Many people have asked me a plethora questions surrounding
my recovery and its maintenance. I have told parts of “my story” to hundreds of
people; from judges, teachers, probation officers, school teachers, counselors,
prisoners, teenagers, and friends. I wish sometimes I could fix people, fix
myself. I recently was discussing the differences in substance abuse and mental
health issues. The feeling that if you correct a behavior you can “fix” many
issues around substance abuse, however mental health issues are sometimes equivalent
to being a broken person who cannot be “fixed”. I was told by someone after last week’s post,
that sharing my mental health issues was something I was not supposed to do,
something you should keep to yourself. Which left me thinking, why do we have
to live in the shadows? How has society and even the profession of mental
health played into or perpetrated this shame. We know the inherent relationship
between substance abuse and mental health and for many years the two have been
segregated in treatment and approach. This is of course is not true across the
board, both in practice and individual.
Yes, because addiction changes the brain in fundamental ways,
disturbing a person's normal hierarchy of needs and desires and substituting
new priorities connected with procuring and using the drug. The resulting
compulsive behaviors that override the ability to control impulses despite the
consequences are similar to hallmarks of other mental illnesses.-Nora D. Volkow, M.D.Director National Institute on Drug Abuse
I do not have the answers. What I do know is that through living one day at a time I am able to work on being a better person. Most days I am not perfect, however I have the capacity to acknowledge my wrongs and attempt to make amends. I have little desire to use drugs or alcohol, but I struggle daily to deal with life on life’s terms. I believe in the tenants of recovery and the work it requires to achieve and maintain. I know with all my heart that my higher power has chosen a path for me, a different path I was on at one time. I know that I am a recovering drug addict and alcoholic and that I have mental health disorders. I sometimes feel like a person who is broken but I know that if I submit myself to a program of recovery and work on myself daily, my life is manageable. Unfortunately there is no magic wand.
B
I take a pill to deal with the world; I take another pill to
deal with myself
I take a pill for the day; I take a pill for the night
I take a pill to move through the day
I take a pill to forget about the day
I take a pill because I hate myself
I take a pill because I hate my life
I take a pill because I cannot deal with the world
I take a pill because I am depressed
I take a pill because I don’t know what happiness is
I take a pill to remain free
I take a pill to not harm myself
I take a pill to not harm others
I take a pill to love myself
I take a pill to love my life
I take a pill to love others
I take a pill because I take a pill
I hate taking pills
My name is Brad and I have a mental health condition. I
wanted for so long to believe that as a person in recovery that I had been
freed from my condition. I believed that I have a good program of recovery and
that through this program and all the hard work I had put into it that my
mental health condition had been resolved. I found that although my mental health
and substance abuse where inexplicitly tied together, I needed to work on both
issues simultaneously and independent of each other. It took a trip to the
hospital a couple of years ago to force me into acknowledgement of this complex
relationship. I foundthat I was
confused, I felt threatened, I felt like I had made a mistake. I have worked
with a good Doctor who understands this complex relationship and I have placed
myself in the company of many people who in their compassion have helped me identify
and deal with myself. My brain is wired differently. Through the aid of
medication I am a better person to myself and others; and this is what I want.
"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.
“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.
“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.
