Tag: ACA

  • Relapse for Cash: How Patient Brokers and Unscrupulous Rehabs Prey on Addicts Looking for Help

    Relapse for Cash: How Patient Brokers and Unscrupulous Rehabs Prey on Addicts Looking for Help

    Patient brokers know there’s more money in relapse than in getting people sober.

    If you think patient brokering, also known as “body brokering,” is just about “professionals” getting kickbacks for referring a client to a certain rehab, you are wrong. It’s much more complicated and sinister than that. I did a deep dive and interviewed the head of a watchdog group, a rehab counselor, a rehab business development guy, and the head of an ethics association to try to get the full picture. And despite patient brokering being officially illegal in California and Florida since January, it’s still terrifyingly prevalent.

    I was first prompted to write this piece after an experience with a sponsee. She was in a sober living and was offered money by another client at the house to relapse and then check into an upscale rehab. Because you must test dirty for your insurance to start over and cover treatment, she got loaded and was shipped off to a fancy Malibu rehab for a week. She was ecstatic. 

    Recovering Addicts Preying on Other Recovering Addicts

    Of course, soon she was sent to a shitty sober living which she described as a “flop house.” Thankfully she didn’t die during the relapse, and she didn’t get her money either. The “body brokers” in this case, recovering addicts preying on other recovering addicts, ran off with the kickback money they got from the rehab as well as the money they were supposed to give my sponsee. If this sounds bad, it gets worse. 

    I spoke with David Skonezny, the admin for the closed Facebook group “It’s Time for Ethics in Addiction Treatment.” As Skonezny moved through the ranks of drug and alcohol counseling, eventually becoming the COO of a treatment center, “body brokering,” an open secret in the business, came to his attention. He started the group to “separate the wheat from the chaff” and to identify the people he wanted to work with to create a solution for the myriad problems plaguing the profession; however, he underestimated how pissed off and hurt people were. 

    “It quickly ended up being a referendum of sorts on addiction treatment as people started posting snapshots of text messages, naming names… It got really deep really fast.” As a result, one of the moderators of the group set up a site that provided a comprehensive list of agencies for the reporting of illegal and unethical activity, including credentialing and accreditation bodies, law enforcement, state agencies, and insurance investigators. People can now report the facilities as well as the brokers engaging in this illegal and unethical behavior. That site is: Ethics in Treatment (www.EthicsInTreatment.com).

    “Body Brokers” Buy and Sell Patients

    As Skonezny explained to me, in the referral game it’s about buying clients. Initially a treatment center might pay perhaps $10,000 for a client (that figure has dropped substantially as a result of immense competition), but it was worth it because you could bill the insurance for six figures over the course of a treatment episode. As it became harder to acquire clients this way, body brokers and rehabs started to offer other inducements such as air travel to treatment, clothes, cell phones, and cigarettes. And because people with these premium insurance policies are hard to find, brokers would find a prospect and then buy the policy for them. The rehab pays the first month’s premium, and then once the insurance is active, bingo. 

    Once the benefits are exhausted, however, the client gets kicked out, usually with nowhere to go and no return ticket home, and ends up homeless and desperate. But now they know the drill. They realize if they get loaded, they’re eligible for treatment again and can go back into rehab. This revolving door, “going on tour,” as Skonezny calls it, became a common strategy for both the brokers and the clients in order to maintain free housing, food, and other perks. 

    “This has created an artificial recovery community in Southern California, particularly in Orange County where kids are getting flown in and then kicked out. At one point it created a massive homeless population of young addicts, especially in Costa Mesa,” Skonezny told me. Some of those kids die on the streets, some go home, some keep cycling through treatment. 

    How did we get to this place? I asked. Well, when the Affordable Care Act went into effect, behavioral health issues, including mental health and addiction, became essential medical services. 

    “This created an unprecedented availability for people to get insurance coverage, and people who wouldn’t have otherwise had an opportunity to go to treatment now could,” Skonezny explained. “This should have been a good thing, except that with addicts flooding addiction centers, the owners and others began to realize that there was a lot of money to be made.”

    There are two types of insurance policies: an HMO, where you need a referral from a primary doctor and must go to a place in network, and a PPO, where there’s no referral necessary and because it’s out of network, there are no contracted or set rates. Rehabs want the PPOs. They can charge whatever they want, and they do. They can bill the insurance for ridiculous amounts for daily services ($2,500 for a daily session from a PPO vs. $300 from an HMO) including huge charges for urine tests.

    Alumni Get Kickbacks for Bringing in New Patients 

    Soon insurance companies got wise to the game and began reducing the financial reimbursement to rehabs, as well as the length and level of care they would allow. As a result, the rehabs were making less money and thus needed to up their referral game even more, so they got their alumni involved. Newly sober addicts who have been in a 12-step program have access to a network of possible patients: newcomers in meetings. These newly sober ex-clients start getting kickbacks from rehabs to bring in new clients. And then those clients do the same once they get out of treatment. Now you have a new cycle: predators creating predators. 

    Eventually, those people who were cycling through treatment stopped getting authorized for the higher levels of care, but they were still being okayed for intensive outpatient treatment (IOP). So IOPs began to get swarmed with clients, but these clients needed a place to live. To fill that need, sober living residences started popping up all over the place. Therein lay the beginning of kickbacks between IOPs and sober livings. 

    “So now we have this massive infrastructure that needs to be fed. With less clients at higher levels of care, rehabs start charging for urine testing they’re not doing and getting kickbacks from labs. Even sober livings who have no right to bill insurance for testing clients start hooking up with labs and getting kickbacks,” Skonezny said.

    The people engaging in these practices are not necessarily predators by nature, Skonezny says. They are typically new to recovery and still fighting old demons and dealing with underlying trauma or other psychiatric conditions. “I think initially most people (with the exception of some of the more predatory ones) that get into this profession are well intentioned, but then greed takes over, or perhaps fear, and they begin to cut corners and engage in unhealthy, unethical, illegal behaviors.”

    There’s More Money in Relapse Than Getting People Sober

    Skonezny pointed out that all of it—treatment, sober livings, urine testing—has roots in legitimacy, but here’s the ugly truth: there’s more money in treatment than there is in recovery. There’s more money in relapse than in getting people sober. 

    Chuk Davis has 21 years in recovery and has been working in this business for over a decade. He is currently a counselor at Wavelengths Recovery and he has seen patient brokering first-hand and from the inside.

    Davis explained to me the phenomenon of “client advocates.” The “advocate” calls a treatment center and says, “We have somebody who’s a really good fit for your program.” They then charge a “finder’s fee,” which was outlawed in January. “Unless you are part of the organization, you cannot be a paid recruit for the organization.” he said.

    “These client advocates are really entrepreneurs: 25-year-old kids driving $50,000 cars,” Davis clarified. “Turns out they were bribing the client to come to treatment with money and a $500 gift card… The idea was they were doing some sort of vetting, but they weren’t. They were getting a fee from the center and then bribing the clients to go to treatment.”

    Prior to this practice, treatment centers would contract with call centers, which would take leads and then charge the facility a certain amount of money for any lead they took. That too is now illegal.

    “I’ve seen people come into treatment who say they are drug addicts but they test clean immediately. They give us some bullshit story that they already got clean but need help maintaining their sobriety. Soon enough they are paying a bunch of clients to leave and go to some other treatment center that they’re probably getting a kickback from,” Davis said. “Unfortunately, two of the people that were pulled out of treatment like this ended up getting loaded and dying.”

    If Treatment Centers Don’t Pay for Patients, There’s No More Patient Brokering

    Davis is hopeful that the new laws regarding patient brokering will thin the herd, and the super shady people will get pushed out. “I mean they have people talking to the local homeless and offering them $1,500 to go to some place in Long Beach for ten days. Of course those guys are going to go. In the end it’s the kids that really want help that are getting fucked.”

    I next spoke with Zach Snitzer, the co-founder and director of business development at Maryland Addiction Recovery Center

    His take on patient brokering was a little different. “Patient brokering goes further than simply paying for patients. In my mind, it includes things like waiving insurance deductibles, website and call aggregates, free sober living thanks to the high payment for lab tests; not simply paying someone $1,500 to go to treatment.”

    Snitzer’s answer to the brokering problem is simple: “If treatment centers don’t pay for patients, there’s no more patient brokering. If you take down the treatment centers that are doing patient brokering, then patient brokering goes away.” He’s adamant that we not only prosecute the patient brokers themselves, but the facilities engaging in it as well. 

    Snitzer echoed Skonezny’s observations that it’s not money-hungry crooks infiltrating the treatment industry to take advantage of people who need help, it’s people who are already here: “The patient brokers are typically people who are early in sobriety or people who were once patient brokered themselves.”

    “You should be piss testing us more than you are…”

    Snitzer has seen many patients who are hip to the hustle, asking what the facility is getting reimbursed, and having an insider’s knowledge of diagnostic codes. “When you have clients saying, ‘You should be piss testing us more than you are,’…well, no wonder they can’t get better.” Usually patients like that—who are already caught up in the game—don’t stay long in treatment, he said. They’re rarely initially willing to get better; for them there’s no money in getting sober.

    Snitzer agreed that the ACA was a contributing factor to the problem but added that referral fees were happening way before insurance. “It’s a decades-old industry but it’s still very wild wild west. There needs to be more regulation in the industry. People seem terrified that if they don’t self-regulate, an outside agency will come in. But there are lots of industries that are regulated by outside agencies and organizations thrive in those environments.”

    And state licensing is simply not thorough enough. “They don’t look at the whole scope of the organization. They don’t look at admission processing, urinalysis policies, or marketing practices… they look at hand washing stations and fire extinguishers.”

    “Part of the problem is that addiction is a disease and rehab facilities are actually healthcare organizations and want to be paid and respected as such, yet they often don’t have programs that are offering evidence-based care,” Snitzer said. 

    “We can’t even agree as an industry about what ‘success’ looks like. Is it sobriety? That used to be what success looked like. But can that be the standard anymore? Not everyone who enters treatment is a hopeless variety alcoholic as defined by the 12 steps, and therefore maybe they don’t require lifelong sobriety to achieve a high quality of life. What about an 18-year-old kid with trauma who’s self-medicating to cope or dealing with a psychiatric issue? Do they need sobriety?” 

    Snitzer believes the results of effective treatment can’t be measured by the same set of criteria for everyone: “We need to figure out what a successful outcome for that person is, and it has to be defined by quality of life, and not just sobriety.”

    He’s also witnessed the bribing from other facilities: vans pulling up with gift cards and other goodies, coercing patients to come to their facility in whatever way they can. “We take our clients to outside meetings and they’re approached by poachers offering to fly them out to California, claiming they have ‘music connections,’” Snitzer complained.

    When I asked him how Maryland Addiction Recovery Center manages to stay ethical amidst all this, he was frank. “We don’t expand above our means. We keep things a size that’s manageable. We all started working at an ethical place [Caron]. In the mentorship we got, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen. Granted we opened in a place where there aren’t hundreds of rehabs like Florida or California. When we started, there were just a few IOPs and a few residential places but not a true extended care.”

    What’s the Solution to Patient Brokering?

    So now you’re well versed in the problem. What’s the solution?

    Andrew Powers is in long-term recovery and has worked in the treatment field for eight years. While working for a center based in both Colorado and Maryland, he noticed several differences between the locations. Colorado treatment professionals worked in a very collaborative, transparent environment while those in the DC Metro area were more closed off. 

    “The cultures were drastically different,” Powers told me. He saw that people were talking shit about each other, and he thought, “Let’s raise the bar for the individuals representing treatment programs because people are receiving care at these unethical centers whether you agree with what they do or not.”

    To accomplish this goal, he created the D.C.-Maryland-Virginia Professional Liaisons Association (DMV PLA), a regular forum for business development professionals, admissions representatives, marketers, and others that “focuses on the professional development of those working in these roles.” 

    Unlike other PLAs, which Powers found were often about referral generation and schmoozing, the DMVPLA would aim for a higher standard.

    “We are working on a membership similar to NAATP [National Association of Addiction Treatment Providers], but rather than for the provider it is for the individual, which folks will be able to apply to be a part of and then held to an ethical standard of conduct,” he said. “It will be community-based at first and then we can roll it out from there… if it makes sense to do so.”

    “In our field there are very limited forums for individuals working as business development, or in admissions, to receive professional development… In fact, most organizations don’t even invest in their own employees’ growth or train them on ethics at all,” Powers explained, emphasizing again that his organization is not for networking. 

    Like Skonezny and Snitzer, Powers acknowledges these brokers didn’t start out as predators, but that after they learn what’s going on they have an obligation to do the right thing. “There are people with good hearts and intentions working for these unethical programs, but some don’t know better,” he said. “[We’d have to tell them] ‘That thing you just saw go down, that is illegal.’ And they say, ‘Well I didn’t know it was illegal, I wasn’t trained when I got hired!’ Well now you know.”

    Addiction Treatment Must Police Itself from the Inside

    Powers was clear that the industry must continue to police itself from the inside. There is only so much that outside bodies can do. “People need to speak up and stop pointing fingers behind people’s backs. The term ‘marketer’ is almost synonymous with felon at this point… Let’s move toward a solution and gain the respect that our profession and roles deserve,” he urged.

    The DMV PLA has received support from NAATP and others, but it’s still a work in progress. They have a lot of people reporting “well I heard…” and with that kind of vague info, their hands are tied. 

    Since so many people are afraid to come forward lest they lose their jobs, Powers would like to have a confidential suggestion box where people can submit anonymously and then they’ll confront that person. 

    Powers was humble in saying that “the DMV PLA is nothing special… just good people who came together in the community to try and make a difference in the profession, and ultimately in the lives of those seeking treatment… this can happen anywhere.” 

    Let’s hope it does. 

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • How Facebook Helped Me Overcome My Anxiety

    How Facebook Helped Me Overcome My Anxiety

    More than the actual anxiety was the anxiety about the anxiety. I felt tremendous shame for having negative feelings at all.

    It was 3pm on a Tuesday, and I was sitting at my desk with my head on my keyboard; I was too revved up to sit still, much less concentrate on work. I was in the midst of a resurgence of my lifelong anxiety and couldn’t talk to anyone or even focus on anything. Months later, I would finally be diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD).

    The diagnosis was a relief. It made sense of overwhelming feelings I’d had my whole life that had mostly been regarded as a character flaw. I grew up in an alcoholic home, and I’d been going to therapy for years to face the trauma of my childhood. For the first time I was feeling my emotions instead of mashing them down, and expressing anger before it turned into resentment. My anxiety had decreased throughout this process, but then I decided to get married. My fiance did nothing wrong, mind you, but somehow the thought of marriage made me feel trapped and put me mentally back in my childhood home. I grew incredibly anxious — and yet completely unaware of it.

    I’d had trouble sleeping for months but I wasn’t upset or stressed about anything — at least not anything conscious. My stomach felt like it’d been glued shut. I couldn’t eat. Soon enough my weight starting dropping enough for other people to comment on it. Compliments at first that slowly morphed into expressions of concern. I felt nervous all the time and I was hyper-vigilant, no matter who I encountered or where I was. If I was in a car, I’d flinch at the sight of another vehicle pulling out of a parking space as though it was about to hit me — even if it was well outside my physical range. I was sleeping two hours a night and not even feeling tired the next day. Sitting still felt like torture, and I was constantly second guessing myself as if I couldn’t trust my perceptions. I’d had episodes like this off and on for most of my life but I’d always pushed it down. But now, after a lot of therapy and ACOA recovery work, when the anxiety attacks returned, I had to acknowledge them. My overwhelming anxiety was there and I couldn’t hide it no matter how badly I wanted to.

    But that was the problem: I really really wanted to.

    More than the actual anxiety was the anxiety about the anxiety. I felt tremendous shame for having negative feelings at all. (All you ACOAs out there know what I’m talking about, right?) Growing up in my house, negative feelings had been treated like a disease that had to be banished. This didn’t just come from family but from the entire culture where I was raised. I explained to my therapist that even as an adult I felt like a streak of tar ran through me that marked me as broken, and I lived in constant fear of people seeing it. So when my anxiety revisited me, I tried to hide it, but piling that shame on top of it only made it worse. I wanted simultaneously to jump out of my own skin and hide inside my house forever.

    Then I remembered what Brene Brown said in her book on shame: that silence fed shame while a sense of common humanity combatted it. That meant talking about what I was feeling. Reaching out to tell someone was a major part of fighting shame because it made you feel less alone. Then it occurred to me: what if I just preempted this terror of someone discovering my anxious state and just told them? If I owned how I felt in advance, perhaps I’d feel less shame because I wouldn’t be so desperate to hide it. Problem was, any time I tried to talk about it in person, I completely fell to bits and I didn’t exactly want to put myself through that over and over again.

    So instead I opted to put it on Facebook.

    Of course, Facebook is the capital of oversharing and I normally kept my digital shouting box strictly to jokes. But I just didn’t see a better way to inform people of what I was going through or that my behavior might be different than my usual. In fairness to Brene Brown, she clarifies that reaching out to others in order to combat shame needs to be aimed at people who are receptive to hearing your pain. She definitely doesn’t suggest blasting it all over your social media. But that’s what I did.

    I wrote a long explanation of my mental state asking for compassion rather than advice and hit “post” before I could change my mind. Now, I should be clear that I didn’t exactly blast this to everyone I knew on Facebook. I used customized security settings so only those in the same city as me and my oldest, closest friends could see it, and I blocked my whole family as well as loose acquaintances. I hit post and immediately shut my laptop, vowing not to log into Facebook for at least a couple hours. I’d purposely planned my post to coincide with a concert I was attending because I knew it would prevent me from checking my phone constantly. I figured if anyone was judgemental or shaming, the bite might sting less if several hours had gone by — or possibly I wouldn’t even notice it in a flood of other tiny red notifications.

    When I finally gathered the courage to open Facebook again, I had a torrent of messages and notifications. Most of them carried the same sentiment: I have anxiety, too. While I’d certainly blasted my personal world with my emotional state hoping to get some level empathy, I didn’t anticipate which corners of my social circles would be delivering it. Close friends of mine, people I used to share every secret with, messaged to tell me they’d recently gone through something similar and not talked about it. Acquaintances wrote with ideas and (indeed) some advice. Much of the advice wasn’t especially helpful, but knowing that I wasn’t alone made a world of difference. For months afterward, casual acquaintances told me that sharing my experience actually helped them feel less alone, which I hadn’t even thought about.

    I can’t pretend like simply talking about my anxiety made it go away or even lessen much. It still took another year of focus, self care, and work before I truly felt like myself again. Sharing my anxiety online allowed me to deal with it without shame and without feeling like I was broken. In other words, it meant one less roadblock to contend with, and — given my emotional state at the time — I might not have made it through the anxiety without it.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • An End to the Parent-Child Role Reversal: Taking Care of Me

    An End to the Parent-Child Role Reversal: Taking Care of Me

    When my dad drank, he folded in on himself and quietly disappeared. When this happened, I’d wait patiently for his return while dreaming up myriad ways to make his life better.

    There was a little more than a week to go before my wedding day. Left on my to-do list was an array of tasks:

    • Pick up the marriage license.
    • Finalize the seating chart.
    • Tell my dad he wouldn’t be walking me down the aisle.

    I called him on a Sunday afternoon, and he responded the following Thursday. After awkwardly discussing the weather, I said, “Dad, I need to talk to you about the wedding.”

    As I waited for him to say something, I pictured him gently resting his cigarette in an ashtray on the kitchen table, leaning back in a chair and adjusting his thin-rimmed glasses away from the tip of his nose. Finally, he cleared his throat and let out a long and careful, “Okaay.”

    “Listen, I want you to know this isn’t because I’m angry.” I paused. “It’s just I’ve thought about it and…I’ve decided it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to walk me down the aisle.”

    “Mmm hmm,” he grunted.

    “I mean…I wanna hear whatever you have to say,” I told him. “Do you want to ask me anything? Do you want to talk about it?” I waited. I wanted to know what he was thinking, and I thought he’d do so with words, but instead, he chose silence.

    “Do you have anything at all to say about this?” I asked.

    “Nope,” he snapped. “I got nuthin to say.”

    *

    If you ask my mother, my father didn’t come to the hospital the day I was born. It’s not that he didn’t know my mom was in labor, or that I arrived earlier than expected, it was because he didn’t believe I was his. And, knowing my father, he probably assured my mother he’d be there, in the delivery room, and then decided not to come and didn’t think to tell her.

    But despite his absence, which I was dull to as a newborn, as a kid I possessed an untempered affinity for my father. When my parents divorced when I was four years old, they agreed he would keep the house and my mother and I would move a 30-minute drive away, back to her hometown of East Falls, Philadelphia. On the day we left, I sat on my parents’ bed with my Raggedy Ann doll and watched my mother dump her side of their dresser into a suitcase, whining to the back of her head, “I don wanna leave daddy. I wanna stay wit daddy.”

    As I was growing up, my dad was drunk more often than I realized. I watched him stumble and bump into walls, and walked in on him passed out, chin on chest at the kitchen table. I sat and listened to his drunken, swear-laced ramblings about his bastard father, the assholes at work and the overall unfairness of life, but I never considered my dad an alcoholic because he didn’t behave like the ones I knew. Unlike my mom and stepdad whose drinking guaranteed violence, when my dad drank, he folded in on himself and quietly disappeared. When this happened, I’d wait patiently for his return while dreaming up myriad ways to make his life better.

    At some point, this dysfunctional pattern led to a complete role reversal: my father regressed into the helpless child, and I became the dutiful parent.

    When he was drunk and while I still believed in Santa Claus, we slipped effortlessly into our roles, but when I became a teenager who needed more than my father could give, the cracks in our relationship began to show.

    During my junior year of high school, I got a job as a telemarketer selling frozen beef. One night after a shift, I headed outside to the parking lot, expecting my dad’s truck to be idling by the curb, but he wasn’t there.

    I waited about 10 minutes before I left the parking lot to use the payphone across the street. I called home collect at least a dozen times and each time the operator came back with the same disappointing response, “No one’s home,” she said. “Do you want me to try again?”

    After an hour of pacing in the dark, I embraced my only option and started walking. By car, the drive home would’ve taken 20 minutes, but on foot, it took me over two hours. At 11 pm, I arrived home to find I couldn’t open the front door because my father had jammed a kitchen chair under the handle. When he finally let me in, he refused to believe that I’d walked for two hours.

    “Where the fuck were you?” He screamed.

    “Where was I?” I punched back. “Where the hell were you?”

    “I was in the parking lot, and you weren’t there,” he lied.

    “What are you talking about? I waited an hour, and I called a million times,” I yelled.

    “Who were you with?” He took a long drag from his cigarette.

    “What do you mean who was I with?” I roared. “I walked home alone, two hours down Germantown Pike like a freakin’ prostitute.”

    “No, you didn’t.”

    “I didn’t?” I asked in disbelief. “Look at me: I’m soaked with sweat. Look at my feet!” I pointed at the dirt filled cuts and raw blisters my sandals left behind. Halfway through my journey, when the pain became unbearable, I ripped them off and walked the rest of the way barefoot. The black layer of grime and dried blood coating my feet was all the proof I thought my father needed. But he was drunk, and he’d already made up his mind.

    “You’re a fuckin liar.” He slurred as he looked at my feet.

    *

    My father’s greatest disappearing act occurred when I was in my freshman year of college. After months of chat room flirting, my stepmother packed up her car and drove to Florida to be with her Internet lover. On the day she left, my father called and left a message on my dorm room answering machine.

    “She left me for a guy living in a trailer park! She’s telling everyone I beat her,” he wailed. “You’re all that matters to me now; it’s just you and me, kiddo.”

    That weekend I drove home to be with my father. When I walked through the front door I found him drunk at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and staring blankly at the white wall in front of him. I sat and watched him cry, promising him that the pain he felt was temporary and that my stepmother was a complete fool for leaving him. Driving to a Friendly’s restaurant for dinner one night, I sat in the passenger seat and watched my father get lost on a route that he’d driven a thousand times before. Seeing him hurting so profoundly cut me wide open. And although I didn’t have the tools to fix it, I knew he needed me, and I was going to be there for him even if it meant losing myself along the way.

    Back at school, worrying about my father edged out my sanity. I worried about him driving drunk, I worried about him feeling alone, and I lost sleep over the fear of him taking his own life. I became so consumed with him that I barely noticed the cloud of depression that stopped me from brushing my teeth or the bursts of anxiety that stole my sleep. But still, I answered my father’s every phone call, I walked with him through the grief, and I did my best to coach him back to life.

    And then one day, he stopped calling and just disappeared.

    Fearing the worst, I stalked his phone. I called and left messages on his voice mail until the mailbox was full. After a week of torture, I reached his co-worker.

    “Oh yeah, your dad’s fine,” he told me calmly. “He’s on vacation with your stepmom in Florida.”

    *

    To my shock and surprise, my father showed up on my wedding day, and from the sidelines he watched me walk down the aisle. Since then, almost seven years have passed, and I can honestly say I don’t regret my decision because it reflected the truth about my relationship with my father: he’s always been the petulant child while I’ve played the role of the ill-prepared adult. For years, I took care of him, catering to his every emotional need while he couldn’t bother to be concerned with mine.

    On my wedding day, I retired from that role and did what was right for me.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • I'm Sorry Daddy, I Won't Be at Your Funeral

    I'm Sorry Daddy, I Won't Be at Your Funeral

    I used to think my relationship with my father was unique, different: complicated on its best day and toxic, disruptive, and unbearable on its worst. I know now it’s not unique.

    I have always known—well maybe not always, but for a very long time—that I would most likely not be attending my father’s funeral. I made that choice in my mind and in my heart a long time ago. Not due to lack of love, but for personal preservation. For my own health. For my own happiness. For my sanity. For my spirit. He didn’t need to be sick for me to envision the day that he would pass; after all if I have learned anything in my 49 years of this journey, it is that we are all dying. And we should not assume it is going to be when we are old.

    My dad was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer a few months back and it had spread to various parts of his body—the prognosis wasn’t good. I really don’t know all the details; most of my family members didn’t speak to me about it, and I take responsibility for not asking. For the ones who stayed silent to protect me and my heart, I am forever grateful. And for those who didn’t whisper a word because they thought I was a self-centered, disrespectful, heartless, unkind, unforgiving, uncaring, cold-hearted, and insensitive daughter, I understand those perceptions too; that is part of my internal struggle and at times exactly how I feel about myself.

    I used to think my relationship with my father was unique, different: complicated on its best day and toxic, disruptive, and unbearable on its worst. I know now it’s not unique. There are many people who for a variety of reasons have infrequent contact (or like me, no contact at all) with one or both of their parents.

    I am what is known as an ACOA: Adult Child of an Alcoholic.

    My parents divorced when I was nine years old, and the oddest thing is I have no memory whatsoever of anything happy or any special moment with my father before that time. None.

    The only memory I have of my daddy from my childhood before age nine is the drunken fighting. The chaos, the yelling, the screaming, the violence; my little brother and me not being picked up from the babysitter’s when it closed because he was out at the bar, and other memories of having to flee the house in the middle of the night. I have no recollection of any Christmas mornings opening gifts under the tree; a birthday party or vacation; a family dinner. No memory whatsoever, although we did all of those things. I know there were happy times, I have seen pictures of our family. My beautiful mom, my little brother, me, and our daddy in slightly cracked, old, seventies pictures looking like a perfect family.

    But after years of therapy, I have learned and continue to learn so much, not only about being the child of an alcoholic but about trauma. I believe that things that terrify you—make you feel unsafe, frightened, scared—far outweigh any good.

    My permanent estrangement from my dad came much later. I am filled with many happy memories after my parents’ divorce: weekend visits, camping, fishing, four-wheel driving in his big truck, snowmobiling, and mostly big family get togethers with all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some would ask if I had forgiven my father for the past, and the honest answer is that I never looked at it in those terms. I didn’t need to forgive my father, I didn’t blame him or hate him; I felt nothing but love for him. Sure, the drinking continued throughout my teenage years, but I ignored the things that bothered me. It wasn’t that bad.

    As I grew into a young adult, got married, and had children of my own, the dynamic changed. Or maybe it was exactly the same, only I saw things through a different lens. I now had two little boys of my own who were witnessing, analyzing, and interpreting, just as I did when I was a little girl. There was no violence or anything of that nature, but wounds don’t always leave broken bones and bruises. The drama-filled drunken theatrics continued and so our relationship was off and on. Off. On.

    For me, the point of no contact with my father came when my younger brother became another alcoholic branch in our family tree. While I was trying to survive a war zone of 911 calls, hospital stays, psychiatrists, psychologists, seven rehab stays, several suicide attempts, denial, blame, and absolute destruction, the drunken late night calls from my father became too much. I never told him how they hurt me, like spraying gasoline on an inferno. I just simply hung up the phone. And eventually the calls stopped.

    That was more than 12 years ago. As in my early childhood, the bad eventually overpowered any good.

    Since I was a little girl, my perception was that alcohol was responsible for everything bad that happened in my life. And I did not come to this realization easily or lightly. Long before I was married, long before I had children of my own, there was my mom. My dad. My brother. And eventually a baby sister. The ones I loved more than anyone else in the whole world. I wish with all of my heart I could have changed some of these dynamics in my family and, God knows, I gave it my best shot. But I know now that task was not mine; it’s just my overdeveloped sense of responsibility coming from an alcoholic home.

    Sadly, my brother lost his battle with alcohol addiction and mental illness in March 2012 by taking his own life. My brother’s drinking affected all of our lives in a negative way. I would have welcomed the chance to sit face to face with my own father if he wanted to and tell him that I understood, and that he should hold no blame where my brother is concerned. We were all in way over our heads. And that I love him, and my brother did too. I wish I had done things differently back then, as I made many mistakes myself. 

    My father and I do not need to work out out differences, we are are out of time. But we could both say sorry for hurting each other, it wasn’t intentional. My brother’s death could have brought our family closer together; he would have wanted that. 

    Perhaps for my dad, the point of no return was when I did the unthinkable. I wrote a memoir of my journey with my brother in the hope of helping other families to see the effects of childhood trauma, to not make the same mistakes, to take a different path, and to change.

    But the truth is my father and I were estranged long before the mention of a book. So, it would not be fair to put our estrangement solely on my shoulders. I only take responsibility for my part.

    After a few months, Dad’s cancer had spread, and I heard that he was hospitalized. I knew he didn’t have much time so, to look after my own thoughts and feelings, I made an appointment with my therapist. I have worked very hard to be a better and healthier version of myself—I take my own recovery very seriously. And I do mean recovery; although I don’t drink, I too had to “recover.”

    As my therapist and I talked for that hour, I accepted what was to come, and what I was sure of: I wasn’t going to cry when he died. Not because there was a lack of love, but I had mourned the loss of my father a long time ago.

    Less than a week later, I woke up early on February 5th, put on my robe, poured myself a coffee, and turned on my iPhone. As I scrolled through Facebook I saw a post, something about heaven got another angel. My father had passed away.

    A whirlwind of pictures flashed though my mind.

    I had completely misjudged my reaction: my eyes instantly filled with tears. I was wrong. I did cry. And cried. And cried. I was overwhelmed with emotion: this is all so messed up; it is not how families are supposed to be. It is not what I would want and totally against who I am.

    I spent the next two evenings crying myself to sleep as I knew it was official—I wasn’t going to the funeral.

    I won’t stay away out of anger, spite, or stubbornness. Whether someone else thinks I am right or wrong, what is best for me is being steadfast and confident in my knowledge that I am the daughter, not the parent. If it had been my instinct to run to my father’s side when he was sick, I would have done that when he was healthy. In my life, I do not react anymore out of pity or guilt, misinterpreting those sentiments as love. I did that most of my life, and I lost my own identity in the process. 

    I will stay away from the funeral, not because I didn’t love my dad, but because I did. We all must live with the consequences of our choices and I am no different from him. I would never disrespect his wife, his other children, his friends, or even some of my own family by being there. I would never want to cause them pain with my presence and I am sorry for their loss.

    My father’s drinking affected my life in a negative way, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a good person. He was loved by many, had lots of friends, other children who accepted him for who he was, and he continued a relationship and was married to his third wife for almost 27 years. Most likely, the funeral home will be filled with a couple hundred people. All of this is true.

    My absence just means that on this journey of life, the relationship between him and me wasn’t good for me. It wasn’t healthy and what I needed. And I am allowed to decide.

    It’s days later. While still crying, I am imagining all of those people at the funeral tomorrow wondering why I’m not there; judging and whispering that I am self-centered, disrespectful, heartless, unkind, unforgiving, uncaring, and cold-hearted.

    I have been plagued with the haunting visions of my father leaving his little farmhouse for the last time, knowing he was going to the hospital to die. Looking to the right at the garden where the children had Easter egg hunts, to the left at the creek where we used to snowmobile together in the cold Alberta winters. Perhaps as he got closer to the car, he looked to the right and the garage where we all used to sit in front of the campfire as a family that included my brother, my sister and her daughter, and my husband and me with our sons. Happy. A simpler time, years before all of this fell apart. And then I realized, maybe that isn’t what my dad saw; maybe it’s what I see.

    As I crawled into bed, my feelings of guilt had begun to subside, no more visions of my frail father lying in a hospital room hoping his daughter would arrive. I would have no reason to believe he ever thought that—and I know that is just my heart playing with my head.

    I do wish things were different, and I am sorry that I won’t be at my father’s funeral.

    What anyone thinks of that really has nothing to do with me.

    Sometimes it is hard for the outside world to understand. But for your own survival you need to think of your own needs over and above someone else’s. That is not selfish or callous (I have learned this too). It’s necessary. 

    My tears will eventually subside; they always do. But for tonight, if you don’t mind, I am going to shed tears for the little girl whose Daddy didn’t call.


    Jodee Prouse is a mom, wife, sister, friend and author of the memoir, The Sun is Gone: A Sister Lost in Secrets, Shame, and Addiction, and How I Broke Free. She is an outspoken advocate to eliminate the shame and stigma surrounding addiction and mental illness and empowering women through their journey of life and family crisis. Visit jodeeprouse.com to learn more.

    View the original article at thefix.com