Grey Area

Grey area-an area or part of something existing between two extremes and having mixed characteristics of bothTonight I observed a treatment group around the topic of Locus of Control. The conversation moved into a discussion of how most people choose to live daily in a place described as the “grey area”. I don’t want to go into an explanation of Locus of Control theory; a Google search will get you what you need. I want to discuss the ever present “grey area” and why so many find comfort there, the key word being comfort. We as humans find comfort rewarding. We like routines and schedules. Our days are planned from the minute our alarms go off in the morning to moment we close our eyes to end the day. We assign value to the monotonous, routine, daily “grind” of our existence. We have technology at every turn to make our lives easier, more scheduled, and more manageable. We slowly turn our lives into existence. We live in the grey area. We live here because it is easy. ( note to reader…I feel like I am way out of my normal range of conversation here, but hang with me and you will see where I’m going!) I am not sure I can explain the true mundane state I am getting at, but I think you can get, I am trying to describe the get up at same time, eat breakfast, got to work, come home, eat dinner, watch t.v., and go to bed type of thing. Day in, day out. Doing the same thing over and over. We do this. We are taught that this is being responsible, dependable, etc. So why am I talking about this and what does it have to do with me? There are many who believe that this type of life can be detrimental to someone in recovery. That living life as existing is the equivalent of being stagnant and that those in recovery do not make if stagnant. Sure having you time planned out is important and being responsible and dependable are important practices for anyone especially those in recovery. The stagnation, the grey area, affects the mental, the emotional, and the spiritual. And these areas need constant stimulation and maintenance. The grey area becomes the danger zone. I believe this to be true about myself. I need to be out of my comfort zone. I need to experience a range of emotions. I like to laugh and appreciate the ability to be sad and cry. I feel as though I am in touch with my emotions and I am not embarrassed with them. This has not always been the case. I went to extreme measures to hide, bury, and destroy those very parts of myself. I was not comfortable with who I was and how I felt.  I wanted to hide in the grey area forever. To disappear. The problem is I could not exist in the grey area, I could not grow and what does not grow eventually dies. I am not always comfortable with this, and some days I want to hide from the world, live in the grey area where I may not be noticed. But I can’t. I have to face the world; I have to deal with the world on its terms. This is where I grow. I do things daily which keep me out of the grey area. I create artwork, I spend time with others, I watch movies, read books, write this blog, and the list goes on and on. I understand the grey area, I get it. For me it is not a healthy place. I need to grow. I need to experience new things. I need to be emotional. I need to assess and maintain my spiritual well-being. I need to mix up my schedules and make life enjoyable even when it’s hard.B  

In search of a magic wand

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.

Is drug addiction a mental illness?

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

Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor

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 found  that 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.

I take pills because I have to.

B

Who am I and Why am I here.

"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…

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