Disorder is a Treatable ConditionSadly enough, most people see addiction as a moral or criminal issue rather than a health one, despite scientific findings establishing the condition as physiological. Understanding the physical effects of addiction remains mostly misunderstood and widely marginalized by mainstream medical professionals. Consequently, our country continues to suffer from the devastating effects of the deadly opioid crisis. We continue to pay the high price for years of neglecting the effective and adequate healthcare resources required to confront highly stigmatized addiction issues.Time for ChangeIt is time we stop seeing and treating those suffering from addiction as immoral or dangerous. No one wants to feel lesser than, especially those struggling emotionally. Drug and alcohol abuse have only increased over the last decade, and overdose rates have skyrocketed. Individuals often lose their family, friends, and careers. They continue to use drugs despite the physical and emotional consequences. Sadly, many end up losing their life to an overdose. However, this condition is not only preventable in many cases, but also treatable.Stigma in HealthcareThe addiction and mental health crisis continues to worsen without much change in the healthcare system. It takes a great deal of courage to ask for help and admit there's a problem. It is our job as healthcare providers to respond with compassion and understanding. It is all too common for a patient admitting their substance use problem to be met with criticism and even let go by the provider due to being considered a risk. This type of medical rejection often leaves patients feeling hopeless and without the courage to seek further resources or support.Emergency Rooms and Drug AddictionHospital emergency rooms receive an influx of patients suffering from opioid withdrawal. ER staff are often busy, overworked, and have to operate with limited resources, especially now during COVID-19. These facts, along with a lack of education about drug addiction, often leads to them dismissing patients --who desperately need immediate medical help--as 'drug-seeking.' Rather than turning their backs on patients, ER should have specialized staff to direct these patients into medically assisted detoxification, followed by providing mental healthcare resources. Instead, addicted people go back to the streets and continue using drugs. Sadly, this fault in our healthcare system perpetuates the cycle of addiction. Each time a healthcare worker misses the chance to provide the appropriate level of care, a life may be lost.The Need for Change in Addiction TreatmentRehab centers across the nation are overcrowded because there is not enough access to addiction treatment, let alone adequate care. Repeated treatment is also prevalent because rehabs do not adequately address each patient's medical and emotional needs. Consequently, the real issues that led to addiction go untreated, and immediate relapse is inevitable. To ensure those suffering from addiction or mental health conditions receive the help they need, we must fix the broken system. We need to educate the public about how different substances can affect the sympathetic nervous system and how most people affected by substance use do not have enough control over their actions and behavior.All levels of healthcare professionals must receive training on the intersection of drug abuse and mental health, as well as how to provide adequate care for those patients. Then they can begin the healing process by treating patients compassionately and with the right level of care.The Benefits of Medically Assisted Detox There are many types of drug treatment centers, but medically assisted detox should be available as the standard of care. Medically assisted detox is the most effective way to help a person withdraw from opioids safely and comfortably. The chance of completing detox is almost certain, yet the healthcare system does not recognize this treatment.As it is now, only those who have the resources to seek private treatment can receive this level of care. There is no reason why everyone in need should not receive the best form of treatment for opioid withdrawal.Knowledge and understanding breeds empathy, an excellent tool against stigma. The sooner we educate the public, the more lives will be saved. We must change public views on substance abuse and treatment so that this crisis ends.

The Way In Is the Way Out

February, 2017. The house of cards finally collapsed, the losses and threats were as close to me as my breath, decision-making reflected a shrinking number of intimidating options and every person and resource I once had available seemed to be gone or receding rapidly into the distance. Like so many of us who’ve survived substance abuse problems and the mental health challenges that typically accompany them, my personal diagnosis of the situation was scattered, hazy and ever-changing. I knew that depression, anxiety, alcohol, drugs and a general sense of alienation had crept into my core being. My inner spirit and frame of mind was mostly dark, as though doors and windows were closing, blocking out all light.I pushed these conditions into the background as the realities of life - finances, career decisions, loneliness, and broken relationships shoved their way to the forefront of my mind. My concentration was on these seemingly practical issues, convinced that improving my outside circumstances would remedy my internal state. I managed my waking hours by clinging to the principles and contacts I had built over seven years of being in and out of 12-step recovery groups. I knew the drill. I had added a revolving door of other practices to my arsenal intended to salvage my sanity and to maintain a sense of hope. I can’t say with certainty how this effort impacted my survival, but I have a sense that they may have saved my life and my sanity. These principles allowed me to occasionally take a breath and to generate a new idea here and there. Hearing the stories of others and of their revival painted an undeniable vision of what could be, what may be possible. It was a major element of the essential ingredient that kept me moving forward - hope. An eviction that month, unemployment, the lack of personal contacts and family support led me to a “sober house.” It wasn’t an official, licensed facility of any type. It was simply one of many standard houses that a person in recovery opens to others who are sober, or attempting to be. There is no deposit. You get a room, house duties and share the house with the other residents. You’re required to immediately begin a search for a job, any job, so that you can pay rent. This house was a small 3-bedroom, 1 bath frame ranch in a working class neighborhood. It had been converted - somehow - to hold nine people. The basement was a row of “rooms” created by pieces of drywall. Nine men shared the house, including a kitchen and one bath. It was located in a suburb in the far northern part of the city, an area that I found dreary and non-descript. The walk to the bus stop was over a mile, and it was in the midst of a fierce Ohio winter. I moved a few things in, put the rest in a couple of friends’ basements and started my early journey into sobriety.In the early days of loss and transition, the mind is painfully split between its natural state of adopting a survival mindset and a near-constant search for answers and explanations. These two frames of mind run completely counter to each other. The frantic search for ideas that will allow you to survive the week, the day - the hour - are interrupted by painful images that arise as part of a collage of people, events and decisions that led you to where you are. In my case, it was a near-constant attempt at chronologically reconstructing key events and turning points that landed me where I was. The result was mental and emotional exhaustion while attempting to keep focused on the reality of my present challenges. For many of us, the first indicator of where to find relief is when we’re deeply engaged in addressing the problems of the day. We get lost in searching for solutions, which temporarily breaks the grip of the painful past. It’s a basic, early recovery experience that illustrates for many of us what the term “living in the solution” means. It’s typically short-lived in the early stages, punctuated by the intrusion of those painful, confusing thoughts. It’s a painful and challenging dichotomy. I found myself being seemingly tossed into situations that allowed me to survive, but that weren’t particularly conducive to maintaining mental health. The compromises and urgency that my situation required led to decisions of necessity, not of choice. During the four months in this house, the consciousness that I was gaining sobriety time wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. Newly sober, the days were actually stacking up, but the seemingly endless assault of challenges and a near-constant state of fear dominated my thinking. What I didn’t fully recognize was that attention to the principles of recovery, working with a sponsor and attending meetings – all of which is inner work - were the core actions that were allowing me to pursue external solutions. Finding a place of my own to live, a car and earning a livable wage were urgent matters. In retrospect it’s haunting to consider what the outcome may have been had I not been engaged in the inner work that provided glimpses of hope.From government assistance for food to borrowing money for the most basic needs, I moved through a progression of several failed job attempts - a continuation of a pattern that began several years before I was sober. My job decisions were driven by minimal choices and desperation, and all ended in failure. I was either let go for lack of performance or I left voluntarily, exhausted by the attempt to hang on to an ill-suited job based on my condition and capability at that point. I hung on as long as I could in order to collect a paycheck of any sort.I took a job that lasted several months stocking vending machines downtown for a business owned by a person in recovery. I left there for a shot in professional recruitment, which was my former industry. I had a 4-hour round-trip bus commute to each of these jobs. That job ended after a year when the home office closed the location. My production had been minimal. I had maintained a glimmer of hope that I could again thrive in the industry that I knew so well. It didn’t come to fruition. During this period I rented a room in a boarding house in the middle of the city. It was a small room in a 3-story converted college dormitory. Each floor had six rooms and shared a bathroom. There was one kitchen and a cooking area on the second floor and two washers and dryers to share on the first floor.A friend in recovery who was in the process of a divorce offered me a place to stay in a wonderfully renovated walk-out basement condo in his large suburban home on a lake. I got a job at a call center and paid him what I could. He began drinking again and it became a nightmare beyond description, a dangerous and volatile domestic alcoholic experience like so many of us are familiar with. This situation lasted nearly a year before the turmoil reached an unbearable level and the sale of the house was imminent. My sponsor was the next to offer me a room in his home. I moved in, maintained my call-center job, and maximized my hours there. After several months I was approved for a surprisingly functional used car and a studio apartment! I had been borrowing cars and paying what I could. I now had transportation and a private place of my own. With just a twin mattress and an air mattress on the floor, a table and lamp or two, I had finally landed in a place of my own. It had taken nearly two-and-a-half years and stops at four separate living quarters. An extraordinary gift during this period was that my daughter, who was between nine and 11 years-old at the time, had rarely missed a weekend with me. I lived for those moments I spent with her and my older daughter. I’ll forever be grateful to my ex-wife for allowing that time I had with her. My entire being would be focused on my daughters when we were together and it provided the “out-of-self” experience that so many of us desperately need to recover.Over the course of this chaotic period of self-doubt, anxiety and confusion, I was attending meetings, and attempting to apply the principles of the 12 steps in my life. From those first few months at the sober house until I had been in the studio apartment for one year, I had put together three-and-a-half years of sobriety. It was shocking when I took time to consider it. My inner resources were being fed by powerful concepts and my external life was a constant flurry of urgent action. The challenges were still terrifying and stability wasn’t a luxury that I possessed. But I was sober. It was enough to keep me going in a life that, at times, still seemed like it may not be worth living. But that sense was diminishing. I realized I had gained sober time by developing inner growth that allowed me to survive the external battles. I began to notice that I had a kernel of faith that life would eventually lead me in the right direction if I followed sound principles. I was still experiencing shame, self-loathing, regret and confusion. The fear and sadness were nearly unbearable at times and I would begin to think it was permanent, that all was lost. But I would always emerge after quiet reflection with just enough energy and creativity to develop new ideas and hope. A change was occurring.I eventually lost the job at the call-center, quickly landed another similar job, and barely hung on to my apartment and car. I wasn’t able to meet the standards in this new job. It lasted several months and was just enough to keep me hanging by a thread – with some financial help from long-time friends and my sponsor.With just over 3 years of sobriety, the COVID-19 pandemic hit. I spent most of my time alone. In-person meetings disappeared and I attended occasional meetings online. It was a lonely period, but something in me recognized that it was also time I could spend continuing to focus on healthy activities that would feed my spirit and internal state. I had found a job in the vocational rehabilitation field, an area that I had been considering. I saw it as an opportunity to bring my past business experience into a social services field that would be rewarding and substantial. During the early stage of this job, I was able to furnish my tiny apartment. I was surviving. Money was very still very tight, and once the full weight of the pandemic hit, my hours and role were cut back and it again landed me in a barely survivable income level. But I had structured a life with a very low overhead and had even developed some small lines of credit. I was so used to a sense of terror that it took a few months to realize that portions of the burden I carried begun to slightly lessen.However, the defining characteristic of this period was that I was experiencing moments of temporary peace. They would either occur spontaneously while I was simply living my life, or during periods of meditation, prayer and listening to recovery and spiritual speakers online. During this transformational period, I began to develop clarity regarding the fact that an internal transformation is what had been fueling my ability to sort out the chaos of the external world. I had a few people whom I counted on for support, and it’s hard to imagine how I could ever fully repay them. The major person was an ex-college girlfriend who weathered the final years of my end-stage drinking, the four days in the hospital that ensued and my entire 3 + years of early sobriety. I had a sponsor who was a solid anchor and a source of practical, empathetic advice. After 10 years in and around AA, with over three of those years sober, I finally knew in my core being that I was entering a new life around a different set of people and principles. The way out of the mess I had created was to go inward and marshal resources that I didn’t know I had.This acceptance and realization of what was occurring offered a sense of stability. It was still a day-by-day journey, but awakening every morning to a feeling of immense dread was decreasing. I focused on my work and when the necessities of the day were completed, I turned to devouring information related to recovery, consciousness, spirituality and inner growth. The solitude that Covid-19 brought forced me deeper into this focus, which I had been attempting for years. It began to seep into me. It was more important and felt more authentic than what I was doing for money, than who was gone from my life, than the past. There were intervals of true liberation. Had there been willpower? Yes. But there was another element inside of me that insisted on feeling alive again. It’s was an experience that was unique to me in the timing and the type of release that occurred. Despite certainly exerting massive amounts of energy toward seeking solutions, the freedom occurred in moments when I wasn’t really trying. I felt lighter and less self-obsessed naturally. It was like pushing a heavy rock forward until it slowly gains momentum of its own and you watch it roll ahead of you when you aren’t pushing. It was an eye-opening experience because it was what I had heard and read so much about when others were describing an awakening. Something in my spirit, rather than in my conscious thoughts, had developed a momentum of its own. My actions and thoughts reflected it. It was primary, the rest was clearly secondary. It wasn’t a constant state of joy and exuberance. It was a deep sense of occasional peace and a sense of knowing that everything was going to work out in a manageable fashion. The painful default setting seemed to be just slowly burning itself out. This internal state has the power to overcome the past, the fear and confusion. I was learning that the light of spirit, our true internal nature, can extinguish doom and negativity. Before, negativity seemed to be the absolute truth and positivity felt forced. Now I experienced a place where neither was very relevant. Simply being in the moment and feeling other emotions like gratitude and acceptance provided more comfort than a sense of positivity or negativity. I judged less and accepted more. My small studio apartment suddenly seemed ideal because of its ease and simplicity. I was living in a part of town that I felt comfortable in. My place was a comfortable refuge. Solitude seemed like the gift that I needed. I started to feel an appreciation for others, a sense of compassion. Others noticed and responded to my authentic effort to go to any length to solve my problems. It was a path that I was eager to embrace.Nothing was ever the same after this. A sense of certainty developed that all was well.At the time of this writing, I’m approaching four years of sobriety. The wreckage of my past is still largely present, but much of it has been amended or is receding slowly into the past. The pandemic still has me isolated much of the time, but my work keeps me out often with vocational rehabilitation duties. I’m job-coaching three teenagers at a summer job at a water-park – their first work experiences. I’m assisting a former financial professional in her reentry into the workplace after suffering a brain injury. The reduced hours and relatively low pay will likely eliminate this specific job as a permanent solution. But it’s opened up other options, largely because I’ve found a position I can perform well. It’s allowing me to write, which is one of my passions, and somehow opened my mind to options and possibilities I hadn’t been able to clearly recognize or consider. Most importantly I’ve learned that I cannot predict what will happen, but I know for certain that the path I’m on, despite its seemingly chaotic nature, is one that makes sense in the context of this journey.For us who have travelled this road of recovery, we learn an invaluable lesson. Our internal state starts out in pain and chaos. The road back is long and at times looks impossible – but it’s not impossible. The time factor varies for all of us. But we all learn that there is a part of our core being that once rediscovered starts to feel familiar and comfortable. It’s authentic, which is what the search was all about from the start.We all learn, in our own individual ways, that going inward, into the truth of who we are, ignites something that we thought was gone. Once that ignition takes place, we simply have to feed and follow the spark to find the way out.