Answer Addiction

Tag: escape

  • Bingeing on Horror No Longer Works, What Do I Do?

    Bingeing on Horror No Longer Works, What Do I Do?

    This insatiable hunger to feel scared has almost completely jaded me, and now I have no idea what to do with this realization.

    As a kid, I was scared of literally everything; as a teenager I was perpetually living in all forms of fear — of the real world and the imagined — as a result of undiagnosed (and then later, diagnosed but still active) Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after surviving 9/11.

    About two years ago, I started dipping my toes into the murky, red-running waters of scary movies, and then I became straight up obsessed. It was my go-to genre, and I couldn’t get enough; it became my favorite escape as a sober alcoholic, this new world that could pull me out of job stress or just take me away for a while.

    And when I started to “tolerate” these movies, but still enjoy many of them, I decided to test my boundaries and go on a scary “haunted hay ride” (made for adults). I was grossly disappointed. I wasn’t even jumping when everyone else was. It was just a ride through occasional sketchy looking scenes and people in costume assaulting our tractor. I’m from New York City, guys. That’s pretty much how it is to drive in rush hour traffic.

    My worst fear, now, is that over the past year I have become such a horror fan that I actually have become almost entirely desensitized to anything that is supposed to elicit that kind of fear. It’s to the point where not only am I now virtually un-scare-able, but even the jump scares in movies — scenes which are literally designed to assault your senses and that cause everyone else to flinch or scream — don’t even cause me to blink an eye. Or I’ll go see a horror movie with a friend and try to have fun, but…meh. It’s not like I set out to be a stick in the mud, I go in with high hopes. I’m always trying to recapture that initial rush of fear.

    It almost feels as though I have binged on horror so much that it’s stopped “working” and half the time it’s no longer fun, the same exact way it was with alcohol. I still want to use it as an escape, but I just end up disappointed.

    This insatiable hunger to feel scared has almost completely jaded me, and now I have no idea what to do with this realization.

    To back up a bit, it is common for people with a history of trauma to turn to horror in order to drum up that adrenaline rush. It’s kind of like a coping mechanism used in the face of life stressors, or just in general: seek out events or experiences that evoke similar feelings to the original trauma. Often, survivors will engage in this behavior if the trauma hasn’t been worked through all the way. There’s this interesting place where the movie or the scenario is different enough, separate enough, to feel like you’re an objective viewer or participant, yet similar enough to conjure up the feelings you need to work through in some way, to trigger the catharsis that you crave. You feel brave, like you’ve faced or conquered the demons.

    After years of therapy, I was able to work though my trauma and come out as far on the other side as is possible for someone with a condition that can always be woken up by the “right” trigger at the “right” time. It’s the same with my sobriety — with 7 years under my belt at 29 years old, my life and my brain and my body just work differently now because of all the work I put in.

    Which brings us back to this: Have I started bingeing so much on horror that it no longer provides a “fix?” And even beyond that, I’ve stopped enjoying it altogether, and sometimes even get angry at Rotten Tomatoes or IMDb reviews for “lying” to me. I knew I had crossed an arbitrary threshold I had set for “stronger” material when I sought out stuff I said I’d never watch, or would never watch again. I started with the movie that ruined my entire youth, The Exorcist. It was boring. I slept like a baby. Something was not right.

    So here I am, as another Halloween approaches, watching these meta-movies about really bad things happening on Halloween but nobody realizes they’re happening because it’s Halloween. I’m taking friends’ Netflix recommendations for movies I’ve avoided because I know they’re crap, on the off-chance they might not be and that I was too quick to judge (novelty seeking anyone?). It’s the worst. The smell of my own desperation is strong enough to make me gag.

    I then wondered if it was possible that I’d already watched all of the “good ones,” leaving me scraping the bottom of the barrel for the undiscovered. But I don’t think so. Based on IMDb ratings, a lot of them should have held up — including a few new ones in theaters. Then there’s also the issue that I have simply run out of movies. Literally, run out. I’ve seen everything on every “list” of what’s currently out, streaming, rent-able, and every other option: the indies, the lesser-knowns, the big blockbusters of the past, oh, 40 years.

    I just can’t get the same thrill from horror that I did last year. I don’t want to keep pushing to find more extreme movies — I don’t want to actually be disturbed by some underground violent, cruel nonsense. Gore porn is not my thing.

    So, what’s a girl to do?

    For now, I think the only thing left to do is the same thing we all do when we realize we’re feeling a little restless, or bored, or like we need a hit of something to make us feel different. And there’s no universal formula for that; for an alcoholic, it’s whatever we’ve learned works to help us feel settled and peaceful.

    As for finding more ways to get Halloween thrills, chills, and just plain have fun with these movies again—the jury is still out, but there are two things I know.

    One, when I have the thought “I bet if I was high, this would scare me way more” it means I need to take a step back and evaluate what’s going on with me. Why do I feel so disappointed at not getting my “fix” that I even begin to go down that road? Honestly, my life is pretty great right now, and it’s a lot more stress-free than it used to be. I need to tell myself: girlfriend, enjoy your reality, please. You worked hard to get here.

    Two, I need to look at the forest and not the trees—I have conquered horror. And if I’m being honest, every movie or show I’ve watched recently hasn’t been a total stinker. It’s kind of a victory, I suppose, that I actually smile really wide when the rare good scare hits me, even if I don’t jump or scream, and that I feel happy when an entire movie comes together for me, which it still sometimes does. I have to realize that’s kind of a good thing–I went from being scared of everything to understanding that the real world is a lot scarier than the movies—and that is a mixed bag of tricks and treats that I’ll just have to be satisfied with this year.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Best Indie Films of 2018: The Fix Picks

    Best Indie Films of 2018: The Fix Picks

    In early recovery I had moments where I was sure I could not stay sober for one more minute. That’s when my friends offered sound advice: Don’t think, and go to movies.

    In early recovery I found myself inundated with obsessive worries scurrying around in my head. It was repetitive dark noise that I ached to shush with alcohol. At times I was sure that I could not stay sober for one more minute. That’s when my friends offered sound advice: “Don’t think, and go to movies.”

    So, as we head into fall with the looming Nov. 6 midterms, a real-life nail biter, let’s talk about the great escape—indies!

    This first film is an uplifting true story about an exceptional human being. He is a creative philanthropist with an unexpected approach to helping people with addiction and ex-cons who are way down on their luck.

    Skid Row Marathon is about a superior court judge in Los Angeles. Craig Mitchell is a one-man crusade helping addicts and ex-cons who live in tents and cardboard boxes on LA’s Skid Row. The worst part of his day job is sending criminals to prison. The compassionate judge came up with a way to have a positive impact. He gets the homeless back on their feet with a running club.

    Wife-and-husband team, Gabi and Mark Hayes, heard about the judge who trains the homeless to run marathons.

    Mark told The Fix. “Many of the homeless are on drugs—crack, heroin, crystal meth, alcohol, you name it. Gabi and I wanted to do something [to help]. My wife is the real runner. Me? I go kicking and screaming.”

    When the couple first approached Judge Mitchell about doing a documentary, Mark said Mitchell’s response was, “’You can’t just show up with a camera and start filming people at the lowest point of their lives.’”

    “The judge was right,” said Mark. “At first, some threw bottles at us. But we hung in there and put in the time to get to know them until they felt safe enough to speak to us. We were there to help, not exploit them.”

    The response to their film has been high praise and enthusiastic reviews.

    “I think [the film] resonates with so many audiences because people know everybody deserves a second chance,” said Gabi. “The homeless situation is heartbreaking and it keeps getting worse. More and more tents keep popping up and there are people lying in the streets. They just took a wrong turn in life.”

    Runners find purpose when they show up to run with the judge and are treated with respect. Their self-image improves which helps them to get off and stay off the drugs. Skid Row Marathon has raked in 21 awards at film festivals across America—including Best Director, Best Editing, and multiple audience awards. To find out how to see it, visit the website.

    For this next winner, it doesn’t matter if you weren’t born yet or if you can’t remember a thing about the 60s and 70s because you were too damn high. Any age is the right audience for this one.

    Nico, 1988 is about the last year in the life of German model-singer-actress Nico (neé Christa Päffgen). Her glory had faded long ago, as did her exquisite beauty. She looked ravaged beyond her years due to her 15-year heroin addiction. In one scene, Nico (Trine Dyrholm) is sharing a cigarette with a friend.

    “Am I ugly?” She asks. He jokingly replies: “Yeah. Really.”

    “Good,” she says. “I wasn’t happy when I was beautiful.”

    In her teens she was a model for Vogue and Elle which led to acting in a number of films. But Nico is best known as Andy Warhol’s muse and as a singer for the Velvet Underground. Lou Reed wrote the band’s revolutionary lyrics about heroin, prostitution, and sadism.

    In 2003, that first album ranked number 13 in Rolling Stone magazine’s “500 Greatest Albums of All Time.” If Nico had been alive to see that, she would not have been impressed.

    “I don’t need everybody to like me,” she says in the film. “I don’t care.”

    She says in the movie that Jim Morrison suggested that she form her own band. When asked if she’s disappointed that her band never had commercial success, she rasps “I hate the word commercial.”

    Smartly directed by Susanna Nicchiarelli, Nico, 1988 is a fiery and fascinating study of another rock and roll tragedy. Though there’s nothing glamorous about watching someone eaten away by drugs, it was a great reminder to stay sober. Don’t miss the explosive tour de force by Dryholm. It brings chills.

    After I gave up substances, I became aware of—and had to let go of—magical thinking. Ironically, my next pick is about two dreamers who built a fantastical world that sparkled like a disco ball:

    Studio 54

    In Manhattan, 254 West 54th Street was the place to be. Studio 54 opened in 1977 and it was a smash hit—a nightly revelry of drinking, drugging and disco dancing. We’re talking gobs of cocaine, mountains of Quaaludes, and A-listers. Everyone else had to wait outside hoping they would be allowed in.

    Owners Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager, two Jewish guys from Brooklyn, became great friends at Syracuse University. Rubell’s charisma was always on but Schrager avoided attention—until now. The 71-year-old finally told details from 40 years ago that nobody has ever heard. Director Matt Tyrnauer got his hands on loads of never-before-seen footage.

    The owners were not prepared for the club’s instant success. It became a haven for celebrating sex and drugs. You’ll see Rubell zipping around, spoiling his guests, flashing open a long coat to reveal a drugstore in pockets—a smorgasbord of chemical delights.

    Rubell paid steeply for his 24/7 bacchanal. So, although the flick triggered my euphoric recall—wild nights hoovering cocaine, glugging Bacardi and dancing all night—I also remember what it cost me. I’m lucky—I did survive, hey, hey.

    The following film is about an unusual triangle between a girl and a “good” mother (the only mom she’d known) and an alcoholic stranger that kicks off a psychodrama.

    Daughter of Mine (Figlia mia) is a fictional story set on the coast of Sardinia, Italy. Two women, adoptive-mom Tina (Valeria Golino) and alcoholic biological-mom Angelica (Alba Rohrwacher), compete for the love and attention of 10-year-old Vittoria (Sara Casu).

    The shy, fair-skinned, redheaded girl had no idea that she was adopted. Heavy drinker Angelica has a life that is totally unmanageable. She’s being kicked off a farm for not paying her bills, but before slinking out of town, this “bad” mom begs adoptive mom Tina to let her spend time with Vittoria. Tina, who is compassionate but wary, finally agrees. She thinks What’s the harm? Angelica will be gone soon.

    Vittoria, however, is enchanted by her wild birth mother that looks so much like her. As they bond, Tina’s anxiety skyrockets. The story is at times predictable but that doesn’t take away from its emotionality or the power of the acting.

    Italian director Laura Bispuri described it as “three characters who are all placed in a conflict that…breaks their heart.”

    The thoughtful, slower pace of a European indie is refreshing. The backdrop of rural Sardinia, with its cliffs, expansive sky and turquoise water, adds to the film’s richness. After the U.S. debut at Tribeca, Strand Releasing purchased this touching award-winner, which is now available on Netflix and DVD.

    This next indie won the top award at this year’s Tribeca Film Festival for Best Narrative Feature. It also won Best Screenplay and Best Cinematography. All prizes are well-deserved.

    Diane stars Mary Kay Place as a sad, retired widow (badly in need of Al-Anon, if you ask me) who exhausts herself by putting the needs of others first. Her mess-of-a-son Brian (Jake Lacy) is a man-child who’s in and out of rehabs and opiate stupors. It’s maddening to see what she puts up with. Both actors give industrial-super-strength performances, as does the rest of the cast which includes Estelle Parsons and Glynnis O’Connor. Diane is the first narrative feature for documentarian Kent Jones (Hitchcock/Truffaut) who wrote and directed. Jones is also Director of the New York Film Festival at Lincoln Center. Martin Scorsese is executive producer.

    Diane spends her days schlepping long distances, performing good deeds. She feeds the homeless at soup kitchens, visits sick friends, and tends to her dying cousin and the rest of the extended family. She meets her klatch of old friends for lunch, where she has angry outbursts (Oh, Diane! Get thee to Al-Anon). The actress is a master at comedic nuances. Her self-blame is a mystery until the satisfying reveal and her character’s profound spiritual arc. IFC bought the film. Theater release date to be announced.

     

    Mary Kay Place in Diane

    Next is an award-winning narrative feature from the UK. It’s got the right ingredients: excellent writing, directing, acting, and cinematography—all in the first sequence. Clever, subtle hints show the audience what they need to know about the year (2011), the place (London), and the protagonist.

    Obey is explosive. Nineteen-year-old Leon (Marcus Rutherford) has been gone for four years. He came home to care for his alcoholic mother (T’Nia Miller). But there is one condition: she has to stop drinking. The good news is that his father is gone. Bad news? His mother replaced Leon’s abusive dad with a creepy, scary boyfriend who enables her addiction.

    Leon likes to hang out with his friends, box at the gym, and inhale nitrous oxide from balloons. Things intensify when he meets the movie’s female lead, Twiggy (Sophie Kennedy Clark). She’s a blonde with big blue eyes and luscious full lips. Leon is transfixed but femme fatale Twiggy has a boyfriend. Leon’s tension builds. It’s all too much and he is going to blow. Leon hates his mother’s boyfriend and her alcoholism, and outside is the chaos of the 2011 London Riots. Director James Jones uses actual news footage seamlessly. To find out how to see it, visit the website.

    Blowin’ Up is a documentary about sex workers who are caught in the legal system. Many who end up in “the life” have substance use disorders. Director Stephanie Wang-Breal presents their gripping stories without judgment as the film zeroes in on an experimental program in a Queens court. The compassion in the film is its biggest strength. The heroes are an empathic team of women, including a judge and DA, who work diligently to help the workers find a new start. Counseling is used to help them fight their way off of drugs and out of the life-sucking cycle of turning tricks, getting arrested and seeing their lives circle the drain. This solution-oriented program offers a chance at redemption. The new approach toward an age-old problem appears to be working. It is inspiring and brings hope for America’s failing justice system where recidivism is commonplace.

    [Allison: What do you think of these 2 quick mentions as blurbs with internal links as a Sidebar?]

    Pssst. Don’t miss these options:

    Roll Red Roll is a documentary directed by Nancy Schwartzman. It tells the horrifying story of a sexual assault case that took place in Steubenville, Ohio. Male high-schoolers, clearly intoxicated, were caught on cell phone videos, laughing about raping a teenage girl while she was in and out of consciousness. Much of the town mocked her on social media and sided with the local boys. She was ridiculed for being drunk. It’s a powerful film that shines the light on how vulnerable one is when intoxicated. Crime blogger Alexandria Goddard broke the case. The hacking group Anonymous became involved in order to fight for justice. If you ask me, not enough justice was served.

    Read more: Roll Red Roll

    Jellyfish is a fictional story about Sarah Taylor (Liv Hill), an overburdened teenage girl living in Margate, a dreary seaside town in England. Her mother, Karen (Sinéad Matthews), stays in bed all day while Sarah rushes her younger siblings, boy and girl twins (Henry Lile and Jemima Newman) to school. Sarah pedals madly on a bicycle with the youngsters seated in a makeshift wooden trailer that’s hooked to the back. It’s a sad rickety setup that instantly conveys how poverty stricken they are.

    Read more: Jellyfish Captures the Reality of Growing Up with a Mentally Ill Parent

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • No Vacation from Recovery: A Packing List

    No Vacation from Recovery: A Packing List

    Recovery cannot be left to chance but requires planning, even—and maybe especially—on vacation with its temptations: tropical drinks, laissez-faire schedule, swim-up bars, and late nights.

    For a long time, when my bipolar disorder, alcoholism, and eating disorder were out of control, I believed that the geographic cure, specifically travel, was the antidote to all my ills, as if I could take a vacation from addiction and mental illness. I would pack my bags and land in some exotic port of call, a Greek island, for instance, certain that I would find happiness in the reliable sunshine, the deep blue water, the daily swims, the Mediterranean food, and in a self somehow suddenly better—better in illness and better in soul.

    “Surely, surely the less frenetic island pace will slow me down,” I would tell myself. “I’m always happy there, lying on the beach, eating ripe peaches, hiking through the olive groves, and snorkeling in search of sea urchin shells.” Within days of arrival, I’d be miserable, again, flat out suicidal, wanting to swim out into the blue sea, going and going, or wanting to hurl myself off a steep cliff. No vacation from addiction and mental illness.

    What I have learned in my eight years of stability and sobriety is that there is no vacation from recovery, either.

    My first sober vacation with my now-ex-husband was to Jamaica. Hubris testing those waters, which was a paradise for my ex with its endless supply of Red Stripe and ganja but treacherous for me, only a few months sober. My then-husband had been travelling to Negril for twenty years chasing that perfect beach buzz while I was trying to stay steady, surrounded by all these happy (seeming) vacationers, and trying to remember why I did not want to drink, why I could not ever drink again. Naively, I packed without a contingency plan, bringing just a bikini, sunscreen, and a dress. Nothing to support my recovery. Thankfully, my Higher Power had a contingency plan. 

    The first day while we were lazing in the sun, another couple, Amy and Rich*, sat in the lounge chairs beside us. We made small talk and my then-husband said, “I’m heading up to the bar for a Red Stripe. Anybody want anything?”

    “Coke for me,” I said.

    “I’ll take a coke,” Rich said. “Thanks.”

    “Me, too,” Amy said.

    My antennae attuned, I said, “Are you guys in the club, too?”

    They knew what I meant and from then on, we were inseparable. Amy and Rich, sober for decades, prepared in advance for the trip. With a little online research, they’d found a 12-step meeting off the beach in a tiny church and we went together, in flipflop solidarity. Lesson learned? Recovery cannot be left to chance but requires planning, even—and maybe especially—on vacation with its temptations: tropical drinks, laissez-faire schedule, swim-up bars, and late nights. What happens in Vegas or London or New York City or Rome or Kathmandu doesn’t stay there, but stays with you, a permanent souvenir. In recovery, we don’t get a free pass.

    I now have a packing list that I stick to for all my travels, the practical essentials and spiritual necessities that support my recovery and stability. When we leave home for the unknown, we can get lost, even with the precision of GPS, even with years of sobriety or stability, even if we are confident in our now reliable happiness.

    My Recovery Packing List:

    1. Proper Running Shoes: Know whether you are running away from your life or running towards a bigger life. I have used travel as an escape from myself, from the circumstances of my life that felt out of control (my drinking, my starving, my depression). Every time I tried to run away to some other place, I wound up desperate, without family or friends, without a support system, and hit a new bottom each time. But when I am running on stable ground towards a joyful life? A few years ago, I stayed at a yoga ashram in the Bahamas. One morning, I took a sunrise walk down the beach and felt utterly content breathing in the sun and sea, at ease with myself in my solitude. 
    1. A Map: Know where you came from, where you are now, and where you are going. On a three-week solo trip to Morocco, I meticulously planned the route between the Atlas Mountains and Marrakech and Ouarzazate and Essaouria—unfamiliar terrain without a co-pilot. But more, I needed to remember how far I had come in sobriety so that I could travel alone, out into the world, without family and friends worrying that I might hit bottom, and to know that my journey forward was now one filled with adventure rather than danger. So, I wrote myself a note that I kept inside my wallet: I was once at the bottom of the well; I am now on dry land; I am heading for the horizon!
    1. Carry On (Not Checked Luggage): That is pack light. Don’t carry the weight of the past, only your sober and stable self. What use are sandals and sneakers and snorkels and sunscreen and travel guides and a Kindle downloaded with beach reads if you don’t have room for The Big Book or a journal to record 12-step work? And what use are these essentials for continued recovery if they get lost in checked baggage? If books are too heavy, download 12-step apps and The Big Book to your phone. And why bring them along if you don’t read them? Begin the day reading whatever you might find that anchors you to recovery. Me? It is usually the poem “Late Fragment” by Raymond Carver:

    And did you get what
    you wanted from this life, even so?
    I did.
    And what did you want?
    To call myself beloved, to feel myself
    beloved on the earth. 

    1. Emergency Contacts: Not just family and friends, but sponsors, therapists, and doctors. Too expensive to call overseas? Download an app (such as WhatsApp) so it is free to call people who will remind you who you are becoming, to hear a familiar voice when you’re out there wandering the world and veer off map. In the middle of the Sahara, just off a camel ride through a sandstorm, I Skyped with my sponsor. “Hellooooo,” I said. “I’m calling from the middle of nowhere though I am somewhere beautiful and not at all lost!”
    1. Local Hangouts: Once upon a time, you might have researched bars and nightspots. Now, as I learned from Amy and Rich, I research local 12-step meetings and make it a traveling priority to attend the meetings. Fellowship exists across this world and all we have to do is walk through the door to find our tribe. And if no meeting exists? Keep our antennae attuned to those around us who aren’t ordering booze. On a recent trip to Ireland, I met a local over dinner who I noticed wasn’t drinking. I mentioned to him that I didn’t drink either. “Are you a friend of Bill W.?” he asked, then invited me to go with him to a 12-step meeting later that night. Home on the road.

    Of course, make sure your passport—proof of citizenship and of far-flung travel—is up-to-date. A passport is a dream journal: where have I been and where do I want to go? And in recovery, a passport is a record of courage (those stamps) and of hope (those blank pages) that says: I want to risk myself in the world and am ready for the journey. Necessities packed. Never alone on the road.

     *Not their real names

    View the original article at thefix.com