That day in 1988, the last time I used drugs, I was scared. I didn't understand what I was doing or what I was going to do. I knew and had learned that being in hand cuffs and living in jail cells was something I didn't want to continue doing. I literally had nothing except some drawings, some letters and a few photographs others had sent me. There is very little more demoralizing than being treated like an animal. I hated every second of it. I despised the world and wondered every minute what others where doing. I knew I wanted to try something different and made no promises to anyone. I wanted to disappear from my life. I wanted to start again. I wanted take control of writing the story of my life. I was sick to my stomach listening and reading what others had authored about my character. I had made a plethora of terrible decisions but I wanted to believe I was not a terrible person. I wanted to change my life so people would leave me alone and stop saying negative things about me; I had no clue what that meant or how I was going to do that.
I have the opportunity to speak to many about recovery, change, and motivation. I get to re-live this moment. To go to a place deep inside myself and remember the fear, the uncomfortableness of my life. I get to feel humbled about my journey. Its easy with the business of my daily life to forget how vulnerable, scared, and fragile I feel at times. I still feel uncomfortable with the world and myself at times. I have come a long way from that person in 1988. And it has not been without mistakes, there has never been any perfection in any of this. I continue to author the story of my life. I am continually surprised when others say nice things about me.
I hope this story is a good one for someone to read…
“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
B
Saturday, August 31, 2013
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
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.
B
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!
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.
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.
"When feeling sympathy and compassion for those in temptation, a condition I sometimes experience, I have a responsibility toward them. Sympathy always includes responsibility. When I am moved with compassion, I should go to the one in need and bind up his or her wounds as best I can."-unknown
"...when you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight"… " the deeper sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain" (The Prophet) by Khalil Gibran page 29
This week has been tough. I have experienced a whirlwind of emotion. I find myself feeling in a way that as I use to describe as “the world moving so fast I can’t keep up”. I have had several people notice the stress, anxiety, maybe panic on my face and in my character. There is not enough hours or minutes for me to catch up, to stop the world around me. I find myself reassuring myself, I am doing well, I am keeping it together. I spent time discussing everything with someone this week and the question of when am I going to reach my “tipping point” and what will happen when I do?
Where is my tipping point? How much can I endure?
I often feel that I am fragile; I look at myself in the mirror and think how will I make it through the day? I see pain, sorrow, and sadness in my eyes. I pray and meditate for strength, compassion, understanding, balance, and peace. I am far from a perfect person. I am a work in progress. I know my character defects. I have tried to put myself around others who understand the complexities of my “condition”, who I believe are looking out for me.
This blog has become a place for to share. I know many of you visit and read. I often wonder what you want me to discuss or share here. I really wonder what you think or feel about this. I sometimes feel like I am in a bubble, writing, and posting with no feedback. If you feel inclined please respond in some way, let me know you are there…
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.
“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?
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.
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