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

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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

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