Tag: Change

AA 2.0: Why the Evolution of Alcoholics Anonymous Needs to Happen Now

The founders purposely left the door open for science to come into the realm of recovery, and unlike modern AA, they did not discount its potential importance when it came to helping people.

I am an alcoholic, or, as conventional wisdom goes, an alcoholic in recovery. I’ve had my share of rehabs, detoxes, and IOPs. I’ve dealt with numerous counselors, doctors, psychiatrists, and even a hypnotist. I have mastered “white-knuckling.” And I’d “given myself fully to the simple program” that is AA. Nothing worked. This is not to say I did not have my dry spells, as well as full-on productive years of zero consumption of anything that contained ethanol. Still, I relapsed, and went down a black spiraling abyss pretty confidently when my consumption quickly became prodigious in both amount and frequency of use.

Sheer yet fully predictable insanity ensued. Binges went on for weeks and ER visits became routine. Doctors gave me a bleak prognosis, as coming out of the drinking spells had become nearly impossible. Maintenance drinkers had nothing on me — I drank to breathe, to sleep, to go to the bathroom. Beer and wine became juice, annoyingly un-intoxicating. Blended whisky — aka brown vodka — was the only thing that worked, before it didn’t. A rehab intake clocked me at .43 blood alcohol content, with the fatal spectrum usually starting around .35. I am not a large guy by any means; turns out it was the tolerance I’d developed that saved me from kicking the bucket from alcohol poisoning. I stayed drunk for two days just on what was in my bloodstream, and then the withdrawal hit like a train. Librium, Zofran, Librium. An in-house doctor woke me up; my pulse was barely there. But, as always, thankfully, in a week I started feeling better.

A Revolutionary Program… for 1939

The role of AA in my recovery has been significant. The fellowship of men and women — a genius brainchild of Dr. Bob and Bill Wilson, and wholeheartedly endorsed by Dr. Carl Jung himself, has helped countless families. It is incredible in its selflessness and honesty and yet, today’s AA is rigid, too antiquated, and legacy-driven. It’s normal, though, for an organization of this stature and with this much history. After all, back in 1939 this was an absolutely revolutionary, even visionary, break-through. But we’re not in 1939 or even 2009, and so AA must adapt or it will lose its edge.

Both Dr. Bob and Bill Wilson were complex, highly educated, empathetic, and caring individuals. Their realization of a prominent role of Higher Power in recovery did not come easy. Skeptics, cynics as they were, they had to overcome an internal struggle before making peace with the fact that human nature was helpless in the face of the monstrous foe of addiction. The resulting text, which we all now know as the Big Book, was the product of a multi-year intellectual effort, which was by no means easy or straightforward. For example, one little-known fact about the book is that initially it used the 2nd person throughout its chapters, as in “you recover, you need to, you have a problem.” The authors decided to change it to the 1st person (we), which brought a completely new tone to the script. From preachy and authoritative it became welcoming and tolerant.

In addition, when it comes to finding ways to recover from alcoholism (specifically becoming a “normal drinker” as opposed to an alcoholic), the Book mentions that “science may one day accomplish this, but it hasn’t done so yet.” In fact, multiple recovery groups and schools of thought have stepped in to fulfill this prediction. For instance, the Sinclair Method introduced its harm reduction model, based on the pre-emptive use of Naltrexone to reduce cravings and use. Like with everything else, if it works for you, great. It did not for me or any other alcoholic I know.

AA’s Founders Expected AA to Change

The founders purposely left the door open for science to come into the realm of recovery, and unlike modern AA, they did not discount its potential importance when it came to helping people. Today’s AA, on the other hand, has forgotten that approach, adopting more of a “my way or the highway” when it comes to alternative recovery techniques.

My respect and love for AA is beyond mere deference. I firmly believe that its overall purpose is remarkable. However, I also know that it could be more effective in reaching more people if it actively adopted — or at least discussed — modern-day scientific findings when it comes to addiction. Yes, rigorous honesty and humility are key, however, an inquisitive and questioning mind is not something that should be shunned; on the contrary, it should be celebrated. Ask Bill Wilson.

The Book should be akin to the concept of a “living, breathing” Constitution, which celebrates evidence-based evolvement of the original understanding of the Supreme Law of the Land (for example, ever-present discussions of the Fourth Amendment as applied to modern-age surveillance technology. Back when it was written, there was no phone or Internet surveillance, yet the maxim against unreasonable search and seizure is alive and well). Evolution of approaches, when it comes to addiction treatment, is a natural occurrence and fighting it is like trying to cross-breed humans and monkeys hoping we can get better, more advanced Homo sapiens, or even a new humanoid altogether.

Let’s also take a look at the concept of singularity, as defined by famous futurist and (coincidence?) Google’s Director of Engineering, Ray Kurzweil. Essentially, he summarized it as an ever-developing concept of a progressively consequential role of technology in everyday life. One of the most striking illustrations of that concept is Kurzweil’s conclusion that today, an average child in Africa (or Russia, U.S., Cuba, China, etc.) with an off-the-shelf smartphone has more information at her fingertips than the president of the United States had 30 years ago. As any brilliant idea, singularity was successfully explained and encapsulated in simple terms by the above example.

Science and Spirituality

The same type of evolution awaits AA in particular, and the fight against addiction in general. Get with the program or get run over, as progress does not stop, and that is exactly what Bill Wilson understood so well in his pragmatic ingenuity.

From the reptilian middle brain and limbic system responsible for survival hijacking the thinking territory of the prefrontal cortex (in the AA lingo, home of the white-knuckling demon), to the brain’s neuroplasticity and ability to heal itself and learn new reward pathways after alcohol (or meth, heroin, porn, etc.) has done its scorched-earth number on its dopamine receptors, today’s science has explained it all. That is not to say that it has effectively pre-empted the field and left no room for miraculous recovery (doctors sometimes call it spontaneous remission) or any other spiritual component. To the contrary, following Dr. Carl Jung and his glorious pronouncement Spiritus Contra Spiritum, with which he famously concluded his 1961 letter to Bill Wilson discussing the viability of AA, science leaves ample room for spirituality when it comes to addiction. Now it’s time for AA to return the favor and welcome science in its rooms.

AA (or any other single-tier approach) cannot win this war on its own. And I am not even talking about the alleged (yet well-researched) 5-7 percent long-term success rate of AA (see Lance Dodes, MD, The Sober Truth: Debunking the Bad Science Behind 12-Step Programs and the Rehab Industry).

What I am referring to instead is inclusiveness and intentional wariness of rigidity. Like Tolkien’s Balrog, addiction is a shape-shifter, a cunning, conniving, vindictive foe with an overpowering ability to maim and kill. Gandalf the Gray — arguably the strongest protagonist of Tolkien’s Middle Earth, simply could not dispatch the demon of all demons through his conventional, albeit awe-inspiring powers, and had to adjust and in a way shape-shift himself into Gandalf the White.

So, who’s to say that what’s good for the U.S. Constitution, Kurzweil, and Gandalf is not good for Alcoholics Anonymous? More importantly, will AA even survive if it doesn’t embrace its own evolution?

View the original article at thefix.com

14 May 2019
Their First Day of School Was My Last Day of Drinking

That day was the last time I bought into the lies that one drink will somehow not send me on that downward spiral to insanity and destruction of everything I love and care about.

The kids were still sleeping when I woke up early just to start drinking. The wine was hidden in its usual spot, my closet, and I stood in there at 6 a.m. to choke down whatever I had left. Not because I wanted to, but at that point in my alcoholism my poor body depended on those swigs simply to function normally. I downed enough to stop the shakes, the sick feeling creeping all over my body, the ringing in my ears. Today was the first day of school and a big one at that. My youngest was starting kindergarten.

Spenser

He and I had quite a history. I was standing at a nurse’s station in a detox center when I found out I was pregnant with him. I had no idea. And now here we were, my baby with his little backpack, the youngest of four kids, heading to his first day of school. What the hell have I been doing all this time? The grip of addiction was still strangling me and all I could hope was that I’d get better sometime soon. I was so tired.

The Secret

I took a quick shower, skipping out on washing my hair. I didn’t have the time or the energy to fix it today. After I got dressed, my husband was already in the kitchen. Coffee was brewing, and silence filled the room. He knew about the closet, knew what I had done. I had looked into those broken eyes countless times, and this morning’s overwhelming feelings of self disgust were the same as all the times before. Graciously he hugged me without saying a word. And we stood there holding each other, like soldiers witnessing a gruesome battle, carrying on a conversation without uttering a single word until I finally let go to wake up the other kids.

“I’ll start putting your bags in the car,” he said.

“Okay.”

And the sad secret being kept from the kids remained intact.

Shelby

It was her senior year of high school. My first-born baby girl had seen it all, from happy times in sobriety to life with a mom in rehab for the sixth time. Shelby was done with hearing apologies, but old enough by now to know I didn’t want to drink. She knew I tried, but she wanted her mother. I had one more year before she was gone and I felt every tick of the clock counting down as I wasted yet another day stuck in the fear and shame of it all. How many times had I failed her, and what if I did it again? She’d get her own ride to school, she’d hear the news, but would she forgive me one more time?

Rebecca

She had woken herself up for her first day of fifth grade, her last year in elementary school. I couldn’t help but think back to preschool days, her bright blonde hair and toothy grin. But like many memories, flashes of alcoholic moments clouded over the good times and I forced myself to think about something else. She was only four years old when she watched me get handcuffed out of the car and led away for my first DUI. I desperately needed to make new memories, not just for her but for me, too. All of my thoughts were killing me.

Stella

Since Spenser had snuck into our bed the night before, I only had one child left to wake up. Stella was still sleeping. She’d been waiting for this day — the beginning of third grade — for two weeks, excited to get back and see her friends again. I sat on the edge of her bottom bunk, reaching for her wavy brown hair. She rolled over and stretched, asking if it was morning. I realized this was it. I wouldn’t be back here for a while, wouldn’t be tucking her in tonight. Desperately wishing I could push rewind for the hundredth time, I just stood up and headed downstairs, feeling sad and scared and awful.

Eventually the backpacks we ready and the lunches packed. I took one last look around my house, swallowing the waves of tears ready to spill out of my eyes and ruin the picture of normalcy I was trying to paint for my kids. We got in the car, my husband driving, and headed to the school a couple blocks away.

A Long Good-bye

“Focus on the kids,” is what I kept telling myself. “God, just get me through this without crying.”

Hallway after hallway, at every turn was a flood of smiling parents with their best-dressed kids. The excitement was bubbling around me like Christmas morning. I, however, was in a private hell. Physically already feeling the effects of my maintenance wine consumption wearing off, I was dizzy, fluctuating between hot and cold. I thought I looked different than every other mom, so I kept my head down with a fake smile plastered on my face. I was an outsider, uncomfortable and out of place. We went room by room, starting at fifth grade, then third, and finally kindergarten. Each time I walked my precious child in and hugged and kissed them, holding back everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. I left parts of my heart, then grabbed my husband’s hand as we forced our way through crowds and out the door so I could breathe again.

At 3 o’clock, school would get out, but I’d be gone. My kids wouldn’t see me again until weeks later during visitation day at my seventh treatment center for drug and alcohol addiction. My bed had been reserved since the previous Friday. I’d begged both my husband and the rehab facility to let me wait so that I could do what I just described: take my kids to school for their first day of school, walk Spenser to his first day of kindergarten.

A Grateful Last Day

That was August 22, 2016 and I haven’t picked up a drink since that morning. There was no hard bottom circumstance like other times I tried to quit, just sick and tired of being sick and tired. I couldn’t do it anymore. I knew what was left for me: death. I’d been carrying it around with me for months like a dark cloud, convinced the impending death wouldn’t be easy enough to be mine. More than likely it would be one of these precious kids because I always found a reason to drive after I drank.

But that was the last time my body needed alcohol pumping through my bloodstream just to operate normally. It was the last time I needed to sneak away and find my liquid problem solver and stress reliever, my life-buffer that told me I needed a drink to cope. And it was the last time I bought into the lies that one drink will somehow not send me on that downward spiral to insanity and destruction of everything I love and care about.

First day, last day, same day. Sometimes a thousand failures lead up to that one success, but that one is all you ever needed. True freedom is accepting it happened the way it was supposed to; taking what you have and making a purpose out of it. I was tired of being sick, and sick of being beaten down by this disease. Sick of always having shame take me out, sick of drinking to escape the self-hatred of not being able to stop drinking.

In sobriety, our last day is our first. Sometimes we show up in hallways of institutions and sometimes in closed rooms, feeling uncomfortable and out of place. But once we lift our heads and open our minds, hope comes sneaking in. It’s that moment where recovery is possible — for anyone, even a mother like me.

View the original article at thefix.com

25 January 2019
A Space for Grief and Growth: The 12th National Harm Reduction Conference

When we demand answers without a deep, authentic understanding of the problem, we wind up putting band-aids on gangrene.

As I wandered into the opening plenary at the 12th National Harm Reduction Conference in New Orleans last week, something felt off. It wasn’t just the four white-robed women on stage, solemn and elegant in contrast to the mostly grungy, tattooed crowd. It wasn’t the massive indigo chandeliers, which cast a somber blue over the room. It was an energy I couldn’t quite place at first. Then, slowly, it washed over me.

Grief.

Throughout the morning, as various speakers mounted the stage, the story of grief unfolded. The harm reduction movement is grieving the loss of one of our pillars, Dan Bigg, who died suddenly last August. We are grieving the political landscape, feeling vulnerable and scared as overdose deaths continue to mount and hard-won reforms in drug policy are reversed through a tide of drug-induced homicide laws and other punitive policies against drug users. And we are grieving the conflicts, hypocrisies and dysfunction present within our own movement that at times threatens to tear it apart.

My last report on a harm reduction conference for The Fix was in 2014. At the time, I described harm reduction as a community standing at a crossroads. The 2014 conference in Baltimore embodied the culture clash of a movement that had started as a radical underground community of people who use drugs being overwhelmed by mainstream and professional interests. Tension crackled between old and new, as did fear of co-opting and straying too far from its radical roots. Now, four years later, some of those tensions have boiled over.

One of the plenary speakers in New Orleans, Micah Frazier of The Living Room Project in Mexico, described the harm reduction community as a family full of love and dysfunction. With gentle admonition, Micah urged the crowd to watch how we treat each other and to be careful of how we engage in conflict.

Another speaker, Erica Woodland of the National Queer and Trans Therapists of Color Network, offered a blunt account of how he had left harm reduction six years ago over concerns about the lack of black leadership in the movement and the devaluation of black expertise.

“I got divorced from y’all,” Erica said, to a smattering of laughter. “I came back; we’re dating!” But he warned that the reunion would be brief unless harm reductionists could show capacity for change.

Harm reduction has changed in the past few years. Several of the largest organizations have experienced a shift in leadership as white, male executives who held power for decades have been replaced by women and people of color.

In fact every speaker touched on the need for a “changing of the guard” within harm reduction. They pointed out that the movement, supposedly centered around racial justice and recognizing the dignity of people who use drugs, does not always practice what it preaches. They criticized the prevalence of white, male leadership, while queer staff, people of color and active drug users are often reduced to underpaid “peer outreach” positions or token members of panels, trotted out for the public, then silenced once the cameras are gone. They stressed the pitfalls of sacrificing long-term vision for short-term gain, warned against co-opting by the public health system, and urged the crowd not to forget its roots.

Change is coming. Change must come, the speakers insisted. And transition is not always pretty.

Their words seared right through me.

A few months ago, I left my position with the North Carolina Harm Reduction Coalition (NCHRC) after eight years as their advocacy and communications coordinator. The decision was voluntary, but born from a place of pain. The organization had recently gone through its own changing of the guard and the process had, at times, been ugly.

In fact, the past couple years of my life have been marred by grief as the organization I have loved and helped grow, an organization that has done so much to advance harm reduction in hostile territory, has been tested and torn by the tension between demand for change and resistance to it. These past years have involved a lot of soul searching for me as I have second-guessed past decisions and wondered if I have allowed enough space for the voices of people most impacted by the drug war to lead.

The plenary was an epiphany. All this time I had bathed in private shame thinking that NCHRC was alone in its struggle, uniquely unable to have tough conversations without dissolving into anger and defensiveness. Now, for the first time, I realized that the movement has been changing and hurting across the whole country. We had never been alone.

The heaviness of this opening plenary hung over me for the remainder of the four-day conference. Even the siren call of New Orleans—the bright lights of Bourbon Street and hot gumbo spice—could not penetrate the fog. I don’t think I was the only person struggling. Even as other attendees greeted old friends and met new ones in between workshops, you could feel grief and tension hovering over everyone. There was no relief from it, not even in the blizzard of breakout sessions.

I tried to attend some breakout sessions, of which there were a dizzying number including topics such as fentanyl, friction with police, racial justice, indigenous healing, queer drug use and much more. The breakout sessions seemed designed to ask questions, but not necessarily to answer them. This frustrated a lot of people. I overheard many grumbling conversations in the hallways about how such-and-such a panel had not provided a “solution” to the problem being discussed. Years, perhaps even months ago, I would have felt this way too. Today I feel differently.

A couple of years ago I attended a town hall meeting hosted by activists and founding members of Black Lives Matter. After over an hour listening to them talk about racism and oppression, a white woman in the audience asked the question that had been burning in my brain the whole time: “How can we fix it?”

The speaker responded by politely suggesting that the young woman have conversations with family and friends about racism. The woman sat down, seeming dissatisfied with such vague marching orders. I was disappointed myself and, I’ll admit, a little appalled that the speaker didn’t seem aware of the importance of giving people concrete actions so that they stay engaged in the movement. But today I see the wisdom in that answer. The speaker didn’t give that young woman, or me, an easy answer because we weren’t ready for one.

Lately I have come to appreciate conversations that do not end with solutions. Most societal problems are so complex that any “solution” that can be discussed in a 60-minute panel is probably bullshit. Most of us know surface level things—racism is real, drug policy is killing people, there are too many people in prison—but we don’t truly understand the history or scope of these issues, especially if they don’t directly impact us. We want a quick recap of current affairs and a quick fix, but when we demand answers without a deep, authentic understanding of the problem, we wind up putting band-aids on gangrene.

This, I think, is what the conference was attempting to do—to encourage discussion and exploration and self-reflection, not to provide instant gratification.

I left New Orleans without answers, but with a great sense of responsibility to seek them, even if it takes a lifetime.

Members of Harriet’s Apothecary open the conference with calls to be mindful and present.
Image: Nigel Brundson

View the original article at thefix.com

29 October 2018
The Rules of Marriage…In Recovery

Even though it’s a positive change, adjusting to marriage with a newly sober spouse is a challenge. Some situations are a little tricky to navigate.

After being with my husband for 15 years, it might seem like there would be few suprises left. We have the kind of relationship that includes conversations like, “Hey, Harmony, will you cut off this skin tag on my back?” followed by, “Um, no; I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment.” And later, “Does this look infected to you?”

Robbie is what people in recovery like to call a “normie.” When it comes to alcohol, he can take it or leave it. He can just have one beer, and he doesn’t obsess over when he’ll have the next one. He likes to have fun, and he doesn’t really care if that fun involves alcohol. By the time I entered recovery, he rarely drank anymore; I was always the one drinking, and one of us had to stay sober enough to drive.

The suprise here is that I am the alcoholic and he is the normie, because everyone who knows us assumed it was the other way around.

My husband and I built the foundation of our relationship on having as much fun as possible. (Read: we partied a lot.) We’ve been to New Orleans, our closest major city, many times over the years, visiting for Mardi Gras, romantic getaways, concerts, plays, art events, and stuff with our kids. In true alcoholic form, I remember very little of any of it.

Since I entered recovery, our relationship has shifted considerably. He is exactly the same as he’s always been, but everything about me is changing — how I react to things, what I do and say, how I view and enjoy my life, and how I relate to my husband. All these changes bring up a lot of questions and discussions, obviously, like if we go to New Orleans, will my husband drink? How much? Will I be able to handle it?

Recently, he scored amazing tickets to an NFL game in the New Orleans Superdome. When he asked me to go, I panicked: I’ve got under two years of sobriety under my belt, and we’ve never been to any major city without alcohol. In fact, the last time we went down there, I started with a hand grenade on Bourbon Street and ended with what I believe to be absinthe. None of this was my husband’s fault — we were just there having fun — but his version of “fun” is a lot less dangerous than mine. When I start drinking, I drink to forget.

Neither of us knew how severe my issues were when we met and fell in love. We got married, had a bunch of kids, and BAM! I was in so deep I almost didn’t find my way out. But that’s the beauty of true partnership; Robbie supports me fully in everything I do, and he wants nothing more than to see me happy and healthy. Even so, adjusting to the evolution is a challenge, and even though it is a very positive change for our family, there are still times when it can be a little tricky to navigate.

So, what does my sobriety mean for us as a couple? What are the rules of marriage when one person is an addict and the other is not?

What to do with the alcohol. The issue of what is and is not allowed in the house is a big one. I’m a stay-at-home mom, which means I’m the one staring at the liquor cabinet at 5 p.m. while our children complain about dinner. For us, getting the alcohol out of the house and keeping it out was vital to maintaining my sobriety. I can’t even have Oreos in the house, lest I eat them all, so for now, it’s better this way.

However, I do know many couples who still have alcohol at home and the alcoholic partner isn’t bothered by it. It really boils down to triggers. I, for example, am triggered every damn day when I’m home alone with the kids. If I have alcohol around me and no other adults as backup, I would have a very hard time resisting. Robbie understands that and it’s not a problem for us. Also, we didn’t have to throw any of it out because I drank every last drop of it myself before sobering up.

Prescription medication. Because I’m the mom, I’ve always been in charge of the meds. Uh, I wasn’t exactly responsible — and it was very hard to admit that, both to myself and to my husband. So for a while, and at different points since then, he’s had to take over administering the medication so I don’t eat the entire bottle like candy. He’s been willing to do that because he knows it’s an easy way to help me on my journey to wellness.

What about the chocolate? One of the biggest problems I’ve had in recovery is my insane sweet tooth. Every time my husband or the kids bring home candy, cupcakes, Lucky Charms, or cake, I generally eat it all before they have a chance to even taste it. Robbie started hiding his stash of cookies from me, which naturally I found, and to be honest we’ve had more spats over the junk food than anything else.

Am I always going to be the designated driver? GOD NO. I’m not stable enough to drive around a bunch of drunks. This is why there is Uber.

Football season is huge in our house, and as I mentioned above, we went to an NFL game where everyone was drinking. And it was tough — but as long as I’m honest with him about my struggles, he is happy to help. It’s the honesty part that gets me: being willing to admit that I am powerless over alcohol.

On the morning of the game, I got up early to attend a meeting, and prepared before we left to avoid getting too hungry, tired, or thirsty. It was literally the most fun I’ve ever had at a football game, ever — and that includes when I was drinking.

Parties! We go to them. We might have to leave earlier than we’d like. I hope that gets better, but I’m proud of myself for going.

Meetings. We have three children under the age of 10, and my husband is rarely home before 8 p.m. Finagling our schedules to allow for me to make it to meetings is probably one of the biggest issues we face, and sometimes I get resentful when I really need to go but have to wait until another time. He learned pretty quickly that when I go, I’m much easier to live with, so he does everything he can to accommodate me. Smart man.

Sex. That’s a topic for a whole other essay. Suffice it to say, it’s been an adjustment.

I can honestly say, for the first time in a very long while, that I’m truly the person that Robbie fell in love with all those years ago, and his patience with me as I fumble my way through recovery has completely renewed the love I have for him. Marriage in recovery is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

View the original article at thefix.com

20 October 2018
Married to a Normie: Relationship Rules

Even though it’s a positive change, adjusting to marriage with a newly sober spouse is a challenge. Some situations are a little tricky to navigate.

After being with my husband for 15 years, it might seem like there would be few suprises left. We have the kind of relationship that includes conversations like, “Hey, Harmony, will you cut off this skin tag on my back?” followed by, “Um, no; I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment.” And later, “Does this look infected to you?”

Robbie is what people in recovery like to call a “normie.” When it comes to alcohol, he can take it or leave it. He can just have one beer, and he doesn’t obsess over when he’ll have the next one. He likes to have fun, and he doesn’t really care if that fun involves alcohol. By the time I entered recovery, he rarely drank anymore; I was always the one drinking, and one of us had to stay sober enough to drive.

The suprise here is that I am the alcoholic and he is the normie, because everyone who knows us assumed it was the other way around.

My husband and I built the foundation of our relationship on having as much fun as possible. (Read: we partied a lot.) We’ve been to New Orleans, our closest major city, many times over the years, visiting for Mardi Gras, romantic getaways, concerts, plays, art events, and stuff with our kids. In true alcoholic form, I remember very little of any of it.

Since I entered recovery, our relationship has shifted considerably. He is exactly the same as he’s always been, but everything about me is changing — how I react to things, what I do and say, how I view and enjoy my life, and how I relate to my husband. All these changes bring up a lot of questions and discussions, obviously, like if we go to New Orleans, will my husband drink? How much? Will I be able to handle it?

Recently, he scored amazing tickets to an NFL game in the New Orleans Superdome. When he asked me to go, I panicked: I’ve got under two years of sobriety under my belt, and we’ve never been to any major city without alcohol. In fact, the last time we went down there, I started with a hand grenade on Bourbon Street and ended with what I believe to be absinthe. None of this was my husband’s fault — we were just there having fun — but his version of “fun” is a lot less dangerous than mine. When I start drinking, I drink to forget.

Neither of us knew how severe my issues were when we met and fell in love. We got married, had a bunch of kids, and BAM! I was in so deep I almost didn’t find my way out. But that’s the beauty of true partnership; Robbie supports me fully in everything I do, and he wants nothing more than to see me happy and healthy. Even so, adjusting to the evolution is a challenge, and even though it is a very positive change for our family, there are still times when it can be a little tricky to navigate.

So, what does my sobriety mean for us as a couple? What are the rules of marriage when one person is an addict and the other is not?

What to do with the alcohol. The issue of what is and is not allowed in the house is a big one. I’m a stay-at-home mom, which means I’m the one staring at the liquor cabinet at 5 p.m. while our children complain about dinner. For us, getting the alcohol out of the house and keeping it out was vital to maintaining my sobriety. I can’t even have Oreos in the house, lest I eat them all, so for now, it’s better this way.

However, I do know many couples who still have alcohol at home and the alcoholic partner isn’t bothered by it. It really boils down to triggers. I, for example, am triggered every damn day when I’m home alone with the kids. If I have alcohol around me and no other adults as backup, I would have a very hard time resisting. Robbie understands that and it’s not a problem for us. Also, we didn’t have to throw any of it out because I drank every last drop of it myself before sobering up.

Prescription medication. Because I’m the mom, I’ve always been in charge of the meds. Uh, I wasn’t exactly responsible — and it was very hard to admit that, both to myself and to my husband. So for a while, and at different points since then, he’s had to take over administering the medication so I don’t eat the entire bottle like candy. He’s been willing to do that because he knows it’s an easy way to help me on my journey to wellness.

What about the chocolate? One of the biggest problems I’ve had in recovery is my insane sweet tooth. Every time my husband or the kids bring home candy, cupcakes, Lucky Charms, or cake, I generally eat it all before they have a chance to even taste it. Robbie started hiding his stash of cookies from me, which naturally I found, and to be honest we’ve had more spats over the junk food than anything else.

Am I always going to be the designated driver? GOD NO. I’m not stable enough to drive around a bunch of drunks. This is why there is Uber.

Football season is huge in our house, and as I mentioned above, we went to an NFL game where everyone was drinking. And it was tough — but as long as I’m honest with him about my struggles, he is happy to help. It’s the honesty part that gets me: being willing to admit that I am powerless over alcohol.

On the morning of the game, I got up early to attend a meeting, and prepared before we left to avoid getting too hungry, tired, or thirsty. It was literally the most fun I’ve ever had at a football game, ever — and that includes when I was drinking.

Parties! We go to them. We might have to leave earlier than we’d like. I hope that gets better, but I’m proud of myself for going.

Meetings. We have three children under the age of 10, and my husband is rarely home before 8 p.m. Finagling our schedules to allow for me to make it to meetings is probably one of the biggest issues we face, and sometimes I get resentful when I really need to go but have to wait until another time. He learned pretty quickly that when I go, I’m much easier to live with, so he does everything he can to accommodate me. Smart man.

Sex. That’s a topic for a whole other essay. Suffice it to say, it’s been an adjustment.

I can honestly say, for the first time in a very long while, that I’m truly the person that Robbie fell in love with all those years ago, and his patience with me as I fumble my way through recovery has completely renewed the love I have for him. Marriage in recovery is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

View the original article at thefix.com

19 October 2018
She Recovers Brings High End Feminist Recovery to Los Angeles

I could say a hundred things about every incredible woman I encountered over the weekend and it would not hold a candle to the inspiration I felt. The only catch? The price of admission.

One year ago, Harvey Weinstein and men like him were purged from their high positions in industry jobs due to allegations of sexual assault, misconduct and worse. Across the nation, dominoes fell while survivors locked arms and commiserated. Crooked Rehabs and their rapey cult leaders were dethroned or taken to prison along with Bill Cosby—their paternal halos were tossed back into the stream that raged forward without them. Me Too and Time’s Up have gained momentum as women insist on equity and diversity in every corner of our lives whether it’s work, rehab or the Olympics.

On Friday, September 14^th, hundreds of women redefined recovery for themselves with a fresh, feminist lens at She Recovers, a conference held at The Beverly Hills Hilton. She Recovers was founded in 2011 by Dr. Dawn Nickels, a warm, honey-haired overly credentialed sober badass from Victoria, Canada who has accumulated decades of 12-step recovery and one prescription drug relapse after she lost her mother to Leukemia. With years in AA, Dr. Nickels saw a missing piece of the Big Book that excluded women. She wanted to offer an alternative for women who long for that missing piece.

She Recovers is branded around the idea that we are all struggling to recover from something—not only drugs and alcohol. This expanded view of recovery has the potential to reach women who have survived sexual assault, abuse, cancer, heartache, self-harm, homelessness, eating disorders and all kinds of suffering. The weekend was dedicated to healing. The only catch? The price of admission.

I received a few emails from Dr. Nickels confirming the schedule of events and I was really excited to attend. Not only did the line-up include comedians and authors I’ve long loved like Cheryl Strayed, Janet Mock, Amy Dresner, Sarah Blondin, Tara Mohr, Mackenzie Phillips, Laurie Dhue and others, but there were several workshop panels offered with helpful, vital topics like “Changing our Relationship with Food” (Shelly-Anne McKay), and “Money as Power” (Allison Kylstad), “Standing our Ground” (Darlene Lancer), and even “Finding Forgiveness” (Ester Nicholson). The mind, body, spirit approach to recovery was factored into the weekend to include fitness classes like Yoga by Taryn Strong, Pilates, meditation, and an early morning run.

I drove to the Beverly Hills Hilton and arrived after registration opened at around 3:30 p.m. After getting off the elevator, I stepped into a conference room that was turned into a temporary mini-marketplace. Tables and fashion racks displayed oceans of lotions, soaps and mood lifting supplements, dark chocolate and yoga pants. Postcards and stickers offered the promise of energy shifts and emotional well-being. I figured if I was going to focus on recovery all weekend, I wanted a mental lubricant in the form of a dopamine supplement. I was being marketed to like a mofo and the rhetorical trope was tailored to fit. The buy message on tap was this:

You are perimenopausal and you are raging. Your sleep is shit and your relationships are strained. You are horny. You are prickly. Take the gummies and no one gets hurt.

I snatched the vegan, non-GMO dopamine-enhanced gummy bears and pocketed the chocolate for later.

Around the corner, a half-dozen aggressively kind, smiling women sat behind long plastic registration tables handing out laminated passes. They directed me to where the opening reception was held.

The Beverly Hills Hilton is a fancy place. And She Recovers attracts fancy women.

According to their website and other sources, the bulk of paying attendees are the wealthy, white feminist elite ages 30-69 with a household income of 80K and over. Registration costs $500, not including the rooms or the parking.

I asked Dr. Nickels how she planned to engage younger women, women of color, other-abled and the LGBTQ community. She replied, “The thing that we are most proud of related to LA is that we awarded 40 scholarships. We have been attracting WOC and members of the LGBTQ to our community – especially LGB – but we recognize much more needs to be done. We also need to work harder to include other-abled women to join us. We were very fortunate to have already made close connections with some amazing WOC and thus our program exhibited much more diversity than we had been able to do in NYC. Janet Mock is a powerhouse – and we loved having her – but despite efforts to do so, we didn’t have any success making direct contact with influencers in the trans community in LA to ensure that the trans community knew about our event.”

Given the steep cost of the weekend and the fact that registration for the conference was sold out, I wondered if presenters were paid or not, so I asked around. Those who answered requested anonymity.

Some presenters were not offered payment, but their registration fees were waived. The speakers and presenters who were not paid were happy to be asked but some were disappointed they were not offered the opportunity to have a book signing. Two of the speakers were paid high fees (between 16 and 20K) to speak. Those who were not paid used the weekend to promote their materials and businesses; they also wanted to share their experiences and connect to other women in recovery. So, who gets a seat at the table? Follow the money and you can see that She Recovers prioritizes celebrity.

This is where AA (and other 12-step programs) and She Recovers part company: AA has no red carpet; AA doesn’t cost money to attend and speakers are not paid at meetings. AA is an anonymous program that does not acknowledge celebrity or participate in the cult of personality—at least not as outlined in the traditions. While it has its own shortcomings, AA welcomes everyone.

Outside on the grass, several women stood in small clusters by a table of pastel colored macaroons. One of them was Shelly-Anne McKay, a delightful woman from Sasquatch Canada who led the panel on our relationship with food. Another woman told us she had just arrived from France. Others chimed in from the Bay Area, Washington and Oregon. When I asked the group what they were recovering from, the ones that replied stared up at the cerulean late afternoon sky and said, “Everything.”

I asked Shelly-Anne McKay what brought her here. She replied: “I love the She Recovers philosophy that every woman’s path to recovery may be unique. Not everyone finds solace in AA.”

I should tell you now I’m 23 years sober in AA and have studied the Big Book (the basic text of Alcoholics Anonymous). It was written by and about men. The language is old-timey and urges men to check their overinflated egos, to give up “golf fever” and to dive into service instead. The narrative of the shattered, broken self is a theme that is relieved by the belief in a higher power. The one chapter to women, “To Wives,” is heteronormative and sexist, designed to pacify neglected women and encourage them not to make waves.

She Recovers was designed for wave-makers.

Back in the ballroom, the first keynote speaker was wave-maker Cheryl Strayed. Interestingly, Strayed is not in AA and does not consider herself an addict (to my knowledge). But before she spoke, Paula Williams took the stage.

I was concerned for Williams the same way I am for any person with no public speaking experience who collapses under the pressure of adrenaline and stage fright. She seemed mortified to be center stage and she spoke to that. In that moment of terror, I fell in love with her rawness. Williams constructed an art installation — definitely my favorite thing in the mini-marketplace room — called “Shame Booth” (also the name of her podcast) where a person could sit alone inside a vintage phone booth and confess their secrets into a silent ear piece and then leave. Segments of their voices are recorded here: Shamebooth Audio. The only piece of that secret they took home was a new pair of strangely oversized white briefs with the big red words “No Shame” on the butt. And yes, I got my granny panties.

Cheryl Strayed brought the house down with her seasoned message that illuminated the question: how do we do the thing we cannot do? Her personal stories contained humility, resilience and heart. I’m very familiar with her content because I teach her memoir and essay collection “Dear Sugar” to my nonfiction students at UCLA extension. The crowd was enthralled as Strayed discussed the suffering she endured due to her mother’s illness, the aftermath of her grief, and the hopefulness she offered as a reprieve to that grief. She answered questions that were not really questions for a long time. At some point while listening to her, I realized that — whether we were addicts or not — the room vibrated with undeniable hopefulness and willingness to carry that which we thought we could not carry; but in the end we find that we can, we have — and we will.

I could say a hundred things about every incredible woman I encountered over the weekend from Friday evening until Sunday afternoon and it would not hold a candle to the inspiration I felt. I only wished there had been some scheduled time for us to all connect and mingle in one place away from the speaker/workshop/formal dinner format. The schedule was jam-packed and felt a bit rushed. The highlight for me was Saturday night: The Gala Dinner.

I never know what to wear to formal events, so I brought a couple of options. I decided that nothing says Formal Gala like clear stripper heels with red rhinestone hearts in the middle and shiny black Bad Sandy (from Grease) pants. A petite brunette with tattoos on her arms was looking around. She looked as lost and overwhelmed and alone as I felt so I asked her if she wanted to find a place to sit with me.

The dinner honored celebrated change-makers and wave-makers who dared to break the silence of addiction and alcoholism like Betty Ford and the woman who started a movement to disrupt sexual violence, Me Too activist Tarana Burke, but the speaker who got a standing ovation (which seemed to befuddle her) was My Fair Junkie author and comic Amy Dresner.

The opulent ballroom fell silent as Dresner walked up to the podium wearing a vintage Indian jumpsuit with billowing legs. She did a funny dance and squatted.

“I was attempting 70’s super model but I’m way more Genie, don’t you think?”

After explaining how neuroscience proves we can burn new pathways of stability in our minds by taking consistent, disciplined action, she said, “If you’re waiting to take the action, you’ll be waiting forever.”

Dresner’s journey of addiction to recovery was a beacon of inspiration and the best part of the weekend. Her talk embodied all that She Recovers hoped to convey because her story contained universal, gritty humor and you can’t package that. Her message was the very thing I craved the whole weekend. She told us the worst thing that ever happened to her was definitely the best thing that ever happened to her, but she could only see that after experiencing jail and street sweeping. The room erupted in laughter.

Dresner ended by telling us that after getting three years sober for like the 14^th time, she asked her dad, “Are you ashamed of me? When you talk to your friends do you feel ashamed?”

“My friends wish their kid was as unbreakable as you,” he said.

Then, looking out at the 500 wet faces, she told us: “Remember, that’s what all of you are: unbreakable.”

And dropped the mic.

View the original article at thefix.com

18 October 2018
5 Ways Sobriety Changes Over Time

I want to be able to use my story to let people know that getting and staying sober at a young age is possible and even enjoyable.

When I first got sober a little over five years ago, I couldn’t imagine a time when sobriety wouldn’t be front and center in my life. The beginning of sobriety felt so all-consuming. It came into play in every aspect of my life and dictated what I chose to do and who I chose to do it with. It was the first thing I thought about when I woke up and the last thing I thought about before going to bed. I thought it would always be that way.

But now, five years later, sobriety is just a part of who I am. The role it plays in my life, as well as its prominence, has changed. I no longer think about it every single day. I no longer wonder how I will manage at a social gathering. I no longer worry about what people will think.

People so often talk about how sobriety has changed their life, but they rarely talk about how their sobriety itself has changed. As with most things in life, it doesn’t stay the same forever. Here are just a few ways I’ve noticed my recovery change as time has passed.

1. It becomes freeing rather than limiting. Five years ago, I viewed sobriety as something restrictive, something that was going to make my life smaller. I thought it would keep me from doing things like going out with friends, traveling, celebrating special occasions. I had no idea that over time, it would actually prove to be the opposite. Over the years, my sobriety has morphed into something that makes my life bigger. It allows me to take chances with confidence I’ve built, not confidence that comes from alcohol. It gives me the opportunity be fully present for every single moment, which is especially rewarding when it comes to traveling.

2. It fades from the foreground of your life. Maybe this isn’t the case for everyone, but for me it has been. Early on in sobriety, I thought about it all the time. I planned my days around treatment and 12-step meetings. I talked about recovery often, and about the milestones along the way. Now this isn’t really the case. It isn’t that these things aren’t still important to me, because they are. It’s just that they have become normal parts of life to an extent. Sometimes days can pass and I realize I haven’t even thought about the fact that I am sober. Today it’s just part of who I am at the core and that is something I have become comfortable with.

3. The motivating factors change and evolve. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still glad I’m sober for many of the same reasons I had when I initially stopped drinking. I’m glad I don’t wake up having to apologize. I’m glad I know what I did the night before. I’m glad I get to skip over the whole hangover thing. But it’s more than all that now. Now, my motivation has deeper roots. Much of the time I’ve been sober, I’ve spent sharing my story and hoping to help others. Over the past few years, that has become my biggest motivator to stay sober. I want to be able to use my story to let people know that getting and staying sober at a young age is possible and even enjoyable. In early sobriety, that was far from a motivation for me because I didn’t think anyone would care what I had to say. Today, I know they do.

4. It becomes less taboo of a topic. Early on in sobriety, I often felt like people were tiptoeing around the topic of my sobriety. I’m not sure whether they didn’t know what to say or were just scared to bring it up. Either way, it felt like it was off limits for some people. As time passed, friends and acquaintances seemed to become more comfortable asking me questions, like if I minded if they drank around me, or how sobriety as a whole was going. I know my own comfort level played a role in other’s feeling comfortable speaking about it, but I think some of it was just a natural progression as well. When you stick with something for a long time, it becomes part of who you are and people seem to be more open to discussing it, which I’ve found to be beneficial for both myself and them.

5. It becomes a source of pride rather than insecurity. It took me awhile, but today I can say I do not have a single ounce of insecurity about my sobriety. I no longer wonder what people will think or whether I should even tell them I am sober. I no longer worry that their opinion of me will change drastically. I’ve realized that it’s on them and not me if they have an issue with the way I choose to live. Today I get to be comfortable in who I am and how I choose to lead my life. Today my sobriety is something I am beyond proud of. I am 26 years old and I have been sober for more than five years. That’s pretty damn neat if you ask me, and I’ve learned that anyone who thinks otherwise isn’t someone I need in my life.

In writing this, I fully realize these are my own experiences. No one person’s sobriety and recovery is the same as another person’s. As such, the way sobriety grows and evolves will vary. But no matter what, I think it’s important to stop every so often and evaluate how your sobriety is different now compared to early on, and whether those changes are positive ones. It’s so vital to stay in touch with yourself and know what is going on inside, and that is often tied into recovery.

View the original article at thefix.com

10 August 2018
Harm Reduction: How to Engage Parent Advocates Effectively

I’ve had to correct parents whose first line to any policymaker is “my kid was from a good family, not just some homeless person.”

“I never thought I would end up here, but here I am. I choose to create beauty in the space left in this world that my daughter used to occupy” – Lettie Micheletto, mother of Megan McPhail, 1987-2014.

Lettie Micheletto never thought she’d find herself on the steps of the General Assembly advocating for better treatment of people who use drugs. Neither did Shantae Owens, Tanya Smith, or Kathy Williams, all parents united by the loss of a child to drug poisoning. Stunned and grieving, these parents nevertheless possess a raw passion that makes them a force to be reckoned with. Like so many others across the country, they are mobilizing to demand change to how society treats people who use drugs and to memorialize the children they have lost.

Undeniably, there is power behind directly impacted parents. In my years as a lobbyist for drug policy reform, I’ve seen the hardest, most tough-on-drugs legislators dissolve under the gentle tears of a mother pleading for reform. There is a connection between legislators and parents that no lobbyist or well-executed advocacy campaign could dream of forging alone. But at the same time, there are challenges to working with new, often unpredictable allies. So I thought I’d lay out, from my own experience, the top benefits and challenges of involving parents in harm reduction advocacy.

Benefit #1: Effectiveness

Parents who have lost a child to the drug war are a potent force for change. They have drive, motivation, and a unique ability to elicit sympathy. Nothing changes hearts and minds quite like a compelling, emotional story of personal loss. In some states, efforts to change drug policy have been led almost entirely by parent groups. In Georgia, parents rallied to pass one of the country’s most progressive 911 Good Samaritan laws. In Florida, a coalition of moms has been the driving force behind expansion of naloxone access. In Iowa and Illinois, parents are leading efforts to legalize syringe exchange programs. Everywhere, parents are standing up to declare that their children are more than just statistics.

“If no one speaks up for our children and sheds the truth on the fact that they were bright, wonderful kids who had an illness that they simply couldn’t battle, nothing will change,” says Tanya Smith, who helped advocate for a Georgia’s 911 Medical Amnesty Law in 2014 after her daughter, Taylor, died of a reaction to methamphetamine the year prior.

Parents can unravel the false narrative of drug users as inherently deviant or immoral and paint a true, complex portrait of people who use drugs and people who love them. They can show the devastation of loss on families and communities. Most importantly, they can help battle the number one obstacle to meaningful reform – stigma.

Benefit #2: New Allies

Most movements start with a small group of people with similar ideas who are passionate about reform. But in order to evoke lasting change on a macro level, movements need to expand – and that means welcoming new allies into the fold. This isn’t always easy. New allies don’t have the institutional history and knowledge of the movement. Sometimes they have more social or political power than the original group of activists, which is good for expanding influence, but can threaten to hijack the founders’ original intent. The harm reduction movement has seen a lot of this dynamic as it has grown in recent years, accruing allies such as faith leaders, recovery communities, first responders, public health professionals and impacted parents. There have been some growing pains and continued debate over the allies’ role, but the expansion has led to wider conversations about harm reduction and more advocacy wins. Parent advocates have played a large role in bringing conversations about harm reduction into homes and communities that were previously silent on drugs.

Benefit #3 Finding an Outlet for Grief

For many parents who have lost a child, simply getting through each day can be an enormous challenge. But pain can also be a powerful agent of change. Lettie Micheletto lost her 27-year-old daughter, Megan, to heroin poisoning in 2014. Since then, she has been part of bringing awareness about drug laws to other parents.

“About six months after Megan’s death I crawled out from under my rock and began to work with a local coalition in my hometown to help educate and bring awareness of the opioid epidemic,” says Micheletto. “I am obsessed with spreading the message and talking to everyone I can, everywhere I go. I have many friends who have lost children, other family members or friends to overdose. It is a nightmare that many people live and many others ignore.”

Thanks to Micheletto’s efforts, a North Carolina lawmaker recently included $100,000 in the state budget to raise awareness about the state’s 911 Good Samaritan law. For many parents, advocacy creates a much-needed opportunity to channel grief into purpose.

Challenge #1 Working with Newbies

Though there are many advantages to working with parent advocates, these efforts are not without challenge. Of course many parents are or have been involved with drug use themselves, but it seems the majority of parent advocates today had little knowledge of drugs, drug policy or harm reduction until it impacted their children. In many cases, they didn’t even know their child was experimenting with drugs until after his or her death. Then suddenly they are thrust into a world of grief and new concepts that seems foreign and daunting. They want to act, but they lack institutional knowledge of harm reduction, drug policy and the criminal justice system. This can create some very uncomfortable situations.

Some of my most memorable face-palm moments have come from bringing well-meaning, but very green parents to advocate at the legislature. I’ve spent many an afternoon with parents trying to explain the problems with involuntary commitment laws or to untangle the save-the-user but kill-the-dealer narrative. I’ve had to correct parents whose first line to any policymaker is “my kid was from a good family, not just some homeless person.” Sometimes step one is just to teach the parents to stop using stigmatizing language like “addict” to describe their own child.

It takes patience to educate a parent who has been steeped in stigmatizing attitudes towards people who use drugs until the problem hit home and to help change the way they think about drugs and drug policy. There are so many wonderful parent advocates today who understand harm reduction and how all of us – users, sellers and people who have never touched illicit drugs – are caught up in the net that has killed so many people. They didn’t all start out with that knowledge, but by meeting them where they are at, we can get them there.

Challenge #2 White Power

It is frequently pointed out that the rhetoric around drug policy has softened since opioids started killing children from white, affluent communities. Certainly the majority of parent advocates who appear in the news are white and middle-class. And while there is nothing wrong with parents of any race or class becoming vocal advocates for reform, the stark homogeneity of media coverage doesn’t reflect the rapidly changing demographics of drug-related deaths, especially around opioids. According to the Centers for Disease Control, from 2015 to 2016 the age-adjusted rate of drug overdose deaths involving any opioid rose by 25.9% among whites in the United States, but 32.6% among Hispanics, 36.4% among Asian/Pacific Islanders, and a whopping 56.1% among black Americans.

Diversity is an important, and often missing component to parent advocacy. Correcting this can mean making the extra effort to pro-actively reach out to under-represented groups and create space for their voices. Out in rural Brunswick County, North Carolina, Kathy Williams and Alex Murillo are teaming up to do just that. Kathy Williams lost her 32-year-old daughter, Kirby, to an overdose in 2016. The following year she helped found B.A.C.K. O.F.F., an organization of feisty families who are fed up with losing their kids and have started to organize for change. Kathy and Alex are working to welcome Hispanic families into the group.

“We had two recent deaths in the Hispanic community due to drugs,” says Murillo, who lost his 19-year-old nephew last year to an overdose. “I want to help get the Hispanic community involved in education around drugs, but it’s hard because parents won’t admit there is a problem. Here, if a child dies of an overdose, the parent will say they died in their sleep.”

Overcoming cultural and even language differences to organize a diverse group of parent advocates can be difficult. Many of us, myself included, don’t do this as often as we should. But that extra effort can go a long way to showing policy-makers the true breadth and complexity of drug use.

Shantae Owens, a parent advocate from New York, lost his 19-year-old son to heroin poisoning in 2017. “Whether it’s a white kid from Richmond or a black kid from New York, we need to put aside our differences and come together to solve a common problem,” says Owens. “The longer we keep looking at the one thing that separates us, the more people will die.”

Shantae, Alex, Kathy, Lettie, and Tanya are among thousands of family members across the country united by tragedy, but also by strength. They may not have wanted or imagined ending up in this place, but they are here, creating beauty in the space where their loved ones used to be.

View the original article at thefix.com

28 June 2018