Tag: 12 step

  • Nature as Power Greater

    Nature as Power Greater

    How would I turn “my will and my life” over to the Earth which, as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it is, surely doesn’t care whether I get clean or don’t?

    When I was early in 12-step recovery and trying to get my head and heart around Step Two (as if Step One hadn’t been mind-blowing enough) my sponsor asked me, after I was adamant that working with a traditional ‘God’ concept wasn’t going to cut it for me, to make a list of everything that was inherently more powerful than me. It was a long list.

    Yet abstract notions like ‘love’ or ‘the Lifeforce’ or even the collective power of the ‘rooms’ didn’t work for me either. I sat in the local park, still newly raw and wide-eyed from being clean for the first time in 20 years, and realized what I was searching for was all around me. Nature, Mother Earth, the whole ecosystem of which we are a part, was a Power Greater than myself which I could easily access. While I had been getting high and getting low, the grass had continued to grow, the flowers to bloom and the tides to turn. Somewhat tentatively I discussed this idea with a few people in my home group and found it wasn’t anything new – GOD was used an acronym not just for the oft-repeated Good Orderly Direction or Group of Druggies but also Great Out Doors. I had found my way ‘in’ to the spiritual aspects of the steps.

    But could this Power Greater restore me to sanity? How would I turn “my will and my life” over to the Earth which, as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it is, surely doesn’t care whether I get clean or don’t? The sanity part at least turned out to be completely practical. Using nature to restore mental and emotional well-being, including to treat addiction, is nothing new either. Rehabs have been offering wilderness therapy, animal-assisted therapies and restorative time in nature as part of their programs for decades, and recent research into the affects of eco-therapy bears this out. A recent study at the University of Essex in the UK that discovered higher rates of low mood in those that moved from ‘green’ areas into urban ones, and increased positive moods in those who did the opposite. Another British study found that the mood boost provided by time in nature was particularly pronounced for those who had been clinically depressed at the start of the study. The positive effects of time in nature on children with behavioral problems such as ADHD is also well documented. Nature is good for our mental health.

    What about ‘turning over my will and my life’? I was never comfortable with the religious language of Step Three, so I knew straight away that for me it was going to be about letting go of the need to control, relinquishing my ‘small self’ or my ego-driven insecure persona in favor of who I was – who we all are – at our core. Part of a greater whole, part of the web and flow of life. My new awareness of the natural world helped make this notion more tangible, grounded in the world I could see and touch around me. For nature, researchers are discovering more and more, is completely interconnected and growth relies on collaboration more than competition. The disconnection and isolation of addiction is in stark opposition to this natural interdependence. And so Step Three for me became – and largely still is – about letting go of my addiction and all that accompanied it and realizing my place in the Web of Life.

    Not everyone will share my idea of Nature as the ultimate Power Greater. Not every person in recovery feels the need for a Power Greater at all. Whatever our personal recovery journeys however, the healing power of nature is readily available to us all.

    Photo by Riccardo Chiarini on Unsplash.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Eddie Pepitone: From Falling Down Drunk to Sober Stand Up

    Eddie Pepitone: From Falling Down Drunk to Sober Stand Up

    Comedy is totally addictive! It hits the part of the brain that drugs do. The love me love me I’m home I’m home part (that is when it goes well). You feel exhilarated because you are the center of attention.

    I was a few months out of my second rehab facility when a friend and fellow stand up comic handed me a DVD, a documentary about comedian Eddie Pepitone called The Bitter Buddha. I was riveted by the documentary – not only was this man talking about real things that matter on stage (while I was mostly doing sex humor) but he was sober! And had been for a very long time.

    I declared him my favorite comic and waited anxiously for his first Netflix special to come out, In Ruins. I actually planned to go to the taping in Brooklyn, but then I relapsed. And I came back. And I relapsed. And I came back.

    My first article for The Fix was about giving up marijuana. I left out the role Eddie played in that, but here we are. 

    Last February I planned to go to LA, where Eddie lived, for some shows. I also planned to get a medical marijuana card. I emailed Eddie that I was his self-appointed very biggest fan, and he agreed to meet. We made plans. This was it! I was going to meet my comedy idol! And he was sober! But surely, I thought, he probably smoked weed. Living in California and all, and how could anyone even do comedy without imbibing in something at least–at the very least–after the show. (As if I could ever wait that long.)

    I planned to meet Eddie at a vegan restaurant and then go to a play. But first, that day I took a girl I met at a meeting to Harry Potter world. And then when I dropped her off, I had to get super super stoned to make up for the few hours I couldn’t. And then I was on the phone with the sponsor I had at the time yelling about how I was going to be late. And then I just had to stop at a dispensary.

    I was late to dinner. So late, in fact, that the first thing Eddie ever said to me was, “I ordered you dinner. And I ate it all.”

    So we go to the venue and my car just stinks like weed, which Eddie noticed. He brought it up, and when I heard him say the word I got super excited. I knew it! He does smoke weed! This is all the validation I have ever needed!

    However, I was wrong. He was bringing up weed to tell me it was the last thing he quit; that after that was when his career really started; that marijuana dampens the dreaming mechanism. The hole in my gut raged, as I knew he was right. After that I kept in touch with him more. He has helped me so much, and I know he can also help you.

    I have relapsed since then, most often the same old story other chronically relapsing comics tell me: hanging out too late, too good a set, too bad a set. There are a ton of us out here, and I’m sure there are more in other industries, building it all up in the periods of sobriety, then – at best – coasting on those wins during periods of relapse, and starting all over again when we get scared enough. 

    Yet there are a number of comedians I know with sustained, continuous, joyous sobriety. Those are the ones I wanted to talk to, the ones whose secrets I desperately wanted to know, the ones who seem to hold all the horcruxes that I can’t find. 

    So I asked Eddie.

    The Fix: What is the hardest thing about being sober in the comedy industry?

    Eddie Pepitone: Feeling like you’re missing out on an exceptional post-show high. Comedy is all about the adrenaline rush, and booze and weed intensify it and make you feel like a god. Also, comedy is such an intense brain-centric art. I miss turning it off with pot. The brain relaxes with pot.

    What is the best thing about being sober in comedy?

    Feels so great to do it sober and kick ass. I actually remember everything and I did it without drugs! Also [I’m] much sharper when I’m not high. I create more sober and am surprisingly much [more] fearless. I see stoner comedians flounder sloppily a lot.

    How did you deal in the early days of sobriety?

    Early days I did (as I tend to do now) split right away after I perform and stay out of trouble. I can hang now if I want and not feel as needy but I usually get bored after a while.

    What do you think it is about comedy that attracts so many addicts? Or addicts that are attracted to comedy?

    Comedy is totally addictive! It hits the part of the brain that drugs do. The love me love me I’m home I’m home part (that is when it goes well). You feel exhilarated because you are the center of attention (what addict isn’t about me me me???). The pace of jokes, the racing mind, the intoxication of the good looking crowd. THE VALIDATION.

    What advice would you give to comedians who struggle with chronic relapse?

    Chronic relapse and being a comic is super hard, so preventative measures need to be taken. TAKE CARE OF THE MIND/BODY. Meditation practice (tough because comics thrive on chaos and have little discipline) but you have to try to slow down and get a good foundation during the day. Try to stabilize endless desires for sex and excitement by letting go of intense fantasy life. Yoga, 12-step meetings, a couple of sober or even-keeled friends (but I find all this hard as my habits are so ingrained). Gym and exercise helped me. 

    Any other advice you think is helpful?

    Build up sobriety slowly. Feel the good feelings of not being fucked up and achieving stuff. It’s so nice not to be hungover. When depressed, talk to a deep friend who gets you.

    That deep friend, for me, is the one and only Eddie Pepitone. Sometimes when I’m lonely and don’t want to bother him, I listen to his podcast, Pep Talks, in which he is exactly how he always is: brilliant and authentic and brazenly self-aware. 

    Thank you Eddie, for being a light that shines the way out of the dark. And to all my fellow chronic relapsers out there: all we have to do is stay sober ONE MORE TIME than we got drunk.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Do You Want To Know What I’m Thinking? Me Neither

    Do You Want To Know What I’m Thinking? Me Neither

    I gain peace when I choose not to suffer. It isn’t easy, but neither is being miserable.

    I’ve got a big mouth, a lot of opinions, and little hesitation about expressing them—even when I haven’t done the homework.

    No matter how long I’ve been sober, how many meetings I attend, how many times I work the Steps, call my sponsor, pray, and attempt to meditate—when I think I’m being played, lied to, or, maybe even worse, ignored, my default is still to want to throw down and battle it out. I wanna know why. I wanna be heard. I want the truth. I want justice. And I wanna prove I’m right, dammit!

    I convince myself that I can convince you, and if that fails, coerce you—maybe even attempt to intimidate you. Not consciously of courseI’m way too good a person for that.

    But I can be pretty scary and intensein good and bad ways.

    I used to jump without taking a beat or giving ample thought. Sobriety and recovery have tempered that. Now I force myself to take contrary action and pausebecause wise people have taught me that if I really want to have my say, I’ll still want to say it latertomorrownext week. So, why not let it breathe and see if it dissipates?

    I hate that shit. If I let it go, you’ll never know that I know I’m right. Or worse, you may think I think you’re right.

    Hell if I do.

    They say that doing the right thing is more important than being right. Oh yeah? How about on a math quiz? Not that I’ve taken one in a gazillion years. But I am tested innumerable times, daily—especially of late. Mars is up my Uranus or some shit, and years of program have eluded me more times than I care to admit. But since we’re only as sick as our secrets…

    I was asked by one of my closest friends why I uncharacteristically didn’t return a couple of calls. I wondered why he had uncharacteristically made the calls, as I’m usually the one initiating, at least 90% of the time. (That’s a totally made up arbitrary number. I’m also a liar by defaultonly now, sober, I have a sort of Stanley Kubrick Clockwork Orange aversion to it, and bust myself almost before the words land.) I paused, as I’ve been taught to do. I rattled off all that had been keeping me busy. He pressed on.

    “Anything else? You’re sure nothing’s wrong?” I took a beat. I heard my sponsor in my head reminding me to just say “No!” I was quiet. I said nothing.

    He asked again. I knew better, but out of my mouth, without my permission or consent (aren’t those the same thing?), before I could stop, spilled: “Well, I’ve been kind of frustrated. I feel like every time I start to speak you interr…”

    He jumped in… and… interrupted me. I shut up. He realized almost immediately and gave me back the floor, or, in this case, aisle 8A at Costco. I was already hating on myself for saying a word, let alone 17 ½ of them. To what end? It’s not about meit’s his thing. Nothing is ever personal. I know that.

    I started to kind of apologize for saying anything. I was actually ostracizing myself for opening my BIG mouth. He, on the other hand, supported my choice, and because he’s in recovery too, we discussed the value of keeping our shit to ourselves versus talking it out. He thanked me for telling him. For the rest of the conversation, I could feel him biting his tongue to enable me to complete my thoughts. I appreciated it more than I can saybut let me try. It means so much to me when I matter enough to someone for them to make an effort to alter their natural rhythm on my behalf.

    Since that talk, every time we speak, when he starts to interject, he catches himselfboth of us aware of his effort. As thoughtful as that is, and as grateful as I am, it manifests a big awkward elephant dancing between us on the phone line.

    Did I really need to say anything? We are who we are.

    God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

    Discovering one of my oldest and closest friends had been in town a few times and warned his sister not to mention it blindsided me. Sure, our friendship had degenerated in recent years; where once we spoke every daysome days multiple timesand saw each other almost as often, lately it was occasional emails, holiday greetings, and a get-together whenever he was in town. Or so I thought.

    On the day we spent together last month, I chose to focus on the now, based on our 40+ years of shared history. I went out of my way to make him comfortable; he was grateful and generous. We agreed we’d shared a fabulous time.

    Posting about it on The Facebook, as I’m wont to do, then waking at 6 am to his sister’s flip comment about her happiness that he chose to see me this timewas like a hammer to my heart.

    There was no way to pretend I didn’t know. And yet, he isn’t on social media, so I could choose to ignore it.

    I wasn’t that recovered.

    What stung more: the fact that he lied to me, what he lied about, or that everyone I knew, knew too? The line between ego and feelings is not only fine it’s oft crossed without my awareness.

    I knew I should let it go—find peace with the help of my sponsor, my therapist, my life coach, my God squadforget a village, it takes a city (a big one, like New York and the surrounding metropolitan area).

    Without seeking grace, I found only will. Before saying a prayer, making a call, or taking a breath, at not quite 6 am, I sent him his sister’s wordsregretting it before I heard the swoosh of the “send.”

    He wrote me back immediately saying he’d had a terrific time, and was now sick to his stomach. He offered to explain. We planned a call. He forgot. Attempts to reschedule failed. About a week later I received an email. He had various and sundry practical reasonsit wasn’t personal, of course. Reading betwixt the lines (lines… we both gave that shit up a million years ago) was weed. We smoked together through the majority of our friendship. When I gave it up, I stopped being as much funto him. Why hang out with me and jones, when his other old pals still indulged and so could he.

    I get it. I remember how much I hated hanging with people who didn’t get high and infringed on my buzz. I avoided them whenever possible.

    I read his email, again and again, still smarting, still wanting to take his inventory about all the other shit he’s done over the years which hurt my feelings. I wanted to be heard, be right. This time I took a beat, said a prayer and found the courage to change the things I could. I took my fingers off the keyboard.

    I don’t want to fight, or need to be right. I want to party…

    Life is a party when I release expectations; when I don’t suffer the words and the actions of others; when I stay over here, on my side of the street and keep that sucker clean; when I let go of resenting people for not being who I want them to be, and remember that the behaviors of others have nothing to do with meother than I may be an unconscious trigger.

    That shit is hard.

    Letting go doesn’t have to mean goodbye, the end, no more. It just means I’ll be loving on you from over herewhere it’s safefor now. I’ll stick a toe back in, try again, and we don’t ever have to talk about it.

    I gain peace when I choose not to suffer. It isn’t easy, but neither is being miserable.

    Yesterday I had to make a choice—because when I’m learning a life lesson the universe makes sure I have plenty of practice. I was askedrather it was demandedthat I sign away all rights to my words, my authorship, and my copyright in perpetuity across the universe. In return I’d have an additional platform for my work, an enormous platform which reaches millions and would provide much-needed additional income. I’d already swallowed one huge alteration to my piece, done without my knowledge, which shifted my intention and my voice.

    What to do? Accept the things I can’t change? Have the courage to change the things I can? I sought counsel from my city and gained the wisdom to discern the difference.

    An evolved soul in the oft-dirty business of show, helped me to value and trust my worth, and find a spiritual solution. I chose to walk away; I did so sans drama, with a modicum of grace, thus leaving the door wide open if I alter my view—trusting an alternate venue and money stream will present.

    As if on cue, as I was relaying my decision via email, I got a call from a wise, successful, generous entrepreneur, suggesting a business we could do together. I have no idea if it’ll come to pass, or if it’ll be the answer I seek—but I do know it’s a sign. Someone’s always got my back.

    It works, when I work itwhen I take the high road and keep my righteous trap shut.

    I’m giving up my membership to fight club. The universe is keeping score, so I don’t have to.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • How I Conquered My Relationship Insecurity

    How I Conquered My Relationship Insecurity

    I didn’t engage in behaviors like calling or texting multiple times—if anything, I did the opposite, out of fear of being perceived as needy—but the thoughts alone, their irrationality and all-consuming anxiety, caused me a lot of pain.

    Fear of abandonment, jealousy, and general insecurity in romantic relationships leads many in the dating scene to be labeled the dreaded “needy.” It’s a pejorative that’s especially used to describe women, an insult that dismisses someone as being “crazy” for simply needing reassurance and consistent contact. Of course, men can suffer from the “needy” label too, but they often fall into the “unavailable” camp—aloof, distant, indifferent, and detached, which can quickly earn them the title “asshole.” Sadly, most folks don’t know the roots of these behaviors, so we’re left throwing insults at fellow daters rather than understanding that these traits date back to childhood.

    For years I thought I didn’t fall into the “needy” camp. Many of my past relationships were with men who bordered on needy themselves, so I never needed to feel insecure—if anything, they were the insecure ones, always vying for my time and attention. There was little reason to fear abandonment. It wasn’t until this past year that I discovered that if I’m invested in someone who is a bit more independent, my anxiety and fear of rejection can become nearly intolerable.

    Enter the man who is now my partner, Matthew*. The day after our first date, he sent me a very sweet text complimenting both my personality and appearance while adding that he would love to see me again, and soon. Just a few days later, we had our second date, and a few days after that, our third, and by that time I realized I could really fall for him.

    After our fourth date, I was officially hooked, and that’s when the anxiety hit. Now I was invested, and that meant that if a few days passed and I didn’t hear from him, I assumed he was over it. And I was so terrified of seeming needy that I rarely initiated a text. When I did, it would sometimes take hours for him to respond; that’s just his nature, being a very busy person, but when he didn’t respond right away, I’d once again assume he was over it. Despite all the fear, I’d always hear from him, often with a “Sorry, hun, wish I could have gotten back to you sooner!” text.

    At the time, I thought I was going slightly crazy. Part of me knew I was just being paranoid, and part of me kept buying into the irrational thoughts telling me that he was going to drop me. I knew that ghosters—people who vanish from seemingly stable dating scenarios for no reason whatsoever—were everywhere. But Matthew hadn’t given me any reason to think he might leave; all of his words and actions displayed evidence that he wasn’t going anywhere. Still, I worried and worried—every day waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Matthew to show some sign of disinterest.

    I comforted myself with thoughts like “Once we’re exclusive, this anxiety will go away.” Well, we became exclusive, and the anxiety did not go away. Even after he said “I love you,” I was still fixated on the fear that he would leave. No, I didn’t engage in “crazy” behaviors like calling or texting multiple times—if anything, I did the opposite, out of fear of being perceived as needy—but the thoughts alone, their irrationality and all-consuming anxiety, caused me a lot of pain.

    The pain prompted me to do some research on relationship insecurity—I had to know what the hell was wrong with me. That’s when I learned about attachment styles and the important role they play in romantic relationships. My fear of abandonment is a classic sign of an anxious attachment.

    British psychologist John Bowlby began exploring what he termed attachment theory in the 1960’s, and he conducted further research alongside psychologist Mary Ainsworth throughout the second half of the 20th century. According to Bowlby, the ways in which primary caregivers relate to infants and children greatly influence how they relate to others in their adult lives. Contemporary psychologists have expanded on Bowlby’s theory, many writing about the huge impact our attachment styles have on our romantic relationships and even how we perform at work. There’s also a study underway to determine what role, if any, attachment styles play in opioid addiction.

    Attachment theory posits that adults with secure attachment styles—around 50 percent of the population—had parents who were attentive, nurturing, calm, and, most importantly, consistent in this behavior. Those with anxious attachment styles usually had caregivers who were inconsistent, sometimes attentive, loving, and nurturing, and at other times distracted, distant, cold, or unresponsive to the child’s needs. Anxious attachments can also result from having overly-anxious or intrusive caregivers (this is probably how I wound up with an anxious attachment, as my mother often became too worried that something bad might happen to me.) Children who grew up with mostly aloof and detached parents typically wind up with an avoidant attachment style, those who crave intimacy but push it away out of fear.

    Unfortunately, people with anxious attachment styles often gravitate to those with avoidant attachment styles, and vice versa, and this causes all sorts of heartache. Those who have secure attachment patterns are often already paired up—they’re the folks who are content in long-term relationships and forging lasting intimate bonds. This explains why spending lots of time on dating apps can sometimes lead to crushed hopes over and over again. If all the healthy folks are already in relationships, what’s left are a lot of people who may have some emotional baggage that begs sorting through.

    If you’ve ever attended a SLAA meeting, you’ve probably heard of the “love addict” and the “love avoidant.” In many ways, the love addict mirrors someone with an anxious attachment style—the deep need for connection and intimacy is a quality inherent in both personality types. Naturally, the “love avoidant” described in SLAA mirrors the avoidant attachment style.

    According to SLAA philosophy, the antidote to love addiction or love avoidance is the 12 steps, steps that require faith in a power greater than oneself, the admitting of character defects, and turning over one’s will to God as we understand Him. Though I’m not anti-SLAA per se, I do find it interesting that the terms “love addict” and “love avoidant” actually have roots in psychological theory, so the cause of the insecurity may have less to do with character defects and more to do with the way we were parented.

    Though an insecure attachment style may sound like a curse for anyone who’s looking for long-term love, there’s good news: anyone can change their insecure attachment style to a secure one through psychodynamic therapy, being in a healthy relationship with a securely-attached partner, and also by becoming a parent.

    It took a combo of consistent psychodynamic therapy and my relationship with Matthew, who has a secure attachment style, to help ease all of my anxieties. They haven’t gone away completely, but I have seen demonstrable improvement since I started working on them. I realized how far I’d come when he took a second business trip for a few days. The first time this happened, I grew anxious when I didn’t hear from him; this time when he went out of town, I didn’t fret once during his entire week away. Sure, I missed him, especially since we’re now living together, but I wasn’t ruminating on the idea that he would never return, and I actually ended up having a great week just hanging out with my friends.

    For someone with an anxious attachment style, behavior like calling or texting the object of their affection repeatedly throughout the day, or prying into their personal business, can emerge. Not surprisingly, all these attempts at reassurance turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy—they push the other person away. If the partner is avoidant, he or she can get angry, dismissing the anxious person’s needs. If the partner is securely attached, they are more likely to be reassuring, but not if the behavior is continually hostile, accusatory, or pathological. In the event that this behavior surfaces, odds are the securely-attached partner will withdraw.

    Though I didn’t engage in destructive behaviors with Matthew, my anxiety did reach a point where I had to share this struggle with him. There was no way around it—if I didn’t open up about my insecurities, which were causing me so much psychological pain, then I feared a wedge would stand between us, creating distance. What’s the point of being in a relationship if you can’t unload all your fears on your partner?

    I felt humiliated voicing my insecurity to him for the first time, which happened right as I started therapy, about six months into our relationship. Admitting to him that I was often preoccupied with the status of our relationship rather than prancing around Los Angeles “doing me” with a big fulfilled smile across my face, loving life and living big, which, apparently, is what single people are supposed to do at all times in order to be happy and to find a partner, terrified me. I figured fessing up would scare him and push him away.

    But Matthew was very reassuring. He told me: “Your needs are your needs, and there’s nothing wrong with them.” He did explicitly state that it’s up to me to find emotional balance when I get anxious, but he’ll meet me halfway as best he can if I need a little extra reassurance. On my end, I’ve had to learn to tolerate my anxiety, to sit with it and surrender my need for control. Since Matthew’s an introvert, he tends to withdraw when overwhelmed, which can come across as distant. This can certainly make me anxious, but I have had to learn to surrender my fears of being rejected and abandoned. At this stage, when I do get anxious, I have to resort to a kind of Buddhist mentality—nothing is permanent, I have no control over Matthew or over the longevity of our relationship, and everything will be okay even if things do end.

    It’s remarkable progress that I doubt I would have made without facing my insecure attachment head-on.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Owning My Space as a Woman in 12-Step Programs

    Owning My Space as a Woman in 12-Step Programs

    I am totally within my rights if I say no, you may not sit there, and no, I don’t want a hug and I don’t want a cup of coffee and just back the fuck off because I have mace in my purse.

    Several days after I took my last drink, I was detoxing at home (note: this is not a good idea) when my mother came over to check on me.

    “You should go to AA,” she said, not judgmentally but kindly, from her perch on the sofa in our playroom. I was sweating, sprawled on the other couch, ignoring the toys strewn around me, and her suggestion hit me like a crack of lightning. I sat upright.

    “Absolutely NOT,” I replied. “I’m not going to sit in a room full of people who have problems.

    I laugh about it now, looking back. Alcoholics Anonymous is exactly where I belonged then, and it’s where I belong today, but finding the courage to take that first step is not easy by any stretch of the imagination. I was terrified, physically and emotionally sick, and as vulnerable as a baby animal left in the woods. Truthfully, I belonged in rehab, but our insurance would require us to pay thousands of dollars out of pocket if we chose that route, and we simply could not afford it.

    People fresh out of the mire of addiction or alcoholism, are, in a word, weak. I waffled between wanting to die and experiencing bursts of euphoria. I had moments where I would have done any drug offered to me, just to make the unfamiliar experience of feeling raw emotions stop. I was fortunate enough to have a fortress of strong friends and family around me to hold me accountable and keep me on track long enough for sobriety to really take hold, but I can honestly say that I’ve never been as vulnerable as I was in early recovery.

    And that is why I am so pissed off at the men who tried, unsuccessfully, to take advantage of my weakened state.

    I don’t hate men; I think they’re pretty great. Men have, in general, always treated me well. I have two sons, an amazing husband, a wonderful dad, and multiple examples of loving, emotionally healthy male figures in my life. My life experiences have shown me that men are not only perfectly capable of treating women like human beings, but also that they should be expected to do so. Maybe I’m naïve, or sheltered, or simply have out of whack expectations, but when I began attending 12-step programs, I was quickly reminded that not all men are decent, and it PISSED ME OFF.

    I’m not going to bore you with descriptions of how some of the dirty old-timers treat me before they realize I don’t play the 13th stepper game. Some of these people are very slow learners, and others may never get it. If I had not been pushed, encouraged, and sometimes accompanied by my badass girlfriends, the energy it took to ward off the creeps would have been enough to allow me to talk myself into just staying home. It was the perfect excuse, really – telling myself that it wasn’t worth the trouble, or that a women’s only meeting wasn’t until tomorrow, so I could just skip out for today.

    Fuck that.

    “There will always be assholes,” my sponsor said at the time. “You can’t let that stop you from staying sober.” That was the day I decided not to allow someone else’s sickness interfere with my own recovery.

    Fuck that.

    I had no idea that I am terrible with boundaries until I started practicing saying “no” when a creeper tried to hold my hand or sit next to me. I learned that nothing terrible happens when I stand up in the middle of a meeting and switch seats, or if I say “this seat is taken,” even when it’s not. I learned that I can simply say no without offering an explanation. I am totally within my rights if I say no, you may not sit there, and no, I don’t want a hug and I don’t want a cup of coffee and just back the fuck off because I have mace in my purse.

    Fuck that.

    When a known predator walked right up to me and tried to give me a kiss, I stepped away and said “NOPE” as loudly as I could. As time went on and the fogginess of early sobriety began to clear, I forced myself to speak up in meetings, even with multiple pairs of eyes boring into me, mouthing words to me, and generally making me uncomfortable.

    Fuck that.

    My husband suggested that I start looking rough on purpose; at the beginning, I didn’t have to try. I looked like shit 24/7. But honestly, I don’t think it matters. Creepers gonna creep, no matter what a newcomer looks like.

    I refuse to be crowded out of the only place I can go to for safety. I am in a happy marriage, I’m not looking for a sugar daddy or a fuck buddy or even a friend. I can get my own coffee and throw away my own garbage and get my own chair, and don’t you dare follow me to my car. I am in the rooms because I’m sick and I want to get better, and when I watch the newer newcomer get preyed upon like they tried to do to me, it fills me with a quiet rage. All I can do is give her my phone number and encourage her to find her boundaries and more importantly, her voice.

    So now, nearly 18 months in, I force myself to look the men loitering around outside of the meeting in the eye; I don’t scurry by, allowing them to stare without any acknowledgement from me. I’m here, I’m taking up space, and I don’t owe you anything – not even a smile, not unless I fucking feel like it.

    View the original article at thefix.com