1988- Journal entry

I wrote this when I was early in my recovery and still trying to figure out what was going on around me and within me. I was 18 years old...

Life is a mirror, look at what you see.
The crowd behind you begins to flee.
The rage you feel begins to surge
you clinch your fists, you feel the urge
Shatter your life, break the mirror
feel the pain, the pain is fear.
your all alone, no one around
the thoughts in your head are the only sound

it really sucks, its always the same.
the life I lived was a no win game.
Try and be happy I know I should.
Try so hard...I wish I could.
To end it all I think I would.
All I did was fucking cry.
I never had the nerve to die.
Every thing's the same, nothing new.
What am I suppose to do?

It's my desicion
I'll decide.
to take the ride
or run and hide.

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Why do I draw circles.

"I sketched every morning in a notebook a small circular drawing, a mandala, which seemed to correspond to my inner situation at the time. With the help of these drawings I could observe my psychic transformations from day to day…My mandalas were cryptograms…in which I saw the self—that is, my whole being—actively at work."

“In such cases it is easy to see how the severe pattern imposed by a circular image of this kind compensates the disorder of the psychic state– namely through a the construction of a central point to which everything is related, or by a concentric arrangement of the disordered multiplicity and of contradictory and irreconcilable elements. This is evidently an attempt at self-healing on the part of Nature, which does not spring from conscious reflection but from an instinctive impulse.”- Carl Jung

I draw circles to relax. Each mark, circle records a moment, a thought, a dream, a desire, an idea, emotion, a memory.
Each mark helps me relax, focus, breathe.
I draw circles to show you what goes on inside my head, my heart, my soul.
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How Tibetan Sand Mandala is Made and Ritualistically Destroyed

He touches

He touches my head.
The river is cold and angry.
The walls, the air tell me stories.
Sad is not allowed.
He is optimistic.
I look into his eyes
and the river flows outside.
He touches my head.
His hand tells me stories.
Intamacy is not allowed,
pain is a language.
This place is cold and angry.
He touches my head.

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Take 1/2 a pill 2 times per day

The vessel

The spiral

The spiral echoes from the dead
A dark empty vessel
Torment abounds
The yellow bottle has my name on it
The clouds move
I reach for something to grab, hold
My soul is calloused
Like a mouse in the wheel
The spiral echoes from my head
I have dug many graves
A dark empty vessel
The shovel has my name on it
The world spins
I try to turn off my thoughts
My brain is corrupted
Bacteria on the edge of the dish
It calls out to me
Take a deep breath, close your eyes
You are not alone.
Some graves are shallow
The spiral echoes from the heart
A dark empty vessel
Torment abounds

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To see everything and nothing

the sound of laughter
loneliness
to touch without
to see everything
and nothing
the wounds call out
they appear in the winter
a reminder of emptiness
they once summoned
illustrated
she checked my pulse
and touched
to see everything
and nothing

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The Envelope

Why do these things fill my head
Can't make them go away
The sun reflects off of everything
Close my eyes
the sounds of nothingness
I touch his head, smile

I see the leaves dance in the breeze
Can she see my face through the clouds
The clear sky, like glass, reveals
The cloud yells out to me
It wants to be touched
put into an envelope and tucked
into the wound
She uses it like a kaleidoscope
It feels like heaven and nothing

I touch his head, smile
and close my eyes.

2009
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Thanksgiving- the act of giving thanks

“You cannot do a kindness too soon because you never know how soon it will be too late”. Ralph Waldo Emerson

This week is thanksgiving and many people will gather with family and others to share a meal and time together. Many will travel great distances to be with others, physically and emotionally. For me this is the holiday specific to being grateful, kind, and thankful. I try to acknowledge my gratitude daily. If you are a reader of this blog or you know me personally, you know that I have much to be grateful for. Our daily schedules sometimes supersede our ability to reflect and be grateful. I spend time every day looking into the sky. I enjoy the beauty of the clouds. I find comfort in looking to them, acknowledging them, watching as they change. This is something I am grateful for; they represent something much larger than myself and my life.

I will take my children on thanksgiving to a local food pantry and work, serving those in need. This is practicing gratitude. This is teaching my children to be thankful. This is teaching my children that the needs of others are more important. This teaches my children to understand the practice of thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving- the act of giving thanks

During the holiday take a moment to live in the moment, be silent, listen, look, be grateful, and say thank you!
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A light that shines from within

“We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves.” Buddha

I recently had the privilege to spend some time with someone new to recovery. A humbling experience for me to see her joy, her excitement, her undeniable happiness. She discussed the early parts of her journey, her desires, her plan, her commitment. She talked about her challenges, the hard parts. And joy flowed from her like a light shining from her soul. A light which will continue to grow, be stronger, and brighter. 

And as I reflect on our conversation I begin to understand why I need her. I need to be reminded that I am no different, that my light continues to shine. That I deserve joy and happiness. She is a version of myself. A version that is easily forgotten. It becomes easy to obsess over the defects. It’s hard sometimes to sit back and take in everything, to let that light shine...and I am blessed that she reminded me of this!

Thank You N!
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The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be. Anne Frank

 I think one of the hardest things for anyone to grasp is the difference between loneliness and being alone. I struggled with this for many years and it seemed too complex to understand that I could be alone but not lonely. I used to find the concept so strange. When I was 18, early in recovery, I would talk to my sponsor about things I should do to keep myself busy and many of those things, activities were done alone. It seemed so lonely and I struggled. I found myself doing things and keeping company with others that were against the very thing I was trying to achieve. I had spent much of my formative years as a teen trying to fit in, be comfortable with who I was. I stopped looking at myself in the mirror because the person I saw was unrecognizable.
 It has taken much work for me to feel comfortable in my own skin, to like who I am. At times I feel like the loneliest person in the world. I have a wonderful supportive family, colleagues, and friends. I feel love, acceptance, care, compassion. and sometimes I want to be alone. I want, need to be with myself. I need to be alone with my thoughts, my feelings, dreams, and desires. This is where I continue to grow. This is where I learn to be okay with who I am, who I was, and who I want to become.
Sometimes being alone looking at the world, at myself and how we coexist is the best place for me to be...it helps me to like myself, to look at myself in the mirror...  
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The Hand Holds No Weapon

What happens when a decision goes terribly wrong? What happens when our desired outcome in a plan, a decision goes awry? All of us have been in this scenario. We have all thought at some point in our lives “I shouldn't have done that”.  When does a poor decision become an accident? Are they the same? Some quick research on decision making reveals enormous amounts of information about decision making, conscience vs. unconscious, analysis, cognitive, planning, etc. I spend many of my days with people who have a history of poor decision making. I am the father of small children who by nature make poor decisions. But what happens with the person who makes the “poor” decision. Do they become the decision? Do they become the outcome? What if the outcome was unimaginable by the person? What if the result was one thing they wished they could take back? Is it the act (decision) or the outcome that holds the most weight?

This week I spent time with men in prison, all of whom have made some bad decisions. Some of who have had the worst outcomes from their decision making. Many who seek forgiveness, they understand the consequences imposed on them. They carry guilt, shame. They do not want to be the crimes, the acts, the outcomes, the decisions they made. They are people. And like most they seek forgiveness. How do we learn to forgive? Who gets forgiven? Whose responsibility is it to forgive?

I shake many hands when I visit anywhere, especially when I visit prisons. This is a simple act of compassion, empathy, respect, and hopefully an acknowledgement of forgiveness. I seek to find the similarities in others, things that tie us, unify us. It is all too easy to find differences in others. I have worked towards rebuilding respect and seeking forgiveness for previous decisions I have made in my life. Repairing harm, giving back. This I believe is one of the most important parts of my life…
My hand holds no weapon
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Better living through science and learning how to love myself

"Feeling compassion for ourselves in no way releases us from responsibility for our actions. Rather, it releases us from the self-hatred that prevents us from responding to our life with clarity and balance."

The Journey Within- Ruth Fishel

 I want to discuss my writing, my journey. Just to clarify, explain. I write this as a way to express what is happening in my head, my soul. I use my writing as a way to “dump” my crap. To release, to let go, to think, to process. I know some readers have expressed concern with some of my recent posts. I want to assure you I am ok. I want you to know that I do this to let go. I do this so you know it’s okay to do this. I seek out clarity and balance. These are things I need. They provide security and safety. Anxiety and depression can create a mess in my head. My clarity becomes absent and my balance becomes out of “whack”. Luckily I have the tools and ability to recognize this cycle and begin the process of taking care of myself. This includes an adjustment to my mental health medications. What I have recently labeled “better living through science”.

I have been some research on cognitive restructuring and self-compassion. Learning new tools to help myself and share with others...learning what it means to love myself. I don’t want to explain so I will share some links for you that I have been reading…

http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/in-practice/201301/cognitive-restructuring
http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/shyness-is-nice/201201/healthy-dose-self-compassion
http://theselfcompassionproject.com/2013/06/03/80-self-care-ideas/
http://thousandshadesofgray.com/

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Violence. Where does it start, where does it end.

This week I have spent much time dealing with, talking about, and processing violence. I was asked to do an antiviolence workshop with inmates in prison. A daunting task. To discuss, educate, and motivate some men with severe histories of violent behavior. I spent some one on one time with a person resorting to threats to attempt to get his way. I talked to someone whose family is being victimized by another family member. I attended a victim impact panel for DUI offenders and allowed tears to run down my face when listening, and tragically a young man at our local high school committed suicide…reportedly a victim of bullying. I am by no means an expert on violence but I did understand the complexities of how it plants its roots and grows. Some acts of violence are never understood and some acts are never acceptable no matter the reasoning. I believe if a person does not address their feelings, does not clear their conscience, those corrupted emotions can grow like a weed, a parasite that takes over and destroys its host.

I do have a history of anger and violence. I have invested relentlessly to address these issues. To make amends for harm I have caused. To be aware, mindful of my emotions. To take care of myself. To ask for help, talk to others. The effects of violence are like a rock thrown into the center of a pond. It creates ripples that have an effect far reaching. Many perpetrators of violence fail to acknowledge the true harm that has been caused. They believe this is an act between themselves and a victim. Sometimes never acknowledging there is a victim (“they deserved it” mentality). No one wants to be a victim. As many perpetrators of violence were once victims themselves. 

The world is full of violence which is hard to fathom or even begin to understand, however I believe that we as citizens of our communities, our world must invest in helping to address the needs of others. To hold out a hand, to comfort, to listen, to show compassion and empathy. To believe in repairing harm, to giving back.

I’m trying… 

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Why I went to the woods

“what is joy without sorrow? what is success without failure? what is a win without a loss? what is health without illness? you have to experience each if you are to appreciate the other. there is always going to be suffering. it’s how you look at your suffering, how you deal with it, that will define you.” ― Mark Twain

The past week has been very difficult for me to navigate. Things have been very out of balance, very overwhelming, and very hard to keep myself on course. I have been subject to some highly stressful situations and at times wanted to scream, cry, and disappear. Luckily I know how my cycle feels and I have different techniques to help myself. I am able to work through, to stay the course. But what is the cost? I want the world to pause for a minute. To let me catch my breath. I considered a self-imposed time out from the world and this is always an option. But how do I surrender to that? How do I do what needs to be. Knowing helps. Talking to others helps. I have to remember to go into the woods, close my eyes, breath, and be mindful…this too shall pass

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Disappear...

Sometimes I want to disappear, from the world, others and myself. My mind races, my hands shake. I can’t focus on anything. My sleep is restless. My vision becomes blurry. I want to cry and scream simultaneously. So I make stuff, I paint, I draw, I take pictures, I write… 

For more visit me on instagram!

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Secondary Traumatic Stress, When do we quit helping others in need, Four rigs with cocaine residue

This week I have been in several situations where I have been mindful of an underlying conflict, a question, a debate. I have visited someone in jail, participated in a group debate, and helped someone begin to understand. All three situations were very different but contained a question, a desire, resistance, hope, confusion. All three shared a common thought, emotion, and question; when do we quit helping someone in need? What if we encounter someone who has been given every opportunity to make adjustments to their lives, to themselves and they continue to make decisions and behave in a way that is counter to the desired positive outcome? Do we stop helping, do we give up, do we turn away, and do we no longer help? What if the person is incapable of doing what is necessary? What if the person is incapable of seeing? What if they are unable to see themselves in their lives? What if they can’t bear to look at their lives and themselves? What if the guilt and shame are unbearable? Do we give up?

 I have previously written about pain, suffering, compassion and empathy and I don’t want to restate something that I have already touched on in previous post. I want to talk about Secondary Traumatic Stress or “the cost of caring”. I believe the current that runs through all of these questions is a person’s threshold for compassion and empathy. Expressing these can try on a person; they can become a weight on your shoulders, on your mind, your spirit, and your heart. When we experience someone else’s pain we can reach our “limit” and look for an option to break ties. We want that break up to be the other’s fault. We are done, and we shut the door. We want to bury the situation, the person, in a grave of blame filled with shame, disgust, and anger. We are suffering from compassion fatigue. We have reached our limit with the person. This is the easy way out…detachment.

How do we prevent this? Through self-care. We need to relieve our stress; we need to share with others the burden we experience. We need to laugh. We need to feel safe, understood, we need “cosigners”. We need to separate ourselves at times to let go of the attachment, the emotions. We need others to help us. We need to self-reflect. We need to be mindful. We need to seek positive healthy ways to alleviate our stress, our pain.

We need to be reminded that we should not give up on anyone. 

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ISO continued

So after I wrote last week I really tried to focus, meditate, and pray about what I was in search of. I spent 2 days traveling and speaking to around 200 men and boys in prison. I asked them the same type of questions. Questions about dreams, desires, what they wanted for their lives, their families. During one of my groups someone asked me “what if I don’t want something different?”. Inadvertently he flooded my mind and spirit. He asked because he was being difficult with me, but his question reminded me of what I was doing, what I was searching for. I returned to my hotel that afternoon and considered myself, my life. What if you are not in search of anything? Is that okay? I attempt to subscribe to the philosophy of “not having everything I want, but wanting everything I have”. How does someone self motivate when they are in search of nothing? How do you have goals, dreams, desires and how do those things motivate you? On Thursday I was back in the field, on the street, talking to people, helping people, being supportive. I felt exhilarated to be doing the work I do and feeling blessed that I get to help people for a living. As I drove through the poorest parts of the towns I work in, I really tried to focus on the moment. Taking in my surroundings. Acknowledging the men drinking on the corners. Watching for children riding their bikes in the street. I wondered if they searched for something and I felt at ease thinking maybe they didn't. I felt at peace. I felt fulfilled. That evening I was on the soccer field in my community, watching kids play soccer. A young man from my community came over and we talked about his struggles as a junior in high school and raising an 18 month old son by himself while working a part time job. I gave him some advice that he seemed to be seeking and I felt blessed that he sought my advice. I woke up the next morning and asked myself “am I doing enough to help others?” And I began to assess my role in life, my purpose. 

Am I doing everything I can to help, to give back?   

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ISO

A dream, a desire, a wish? An end? A beginning? A journey, a Destination? Something instant? Quick? Slow? Somewhere, Somehow, Something, somebody? Resolve, disruption? Peace, Chaos? Strength, Compassion, Understanding? Power? Validation?   Happiness, Tears, Love, Intimacy, to be touched, held, Loved? To Give, Take?  To be heard? To be respected? To be revered? To be seen, heard? To be left alone? Serenity? Patience? Strength? Relief? Everything, something, nothing?

What do you search for?

To be continued...

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No instructions?

In 1998 I decided to make a decision that I would do one of the scariest hardest things in my life. I have experienced many scary things and I have worked through many hard things in my life. But the decision I would ponder and eventually make was one of the hardest. I wanted to become a parent. But I wasn't for sure what that meant or if I was capable. I felt very unsure of myself, I felt scared, I felt inferior. I knew that I had gotten to place with myself that I was confident I knew how to take care of myself. This maybe was a prerequisite; how could I care for a child when I wasn't caring for myself. In my relationship with my wife I had been experiencing love, empathy, compassion, care and I began to learn how to give those things back. I knew that there were plenty of examples of parenting out there that I was not interested in. I watched other parents, the way they interacted with their children, the way the talked to them, the way they touched them or didn't. I had an idea of the parent I wanted to be, but was I capable. In 1999 we had our first child and my world changed. I loved her unconditionally. I held her, I played with her, I talked with her, I held her, I cared for her. I experienced emotions that were so foreign to me. I at times was so confused, so vulnerable. At times I had no idea what I was doing or if was even close to being right or wrong, or if that even mattered.
14 years and 3 more children later, I still am not sure what I’m doing. I am by no means a great parent. I miss things that my children do or tell me. Sometimes I don’t notice their cues that they need something from me. Sometimes I make mistakes. I think I have good kids and I hope that reflects on me as a parent. I know that my children, wife, and my decision to become a parent has helped me become a better person even though sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing.
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When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.-Henri Nouwen

This week I have been reflecting on my understanding of pain. I encounter many people who are experiencing, dealing with, and healing from different forms of pain. I have always thought I could see peoples’ pains through their eyes, and I believed that this is how I am able to share compassion and empathy with others. 

A unified experience of pain. 

This week I spent some time with someone experiencing an amount of pain that he has chosen to alter the course of his life and as we talked I could see the pain in his eyes.   And I acknowledged his pain, I empathized with his pain. It was pain that I can relate to. I told him I cared about his well-being and replied, “I know you do, I can see it in your eyes.” The hard part about pain is that we sometimes think we know how another experiences pain. We imprint our on pain experiences on the person and sometimes believe that what they are experiencing is maybe not the big deal they think it is. We discredit, minimize, and undervalue what the other person is experiencing. Why? I think for many it easier; to not share in another human being’s pain. And maybe this is okay for many. Maybe everyone is incapable of compassion and empathy. At times I am exhausted by practicing my own empathy and compassion. But the more I use these, the more I am able to use these. For a long time I did not want to live my life like this; I didn't want to hear or experience other people’s pain. I had my own to deal with. I had to learn to understand my own pain before I was ready to show empathy to others. I still experience pain; I still have hurt feelings, anger, stress, rejection, poor self-esteem and self-worth. But I am able to  better understand these things and take care of myself.  Please don’t assume you understand another person’s pain…I don't

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Hope...

This morning I have been contemplating HOPE and what it means, where it comes from and my relationship with it. Much has been written, studied, discussed about hope. All the great “smart” and “important” people in history have had an opinion about it, both good and bad. But what is it? Where is it? Where does it go? And how do you have a relationship with it? When I think of hope I instantly think of desire and then dream. But are these the same and how are they related? And how does wants and needs effect hope? I started this line of thought thinking I would find an easy answer and yet I continue to discover more questions. What is it that people hope for? Is this what people pray for? How are small hopes different from large hopes? Has hope become undervalued because of our quickness to use it? Can Hope be taught? Is hope only inspired? Are their people who do not hope?

1: the feeling of wanting something to happen and thinking that it could happen: a feeling that something good will happen or be true,
2: the chance that something good will happen
3: someone or something that may be able to provide help: someone or something that gives you a reason for hoping
These are the three general definitions found online. It seems so simple when I read the definitions...

The nature of the work I do has me involved in the third definition on a daily basis. I want to inspire others to have hope. Hope for a different kind of life. A hope that motivated me into recovery. A hope that I think most who suffer from any kind of illness hope for. Anyone who is sick will normally tell you that their hope is to get better. But what if they can’t get better? How does hope change? What if you are told you are going to die? How would your hopes change? What if you were condemned to prison or an institution for the rest of your life? How would you have hope? Is it possible to inspire hope when someone has given up hope?
I don’t know the answers to all these questions but I am certain I will continue to assess my personal hopes and my relationship with hope…and I hope you do to!

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I want to be loved...

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.” ― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

I want to be loved. I want to be cared for. I want to be liked, respected. I want to matter. I want others to think I’m okay. Often times I think about my funeral. I imagine what people may say about me in my passing. I think about the ending of the story of my life and does it end well or in tragedy. I am not perfect, nor will I ever be. Probably better to not be perfect as I need a reminder where I need to grow as a person.  I want to be okay with me. I want to look in the mirror and know and be comfortable with the person I see. I want to smile more, laugh more. I want to let down my guard more. I want to feel safe more. I want to be less scared; scared of myself and the world.
For those who take a minute out of your days to read this please know it means the world to me. I find it strange that anyone cares what comes out of my mouth.

I’m glad you’re listening…makes me feel like it matters and that you care.
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Who am I and why am I here?

Who am I and why am I here is a question that I ask myself daily. I was asked to address a conference for mental health recovery and this was the title of my speech. I believed the committee assumed I would be bringing answers to this questions not spend my hour discussing why I continue to ask myself this question. I have always longed for a different “version” of myself. 
     I have never felt comfortable with myself. When I look in the mirror, I sometimes don’t know the person reflected there. Most days I struggle through feeling scared. Not scared of the world, but scared of how I am reacting to it. Many people have observed and commented on my “laid back” demeanor. This has taken years of self-reflection and practice to keep my emotional state on a level plane. I know at times I project a “stand offish”, intimidating, mean expression on my face. I do this not by choice. This is part of my natural self-defense mechanism- (insert fight or flight). I do not want to mean or thought of as someone who is a jerk or scary. I really am not. One of the saddest and meanest things anyone has ever said to me is, “no matter how hard you work on recreating who you are, people will always know the true you by the expression you carry on your face and in your eyes.” This was told to me over twenty years ago and it haunts me. It’s not like I am trying to be someone I am not. I was given an opportunity through recovery to change the way my story ends. This is what I call the “gift and curse” of recovery. I believe that if I or anyone else wanted to write the story of my life, I have been given the ability to affect the outcome of how that story ends. This is what I am doing. 
To be continued...
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I didn't want to die but I didn't want to live-by request and censored by request

The first time I cut my wrists,
a great light came over me,
not only had I found a way to release my sadness but I also found the perfect way to illustrate my emotions. I had this mark on my body that conveyed a message for all to see. A message that could only be interpreted one way, I was hurting. My self harm was a perfect complement to my substance abuse, I could intoxicate myself, cut on myself to amplify the high, release my sadness, and send a message to those around me that my life was spiraling out of control and that I had deep rooted emotional issues. I wore the cuts on my body like huge billboards, “I’M HURTING”. I never wanted to kill myself but romanticized the idea that I could cut deeper, more, bigger and come close to death. In fact the closer I came, the better it felt.

The more I cut, the better I felt.

What started as an experiment with emotions and pain quickly developed into an obsession.
I cut on myself everyday; designing patterns of marks that somehow exemplified the number of times I had felt pain. The only problem is I didn't have enough skin. I cut on cuts, I cut on scabs, and I cut and cut. The group of people I hung around were impressed with my cutting. Other kids at my high school, with whom I had never spoken, came forward to compare their cutting to mine, an exchange of desires, dreams, and shared pain; a somewhat intimate exchange. Finally they must have thought someone we can relate to and someone who needs us. I never wanted to gain any relationships from my self-harm, only bring attention and resolve to the destructive nature of my own existence. I became obsessed with using different instruments to cut with razor blades, utility knife blades, broken glass, pins, and needles. As the sensation of cutting began to numb, new ways became a last option. I began to burn “blue circles” into my wrists using a cigarette. I would lie in bed and choke myself. I would punch myself repeatedly in the face and stomach. I didn't want to die but I knew I didn't want to live.
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A shot of Haldol and too many questions.

Sometimes we ask so many questions that we miss the answer.
Sometimes we ask so many questions because we do not want to hear the answer.
 I have had a stressful week. I again found myself in the middle of brokering an outcome for a person who was in mental health crisis, working with a friend trying to get her significant other into treatment for drug addiction, working two jobs, and trying to be a colleague, professional, husband, father, and attempt to take care of myself. Although not everything I was involved in this week worked out in the way I wished, I accomplished much and helped many in the process. At mass this morning my priest discussed prayer. He discussed that if you continually pray and ask for blessings you sometimes never notice what blessings you have. He asked that we pray without words, to listen. I needed this. Sometimes I become so overwhelmed with the life I forget to look around and see life. Stress has a way of doing this. So I encourage you to take a few minutes, find a quite place, close your eyes and listen.
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25 years of change

"If you do not change your direction, you may end up where you are heading" Lao Tzu

This weekend was the summation of an eventful week for me; I attended my 25^th High School reunion. I have never attended one before and had many reservations about being there; I could have easily skipped it. I was asked by a friend and former classmate to attend and after some pandering by him and few others, I got up the courage to go. I was not “popular” in high school, I wasn’t in any clubs, didn’t play sports, and really struggled through the whole process. I was constantly in trouble, multiple suspensions, expelled my junior year, and dropping out my senior year. I was under the care of a psychiatrist beginning my sophomore year for suicidal ideation and self-harm. I was heavily medicated and had developed a severe substance abuse problem. I was involved in the criminal justice system and was constantly in trouble outside of school. The last two years of high school are truly a blur. I remember very little about any of it, by design. I was incarcerated at the age of 17, my senior year of high school. After some time away from the world I made a decision to never return to the place where so much harm existed for me and others. While my classmates finished school and graduated, I was beginning to author a new ending to the story of my life.  I had no idea what this story would read like and was very scared that any moment by book would end. I knew that redefining myself would be a huge undertaking. I call this the “gift and the curse” of recovery. While my classmates walked across the stage receiving their diplomas I intoxicated myself for the last time. While they dreamed of college, families, careers, I dreamed of the same. 
Together we dreamed of our future, our change. 
While we celebrated 25 years since graduation, I carried with me in my pocket, my 25 year coin from Alcoholics Anonymous.  I am glad I attended the event this weekend it was wonderful to see so many people. Many have changed so much, I know I have.
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Where is Peace?

Where is peace? I asked myself this simple question multiple times a day and night. I am victim of inner turmoil on a nonstop basis, anxiety, nervousness, worry. At times my mind races at a pace that my heart picks up to keep pace. I have learned many techniques to ease my anxiousness. I look at myself in the mirror every morning and become scared. I don’t know who I have become, what I am supposed to do, how I am to act. I have a clear understanding of what is expected of a productive member of society and what is considered appropriate versus not. I have honed my moral compass to what I believe is an acceptable social level. I believe in the tenets of good values, I practice these and seek others who share similar believes and practices.

As I age and look at myself, I notice the landscape of my physical identity slowly change. My hair is greyer; my skin has begun to take on new identity. I have to remind myself that life, happiness, is not a destination. I must continue to work on myself, to continue to look at myself and push forward. I still have much room to grow, to become a better person. Those of you who knew me previous to this journey you know how far I have come.

I still have many character defects. I still fight with my inner-self constantly. Peace is a journey. I look at myself daily, take a deep breath, and challenge myself to be better person.

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In search of Peace

    Looking for peace of mind-Weko Beach, Michigan, 7/13

Fear

I was recently asked why someone in an active addiction cycle cannot abstain from their drug of choice even after they admittedly say they don’t want to continue use. They honestly want to chart a new course for their lives, a course that is drug free; but they can’t. This is perceived by others as an example of dishonesty, a “he doesn't really want to stop”, “she’s just saying that, but doesn't really mean it”, “drug addicts should just stop using drugs”. This week I facilitated a treatment group where we discussed and defined addiction, a complicated task for anyone to achieve. We used and examined the American Society of AddictionMedicine’s definition. Here is the “short” definition:

Addiction is a primary, chronic disease of brain reward, motivation, memory and related circuitry. Dysfunction in these circuits leads to characteristic biological, psychological, social and spiritual manifestations. This is reflected in an individual pathologically pursuing reward and/or relief by substance use and other behaviors.

Addiction is characterized by inability to consistently abstain, impairment in behavioral control, craving, diminished recognition of significant problems with one’s behaviors and interpersonal relationships, and a dysfunctional emotional response. Like other chronic diseases, addiction often involves cycles of relapse and remission. Without treatment or engagement in recovery activities, addiction is progressive and can result in disability or premature death.

As you can see this is a complicated disease. There are many factors that cause an individual to engage in an addiction cycle and the baffling part of the disease is that the brain constantly “plays a trick” on the individual to continue the cycle. There is no way to “fix” the problem. Everyone has different path into addiction and just as complex as the journey into, the journey out is even more complicated. Many attempt, many commit themselves to the journey and become lost. Sometimes death is the only relieve from the suffering. I wish we could solve the complicated mess of addiction. In recovery I know how blessed I am. I am not perfect nor do I try to be, however 25 years ago something happened in the universe, the heavens, and in my life. I began the journey of recovery. I work with others daily in addiction and recovery. I get to share in the pain, the pride, the sadness, the relief, the honest and dishonest, the loneliness, the happiness, the Fear…and for that I am blessed! 

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Twenty Five Years of tree climbing. A Prologue.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion." Henry David Thoreau

Twenty Five years ago I began the process of being a “tree climber”. I had spent years in the dust. I had the breath knocked out of me repeatedly. I gasped for air. The air I breathed in was full of dust, dry and dirty. The view never changed. Others came and lay in the dirt, others bathed in the dust to hide. I gasped for air. I could see the trees. I could see the forest. It seemed unattainable. The tree grows from the dust and reaches for the sky. Twenty five years ago, I slowly rubbed my eyes to remove some of the dust. The sun shined through the trees. The brightness made me want to turn my face away as the sun combined with dust caused my eyes to tear. The tears mixed with dust, the view was magnificent and the most frightening thing I had ever seen. The forest, so large, so overwhelming, the trees stoic, brave, rising from the dust like the phoenix. I cried. I spent years standing at the bottom of the tree. 

I knew tree climbing was dangerous, exhilarating, rewarding, but I did not know what the view was like. I had watched others climb trees which lay horizontal with the dust, trees that had fallen after a great storm, and lay to die, to become dust. That view appeared to be equal to lying on the ground.  

Climbing a tree can be difficult. I had to learn from experienced tree climbers. I watched as others stood on limbs that cracked and popped. I watched as limbs broke and people returned to the dust. I stood and watched. I looked around and saw the bodies pile up around me. I watched as some became exhausted, tired, fatigued, and let go. They chose to fall, they seemed to enjoy the feeling of the fall. Others climbed and climbed. They yelled form the trees how beautiful it was, how the view was amazing, others never wiped the dust from their eyes and their view was dust, they fell, they returned. 

I learned the process of climbing trees. To start at the base, near the trunk. This was the foundation of every tree. To reach for the first branch, to grip it tightly, to shake it, to determine how stable it was. Will it hold my weight? To ask myself, is this a good branch? After taking a deep breath, pulling myself up into the tree the view instantly becomes different, the dust starts become distant. Slowly, methodically, I began climbing the tree. Uncertain, scared of the climb. I tried limbs that looked, felt familiar, realizing too much time spent on these types of branches would not hold my weight. I looked down, seeing others I knew and loved laying on the ground looking up at me. 

I continued to climb unaware of my destination, the view changed with the seasons. 

Every branch I climbed to, another presented itself. 

I continue to climb… 

one of America's saddest secrets...

“I want to see firsthand the mental health unit”

She was involved in an argument, her body language yelled intensity, anger

She moves her hands to illustrate the point

She doesn't notice me or the sweat that drips from my forehead

I watch quietly, she gets louder and more animated.

There is no denying the importance of her position.

A tear dripped from the corner of my eye and mixed with the sweat running down the side of my face.

She never noticed me 

and her wall never told its side of the story

My undershirt stuck to my back. The heat was sweltering and the air was still and stale.

Coloring book pages hung on the walls like fliers for lost daughters, mothers, sisters.

  I left the unit with a level of discomfort, sadness and anger. I am not naive to the understanding that some of these women have possibly done things which warrant their removal from society, however housing the mentally ill in a prison has unfortunately become acceptable practice. I have heard and understand both sides of the argument. I know with out a doubt they are in an environment which is possibly safer than the one they came from; safer for others and most importantly safer for them. As society continues to slash funding for community based mental health services, more and more individuals with mental health disorders are being processed into jails and prisons.

How are we providing appropriate treatment and services?

Or does anyone care?   

The Mentally Ill in Jail: Whose Problem Is It Anyway? [Satellite/Internet Broadcast]

for my friend Sheri and all the treatment professionals who work inside prisons and jails...thank you for everything you do!
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Two boys, a man, an adventure to find “arrow heads”

It was a hot summer day and two boys played at the city park like boys do. Two boys around the age of 8 one of the greatest most imaginative times to be a boy, curious, rambunctious, innocent. They met a man at the park and he discussed Native Americans and arrow heads. The boys were excited when the man revealed he knew of place nearby where there were many arrow heads to be discovered and he could take them there and help them hunt for them. The boys were excited, they had seen arrow heads on television and in books at school and idea of going on a real exploration like archaeologists to find the real thing was an opportunity no 8 year old boy could pass up. They left the park and walked a mile together to where railroad tracks use to run through the woods, they traveled down the old tracks to an area where a creek once ran. The man told the boys the area where many arrow heads could be found was down in the dry creek bed.  The boys were excited they began searching profusely the dry, barren creek bed for any rock that was shaped or resembled an arrow head. The man lead them deeper into woods suggesting that more could be found further away from the area which once held the railroad tracks. The man engaged the boys in small talk the boys continued the search. The excitement was unbearable. During the small talk which the boys paid little attention to, the topic changed from Native Americans and arrowheads to stripping. He asked the boys if they had ever stripped. He described that it was okay for boys to be naked around others and not embarrassing. The boys tried to ignore him, preoccupied with the search. He methodically sent the boys in opposite directions to better the search. While the boys searched the man removed a pocket knife and opened it without notice. He instructed the boys to strip reassuring them that it was OK. The boys began to cry. He became louder and again told the boys to strip. He told them he didn't want to hurt them while displaying the knife for both boys to see. The boys looked around realizing that they were away from any person who could help, they could yell, but no one would hear it. The earth stopped spinning, the excitement gone.   

The boys removed each piece of their clothing as instructed by the man. He asked one of the boys to remove his underwear to which the boy refused. He approached the other boy with the knife and explained that if they did not remove all of their clothing he would kill them. As the boys removed the remainder of their clothing the man removed his. He explained again the natural appeal of the three of them together naked. One of the boys covered his genitals with both hands while crying. He instructed him to remove his hands. He sat down on a rock in the creek bed and instructed one of the boys to sit on his lap. The other boy stood helpless, naked, trying not to cry as the man had instructed.

Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying…

On the way home the boys knew that they had made a mistake. They had been told, taught to never go anywhere with a stranger. They knew they would be found to be at fault. They knew they could never tell anyone as they would be the ones in trouble. They wiped their eyes of tears, took a deep breathe, and never spoke of this again. They knew without a doubt that they could never cry about this, ever.

Those two boys who played every day in the park and were best friends for a summer, never spoke to each other after that day, they never looked into each other’s eyes again, and they never cried about this…

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By Request (2) dko

I was recently asked to write about what books I am reading and why. I attempt to read often and when I was in college (and without 4 children), I was much more disciplined in my reading habit. I enjoy reading and read a range of nonfiction. For the past year I have really focused on books dealing and about substance abuse, spirituality, and recovery. My choice for reading these types of books is varied in selection. I read some for self-improvement, maintenance of myself, strategies and understanding for working with others, and some I read for a ways to improve my own writing. Since I began to write and talk about my own emotions, thoughts and processes, I have found it hard to put into words the range of things I experience. Reading how others write helps…

1. Currently reading this book as it is a first hand account of Depression and the Author William Styron has done an amazing job of putting into words the feelings and thoughts experienced by someone with Depression.

Favorite Excerpt (thus far), "Death, as I have said, was now a daily presence, blowing over me in cold gusts. I had not conceived precisely how my end would come. In short, I was still keeping the idea of suicide at bay. But plainly the possibility was around the corner, I would soon meet it face to face" page 50

Purchase

2. Currently reading this book also. The Author David Kennedy is co founder of "Cease Fire". He has spent decades studying Youth Violence and so far does an amazing job at detailing the complex issues surrounding youth and why they are involved in violence and how to address and possibly change the culture.

Favorite excerpt (thus far), "Nearly all of the worst violence and crime in America's most troubled neighborhoods is driven by a small, super-heated world of gangs and drug crews and drug markets. It is a world with its own rules, its own standards, its own understandings. It is a community, make no mistake; it is a community where men will kill for their brothers, die for their brothers, where being a thug is a good and honorable thing, where thug love means having your brothers' backs, no matter what the cost. It is world in which young men stand against a powerful, malevolent world and say to themselves and to each other, Prison's no big thing; I'm going to be dead by the time I'm twenty-five, so nothing really matters; if a man  is disrespected, he has to return violence or he's not a man; the enemy of my friend is my enemy; I'm a victim, so I'm justified in what I do." page 20

Purchase

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By Request.

Every day starts differently and the same. The nightlight glows constant so that count can be conducted throughout the night.  At seven a.m. the lights turn brighter and the door makes a loud click and begins opening. The sound of dozens of doors slam into their open position, the general day room lights are bright. Time for breakfast. Never before has the saying “you snooze, you lose” mattered so much. Here, if you are not making your way into the day room, you are not going to eat. No exceptions. Your food goes to the most senior member of your housing unit. When I say most senior, I do not mean the oldest. I am speaking of the person who has been here the longest. Being the most senior person comes with privileges, most importantly is cell choice. Or house as we called it. When you’re new, you are given what no one else wants. Seniority moves you up in the neighborhood. The best houses are the ones with a view. Which seems funny considering the best view is that of the control room. This is the best because there is movement, people moving. Any kind of movement is a reminder of humanity. I stood for hours, day after day starring at the second hand on the clock in the control room, movement. Time doesn’t stop, the world keeps moving. Life continues without you. The majority of any given day includes reading, playing games such as spades, sitting around telling stories, exercising, cleaning cells, watching TV, and writing and receiving letters. I spent a lot of time drawing pictures and making functional artwork. I learned that I could make a glue like substance using coffee creamer. I would get magazines and construct objects from their pages. I once made a table using this method of construction. It was seized as contraband shortly after, it was nice. I would have requests for cards (Birthday, Mother’s Day, etc.) from others and I would be paid in what I wanted, candy bars, cigarettes, and stamps.  I would draw roses and hearts, bouquets of flowers, lots of flames and banners.

Breakfast was usually toast and coffee; lunch was a lunch meat sandwich with a fruit or vegetable and kool aid. Dinner was usually a soy based ground beef served a million different ways, a vegetable side, butter bread, and Tea.  For those who passed through who had been on the streets or who had simply not had food, this was eating at its finest. It was three meals, served every day at the same time.
The evenings were filled with TV watching. I think I saw every episode of Three’s Company and MASH ever made. At 10p.m. it was lock down time. We went to our cells, the doors closed automatically and the lights dimmed.

The second hand on the clock continued to sweep around, to move.

Alcohol the most seductive lie ever told.

The past two weeks I have been inundated with discussions about the use of alcohol. Discussions about the culture of alcohol, the acceptance of alcohol use, the infinite number of reasons to drink alcohol, and the never ending excuses as to why someone doesn't have a “problem” with alcohol. I've sat with inmates and listened to their desire and plans to have a “cold one” when released from prison. I've sat across the desk from someone with early stage cirrhosis of the liver who continues to drink alcohol. I've heard the seductive telling of story after story, I've heard the errors in thinking and reasoning, I have heard a million explanations of why consuming alcohol is okay.  
Now I understand that there are those out there who can consume alcohol in a responsible way and by no means am I inferring that they have a “problem”.  Maybe it’s the nature of the work I am involved in or my natural observation of others, or my own corrupted opinion, I see and encounter many people who have issues around the use of alcohol. I observe others test themselves and their ability to control their use. I watch as some completely destroy themselves to drink. I had someone suggest to me that I probably was not an alcoholic. An interesting thing to say to someone who meets the DSM IV criteria for alcohol dependence. And maybe I’m not, but what if I am? The last drink of alcohol I had was December 27^th, 1987. That night ended with me in a jail cell with multiple felony arrests. For me it’s not just the out of control behavior that being under the influence allows me to engage in, but the emotional turmoil that was triggered when in my addiction cycle. I know with all my heart that if I were to take a drink of alcohol I would be thrust into complete and utter emotional chaos. I have a hard enough time dealing with myself sober. I don’t want to drink, haven’t wanted to in long time. Have way too much to lose, the work I have invested in my life is worth the world to me; it’s definitely worth more to me than a drink. I feel blessed to know and understand that alcohol is the most seductive lie ever told.

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Tear drops of self control

I found myself on the receiving end of a violent tirade this week. The person was so angry he was unwilling and truly unable to hear anything that came from mouth, including an apology for a misunderstanding. He confronted me in an exhibit of pure rage including threats of harm to my wellbeing. I sat in my chair, and without hesitation, didn’t move. My hands placed securely on the arms of the chair, my body relaxed, and my face void of emotion. And I sat, and I received his yelling and threats, and I absorbed his emotion, and I resisted the urge to respond, and I refused to engage, escalate, enrage. And when he finished or maybe realized I was not going to respond, he left. This is the most desirable less likely outcome. This could have had many endings, which no doubt would have included me returning to a version of myself for which I have so worked to control. I understand these situations are as much about myself as they are the perpetrator. The work I have invested into making myself a “kinder gentler” version of myself has been a lifelong process. To understand and adhere to a strict doctrine of conflict resolution that is based on nonviolence. I believe this is part of my destiny, to restore some type of balance in my life and the community.  

After he left I was consumed with emotion. . I took a deep breath and began the process of de-escalating myself.  My hands shook, my face was flush, adrenaline rushed through my body, and tears ran out of the corner of eyes. Tear drops of self control.

 

Have a Blessed week, I have...

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The person I was...

So I haven’t written in two weeks as I have had a lot going on in my day to day life. Spring brings a whole bunch of projects that have been put off all winter, yard work, etc.

 I had the privilege to read through my probation record, which one of my good friends was able to get out of storage for me to look through. It was hard to read. It tells the story of a young man trying in every way to destroy himself. A story that if read aloud, the narrator and audience would surely believe that the main character would not make it, doomed to either spend his entire life in institutions or death. To read what professionals thought of my wellbeing, my behavior, my attitude, repeated arrests, failed treatment episodes and interventions, to read what people outside of my world tried to put the pieces together of what I can only describe in reflection as pure inner and outer chaos. My prognosis was not good. I was not going to make it. And yet here I am. And if I think about, which I do daily, I don’t understand why. Why did I get so lucky? Why did my higher power pick me to save? I know that I am truly blessed. The majority of those with my background rarely make it. I knew that then. I knew that the odds, statistics, the professionals, didn’t believe I would make it, that I would come out the other side. At the very core of my soul I wanted a different life, I am still motivated by this. I am still working on making myself a better person, and a better life. There is little perfection in this. If I am honest with myself and others I can and am able to recognize when I stray from the course and correct it. I thank God daily for my existence. I hope when this journey comes to end that others will reflect on my life and be proud of where I have come from and what I have achieved. Although I sometimes have to be reminded, I know that I am.

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resiliency, trauma, and a history of violence

Sometimes I attend training's to improve my work skills and more often than not, leave learning something about myself and why I do certain things. This week I attended a training session on trauma informed care, one the current “buzz” words in the treatment profession at the moment and learned a lot about who I use to be. One of the sessions addressed how to work with someone who is “flooding” or having adrenaline overload. This really hit home as I used to be pre-wired with a high level of adrenaline, a way to keep vigilant and be on my best defense to protect myself. Many people inquire about my apparent calm, laid back disposition and I have never been able to explain it in a clinical way. This has taken an immense amount of work on myself, to let go of those things which trigger adrenaline flooding, conflict in any way.  The most upset or adrenaline charged I have felt was a couple years ago when someone confronted me in a parking lot, he thumped me on the chest when he was talking in a “put down” way. I was able to defuse myself and walk away. The adrenaline rushed through my body so strongly that my hands were shaking. I was threatened, I felt unsafe, and I wanted to put my hands around his neck. This is one of the greatest things I have accomplished through my recovery, letting go of conflict and the ability to diffuse myself. I was not always like this even in recovery. I recall many times getting into physical altercations, as a result of escalating verbal disagreements. Confronting others unnecessarily because I felt disrespected, challenged, or had my feelings hurt. I have a history of violence and I was raised in an environment full of conflict, violence, and trauma. This is how I was built. This is not something I am proud of and something that I work on and manage on a daily basis.

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http://conflictunraveled.com/vt_wp/?page_id=887