An orange jumpsuit and my first step to recovery

There was a moment during my life when complete truth never felt more real. Sure I had been experiencing truth constantly and these were the things that I wanted to escape, ignore, avoid, and run from forever. The truth that I did not feel loved or cared for, the onset of knowing that I did not know how to deal with day to day existence as a human being, nor did I want to. The truth that I was severely depressed and never sadder, and I found myself grounded in the idea that this is who I was and I could not change it. On December 27, 1987, the owner of the business had caught me inside his building. Technically I had broken in even though I had previously stolen the keys to the business, and let myself in. He was angry and threatened to shot me. He had his arm around my neck and a handgun pointed to the side of my head. This had little effect on me, not only had I been under the aim of a gun previously, but I had been living to die. The thought of this unknown person threatening to shoot me in the head had a calming effect on me. Not because I had been subdued, but the thought of a stranger completing the task of ending my pathetic existence seemed unfair and out of line. I was angry and sad. A stranger had placed himself into a position that I had been for so long. He probably never knew the value of this position.

The first night I spent incarcerated was very surreal. I had ended up where everyone had warned I was going, but I somehow felt strangely comfortable. I felt at ease. Sure my mind wandered with thoughts of being victimized and how I would deal with these encounters. I lie in my cell and felt as though I was home. Not the home I came from, but a new kind of home. I felt safe. I felt cared for. I no longer had to figure out the insanity that surrounded me, it was gone. I was alone and was expected to do, say, and participate very little in my new life. I suppose you could say I was a good inmate. I was intelligent enough to understand the inner workings of the social structure and quickly understood the limits and expectations of those around me. I was willing to be a little reckless both with my tongue and fists. I was preparing for the worse and living very much in the moment. I was schooled on the inner workings of the justice system by your run of the mill “jail house lawyers”.

I ate meals with murderers, and shared hopes and dreams with society’s waste. People very much like me; who could not live or function in the outside world.  I was a drug addict, but I was also a criminal. I had put all my chips into the center of the table, thrown in the towel, and was where I needed and was supposed to be.

Life as an incarcerated 17 year old is a tough place to be. I was constantly challenged, threatened, and physically beat.     

June 20, 1988

Today would be the last day I would intoxicate myself. An inmate had managed to smuggle in a small amount of marijuana. After smoking my share, I sat on a metal table looking at myself in a nearby mirror. I sat for hours contemplating.

Who would I be? How would I act? What would I do? Who would be my friends? How would I make decisions? What would I do for the rest of my life?

I realized at that moment one of the most important lessons of my recovery; if I ever used drugs or alcohol again, I would be in that jump suit, locked up, starring at myself in the mirror. This would be my moment of what many call clarity; which seems ironic considering I was under the influence. 1+2=3. This is how profound yet simple it had become. Working through the math would become the challenge. 

I am still working through the math...

B

Maintaining sobriety through fasting-Where am I going and can I find happiness.

“The most dangerous person in recovery I have ever met”

“My name is Brad and I am an alcoholic and addict”

“Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path…” The first time I set foot into a 12 step self help group I was 17 years old. I look back and still don’t fully understand why I was there I simply knew I needed to be there. The meeting room was full of mostly older men, some women, and the few residents of treatment who had also received passes to attend. I had little in common with those who attended and shared. Their stories of losing jobs, wives, husbands, homes, and everything, was nothing like my story. I had nothing to lose. I was here to build something, to get something. They shared their stories and I listened carefully. I shared very little, I had not lost everything. I observed men share the same story over and over, I suppose their retelling of this moment was a reminder of what waited for them outside the walls of the meeting. Stories of waking up in alleys and jail cells. Told and retold. The same story. Over and over. I was encouraged by my counselor to complete a 30/30. 30 meetings in 30 days. I went everyday, sometimes two times per day. I could not get enough. Of what I did not know. I just knew I needed to be there and going felt right. I immersed myself in all their publications, read all their books, and observed the comings and goings of every member of the group. I completed my 30 meetings and challenged myself to complete a 90/90. Challenge may not be the correct word as going became an obsession and missing was unthinkable. I got my first job while still at the residential facility. The management and coworkers were supportive of what I was trying to accomplice. My work schedule was made to fit around my meeting schedule. I got two sponsors and began the process of working on my steps. One sponsor was an old timer who helped with the step process and the other was a college student who would teach me how to be a 17 year old recovering addict.

I remember being very confused. Very unsure, very nervous, very scared. I didn't know who I was, how I was to act, who I would spend time with, what I would do.

Most days I still feel this way.

I had something to look forward to. A glimmer of hope. What was I getting? “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path” Failure, I had tasted that and knew I didn’t want to return, at least not right now. I enjoyed my freedom too much. But what did success look like? I would find comfort in my days of sobriety, a true mark of success. I knew that the statistics were against me, I was expected to fail. I had built a foundation for the rest of my life and no matter how bad a day was, or how stupid of a decision I had made, I had tomorrow, the promise of another day. The coins I collected for sobriety anniversary dates became evidence of this success. Proof of the promise I never showed my coins to anyone, but carried them in my pocket as though they were worth more than gold. Protected. Proof. Success. And my 12-step family celebrated my accomplishments like a true family. People were genuinely proud of me, concerned and compassionate. 

I will always consider myself part of the 12 step family, much like the child they help raise, I will forever be indebted to the people of 12 step groups for helping me become a better person.

B 

My Grandmother, God, Catholicism, and Recovery.

Originally posted 2-9-13

“Good Feeling, won’t you stay with me a little longer”

ViolentFemmes-1983

Proverbs

13 Hold fast to discipline, never let her go, keep your eyes on her, she is your life.
14 Do not follow the path of the wicked, do not walk the way that the evil go.
15 Avoid it, do not take it, turn your back on it, pass it by.
16 For they cannot sleep unless they have first done wrong, they miss their sleep if they have not made someone stumble;
17 for the bread of wickedness is what they eat, and the wine of violence is what they drink.
18 The path of the upright is like the light of dawn, its brightness growing to the fullness of day;
19 the way of the wicked is as dark as night, they cannot tell the obstacles they stumble over.
20 My child, pay attention to what I am telling you, listen carefully to my words;
21 do not let them out of your sight, keep them deep in your heart.
22 For they are life to those who find them and health to all humanity.
23 More than all else, keep watch over your heart, since here are the wellsprings of life.
24 Turn your back on the mouth that misleads, keep your distance from lips that deceive.
25 Let your eyes be fixed ahead, your gaze be straight before you.
26 Let the path you tread be level and all your ways be firm.
27 Turn neither to right nor to left, keep your foot clear of evil.

My Grandmother, God, Catholicism, and Recovery. 

I have no memories of her recovery, but I have many memories of her faith. I would not understand the relationship of the two until recent years. My grandmother would become the foundation of my formative years as a child and young adult. My memories of attending mass with grandma are somewhat sad in retrospect. When my Grandma said we are going to mass, we went. Not attending was not optional and she reinforced this as the committal of an outright sin. I never remember her being happy or joyous about going and participating in church. To her that was not the purpose of church or her relationship with God. She attended mass to somehow prove that she was sorry to herself, her family, and God. This is how I learned to be Catholic.

I recall kneeling in church for what seemed like hours while my Grandma prayed the rosary. I remember kneeling for what seemed like an eternity every time I attended mass with her. The burn of my knees somehow began to relate to how “bad” I had been as a boy. The more it hurt, the more I needed to be doing it. I don’t know if Grandma every said this but I believed it. I knew that the more sins I confessed to, during confession, the longer I would be on my knees during penance. Somehow I believed that to truly repent and receive God’s forgiveness, I had to first prove that I was willing to suffer a little for my sins. This was not unlike my home life; misbehavior was often punished through physical discipline.

Through this suffering, I was proving I was committed to God, the Church, and the betterment of myself spiritually. Fasting during Lent also reinforced this suffering. Grandma and I observed the annual Catholic tradition of fasting for periods during the Lenten season. This according to Grandma was a way to cleanse the body and better the soul. There was no happiness in participating in church or attempting a relationship with God. It was defined by sorrow, unworthiness, and punishment through self-discipline. Today, my spiritual journey is still rooted in this core foundation; I must feel bad and or suffer to somehow feel good.  This would become part of the foundation and tools I would use to get clean of drugs and alcohol and maintain that sobriety. If I truly believed I was and addict, then I had to surrender myself to the idea that I needed drugs and alcohol much like a person needs food and water. 

Is it possible that the journey of recovery was a life long fasting? Would I need to employ the same strict doctrine of self discipline taught to me by my grandmother and the Catholic church to remain drug free? What effects would this fast have on my spiritual development? Would I suffer through recovery?

B

My name is Brad and I have a history of self harm

I want to share with you one of my darkest secrets. A behavior, an emotion, a "thing" that for many years I wanted to believe was not something I had done to myself. Something so embarrassing to admit that I attempted to bury it forever. I didn't know how to talk about it, didn't know how to explain it. It has been many, many years since I harmed myself. In fact I engaged in this between the ages of 15-17. 

I wrote this a couple of years ago after attending a conference session on women who harm themselves. Afterwards I spent some time with the presenter describing some of my self harm and she challenged me to come out of my self imposed darkness and be willing to admit it and someday discuss it. I want you to know this comes with much hesitation and that I will post links to sites where help can be sought. 

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 compliment to my substance abuse, I could intoxicate myself, cut on my self 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. 

B

http://www.selfinjury.com/

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http://www.twloha.com/