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  • "Sober Curious" or Literally Dying: When Saving Your Life Becomes Trendy

    "Sober Curious" or Literally Dying: When Saving Your Life Becomes Trendy

    It’s not my intention to minimize what sober curious folks are doing, but let’s not lose sight of actual alcoholism or addiction either.

    Somewhere in the drunken mess of 2002, I was curious to try the combination of vodka and Klonopin. Ditto, I was a curious little kitten when it came to what could possibly happen if I took acid and ecstasy at the same time! I was curiouser and curiouser about everything, from trying heroin to trying to buy cocaine instead of paying my rent. That’s the sort of curious that kept me in trouble for the better part of two decades, but curious to quit drinking because I just needed a break from partying and how it was affecting my life? Uh, not so much.

    Trendy, Cool, and Not Dying

    If you don’t know what the “sober curious” movement is, you haven’t been paying attention to “sober influencers.” Those phrases actually cause my eyes to deeply roll and my head to shake like a bitchy old neighbor watching you try to parallel park. Look, I don’t know anything about being an influencer unless we’re talking about the fellow teenagers I influenced to take drugs and come to the mall with me in the 80’s. I also don’t know about sobriety being trendy. I didn’t get sober to be cool, I just got sober to stop dying. But I do know that this sober curious movement is an actual thing.

    We (and by that I mean people like me who write about recovery) like to latch our collective wagons to sobriety buzzwords and trends. This summer, the world cannot stop talking about “sober curious.” The term, taken from author Ruby Warrington’s book by the name same, has popped up on every media outlet over the last few months.

    “Sober curious,” for the uninitiated, describes:

    • Folks who don’t need to get sober but who can see the benefits of cutting down or cutting out alcohol completely.
    • Mainly younger people who want to relieve the pressure to drink heavily at social occasions.
    • Folks who are concerned with hangovers and how drinking is affecting their social and professional lives.
    • Whimsical nymphs who want to hang out with their friends but not get loaded.

    In short, the sober curious ain’t me.

    When Alcohol Is Mildly Inconvenient

    See, these folks can take or leave drugs or alcohol. They don’t identify as having a problem. Alcohol is mildly inconvenient for them; it’s like your aunt Linda who eats chicken vindaloo but forgets it gives her heartburn. Fundamentally, I do not understand this way of thinking. The way I’m wired, I like to do substances in amounts that will numb me out completely. I didn’t care if work was going to be hard the next day or if my health was going to be affected. Hell, I needed tequila and cocaine just to get through six-hour shifts waiting tables.

    I mean, why casually use drugs or drink alcohol when you can implode your whole existence? This is a level of insanity that probably isn’t familiar to the “sober curious.” Nevertheless, they’ve decided to rally together and say “We’re just going to stop drinking and it’s okay if you do too!” It’s more like giving up carbs for a trendy diet than, say, being placed on dietary restrictions because otherwise your diabetes will kill you.

    As a movement in and of itself, it’s harmless. I see no problem with people whose brains are very much not like my own who can say, “Maybe I should cool it with the booze for a while.” The fewer people stumbling around, barfing in Ubers, and screaming at each other in Taco Bell at 3 a.m. can only be a good thing for society. The annoying trendiness notwithstanding, sober curious has at the very least made people examine their relationship with alcohol.

    However, I don’t see a lot of “sober curious” folks in the ER or ICU.

    At my day job as a recovery mentor on an addiction medicine team at a busy urban hospital, I see far more people brought in because of the effects drinking has had on their lives than nearly anything else. As devastating as the opioid crisis continues to be, there is a continuous influx of people with alcohol-related health problems. Sure, sure, the emergency room sees a handful of bachelorette party attendees who drank too much and fell down a flight of stairs who show up needing TLC for a busted ankle. But mainly, I witness patients who are way beyond curious.

    They come in broken, in desperate need of medical and psychosocial attention due to their relationships with alcohol. Despite winding up in the hospital, sometimes in terrible condition, many of them think it’s not that bad or that they can just cut down. I certainly identify with this thinking. For decades, I fooled myself into thinking I could outrun it, or that the handful of people I knew who were heavier drinkers meant I couldn’t possibly be that bad.

    This is where the Alcohol Use Disorder (AUD) diagnosis comes in handy. Used in our hospital (and around the country), the diagnosis quickly separates the sober curious from people literally dying. Some NIH assessment questions for AUD include: “Have you continued to drink even though it was causing trouble with your family or friends?” and “Have you experienced craving — a strong need, or urge, to drink?” This sounds wildly different than the interns at the office who decided to cut back on Rosé because it was making them feel icky. It’s not my intention to minimize what sober curious folks are doing, but let’s not lose sight of actual alcoholism or addiction either. Marginalization, ignoring, and minimizing have never done substance use disorders any good.

    If You Drink Again, You Will Die

    For the people I see in hospital beds and for people like me, it’s a matter of life and death.

    Beyond that, this idea that younger people are drinking less and buying less alcohol doesn’t jibe with bigger, more staggering statistics of alcohol-related deaths among millennials. A study from earlier this summer found that folks between the ages of 23 and 38 were dying the most of “deaths of despair”, meaning suicide, overdose, and alcohol-related deaths. Furthermore, additional data shows that from 2009 to 2016 there was a significant increase in cirrhosis-related deaths among millennials, which researchers say was driven by alcohol-related liver disease.

    Over the last year, I have personally worked with a handful of patients under 30 who have the kind of alcoholic liver damage usually only seen in people twice their age. From my position at their bedsides, it certainly doesn’t look like a generation that has this booze thing all figured out. It looks like a group of people being killed even faster than the generation before them. This is a story not buzzword-worthy or even really noticed. About a month ago, I had the honor of sitting with a 28-year-old while he processed the news that if he ever drank again, he’d die. Heavy news for a kid whose friends are all still happy hour-hopping and swilling the latest craft beers. This young man didn’t have the option of being sober curious.

    Yet, as different as Ruby Warrington and I are regarding alcohol, we’re doing the same thing: We’re talking about how much we drink. What if someone reads my stuff and says, “Well at least I don’t drink like that guy!” Likewise, the plethora of sober curious articles might make a reverse light bulb go on for someone. They might seek help after reading about this new trendy health craze and think: “sober curious, that ain’t me.”

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Ithaca Drug Users' Union: Changing Perceptions and Fighting Stigma

    Ithaca Drug Users' Union: Changing Perceptions and Fighting Stigma

    “We don’t discourage use, but we don’t promote it either. We encourage people to participate in whatever kind of treatment would give them a better quality of life.”

    Since the Introduction of the Ithaca Plan in 2016, Ithaca, New York has been part of the national conversation of progressive drug policy. The plan includes the use of Safe Injection Facilities where drug users can safely use under the supervision of a medical professional. Supporters of the facilities argue that users will never have the chance to get clean if they overdose first, and this facility allows them to stay alive until they are ready for treatment.

    Three years later, Ithaca remains a politically progressive area with fairly progressive drug policies, but local drug users and former drug users see room for improvement in the way that they are treated in the legal system, health care, and treatment, to name a few. So, they’re forming a union.

    Raising Awareness and Breaking Down Sterotypes

    According to the Ithaca Drug Users’ Union mission statement, it is a group of former and current substance users “who confront the stigmas and injustice long suffered by drug users to replace them with fairness and compassion for all.” Since being formed earlier this year, the union members have already started planning protests and will be creating a television show to air on the local public access network every other week.

    “We really felt it was a good way to get out our message and be out front and open with it,” said Brian Briggs, the union’s director and founder, about why the union decided to pursue a television show. “The other [drug user’s] unions are fighting for stuff that we think are basic rights and we have. If we don’t take the next step and take up that mantle and be willing to take that risk and be out front on TV, then who will?”

    Local organizations like the Southern Tier AIDS Program (STAP) and the Ithaca REACH Project, which operates a low threshold harm reduction medical practice in Ithaca, have helped fight for harm reduction practices that many other places with drug unions don’t have. But it’s on the drug users, Briggs said, to fight for themselves and their rights. Part of that fight includes pushing back against stigma and breaking down stereotypes. By putting their authentic selves on television, Briggs wants to show people that drug users are just people.

    “We’re not trying to antagonize anybody,” Briggs said. “We want people to just hear us and basically enjoy us. We’re a group of fun people and we have a blast. Maybe people can see us for that and just enjoy it.”


    Brian Briggs shows off a potential logo for the union designed by one of the members.

    Briggs has been a drug user since 1991. He was put on methadone for a spell then tried quitting cold turkey because he wanted to be done. When he got hurt playing hockey in the early 2000s, he became dependent on pain killers and tried going back to a traditional treatment center but didn’t feel like he could get the help he needed. In 2003 he went on Suboxone and went back to school with the goal of getting a master’s degree in social work, but he said that even though his urine tests were clean, his provider stopped prescribing him Suboxone because he wasn’t attending group meetings, which were part of his treatment plan. He used all the medical leaves he could with the community college he was attending but couldn’t go back to finish his degree.

    Since 2007, Briggs has been a volunteer with STAP doing peer-delivered syringe exchange and spreading the word about harm reduction services in the community. In STAP he found a like-minded community that understood that traditional treatment and its strict rules doesn’t work for everyone.

    “They agreed with me and believed me and I got involved in this whole movement,” he said. “I felt like I was sane again. I could say stuff like I want to be treated like a diabetic who needs insulin. If a diabetic goes to the doctor and the doctor says ‘How are you doing?’ and his blood sugar is all messed up, his health is bad because his diet has been terrible and he’s been eating Twinkies and Ho Hos, well he’s not following his treatment plan but he needs insulin to live.”

    He was inspired to start a union after attending a conference last year and speaking with Jess Tilley, the creator of the first drug user’s union in New England. Earlier this year he started collecting members and holding regular meetings. It didn’t take long for him to find people who bring personal investment to the union’s mission, including his best friend Tony Sidle.

    At first, Sidle, a former heroin user and dealer, said he didn’t want to be part of the union because it was Briggs’ thing. He went to the meetings when his friend asked him to but mostly to observe. He understands what Ithaca Drug Users Union sounds like. In his words, it sounds like “a shooting gallery.”

    “That’s not what it’s for,” he said. “We don’t discourage use, but we don’t promote it either. We encourage people to participate in whatever kind of treatment would give them a better quality of life.”

    Prohibition Feeds the Beast of Mass Incarceration

    People in active addiction and people in active use, Sidle said, don’t get a fair shake or a voice. It’s part of why he joined the union and has become a very active member. Like Briggs, Sidle takes issue with the narrow ideas of treatment currently being used and sees prohibition as another way to feed the beast that is mass incarceration in the United States.

    The union is not afraid to be public, as demonstrated by their participation in the recent Ithaca Festival parade, an annual community event that celebrates dozens of local organizations. Four of the members, including Sidle and Briggs, regularly attend meetings of the Criminal Justice and Alternatives to Incarceration committee (CJAI), headed by Dave Sanders, Tompkins County Criminal Justice Coordinator. The committee is made up of representatives from local organizations and municipal offices that work with incarcerated, or formerly incarcerated, individuals, with the goal of reducing the jail population and supporting the formerly incarcerated community. Sanders said he is impressed by the union members’ knowledge of the systems at play and the questions they bring to each conversation. He sees the union as an advocate group for drug users seeking help. 

    “I think that their ideas are very important, especially with how we’re moving things forward,” Sanders said. “I think there’s a place for that right now.” 

    The union’s next big stand will be a protest at the local hospital, Cayuga Medical Center, where multiple members of the union say they have been treated badly because of their history of drug use.

    “If people are afraid to go into hospitals because of the way they are treated because of the drug addiction, then the chances [increase] of people dying from things that they shouldn’t die from, and losing arms, and making things exacerbated and further complicated than they need to be…that needs to change,” Sidle said.

    Sidle was incarcerated for about 13 years on drug-related charges and was an active drug user for about 20 years. Now, he’s taking Suboxone, works at the local homeless shelter, and is the vice president of the union (even though he and Briggs both agree that titles don’t really matter). He’s been through traditional treatment a number of times but didn’t feel like he was actually being listened to, just judged. He doesn’t apologize or make excuses for his past use and dealing, but he wants people to stop treating him and other users like that is all they are. 

    Herb Howland-Bolton is a longtime friend of Sidle’s who started using drugs as a teenager. He joined the union because he doesn’t want other kids to go through what he did, and has had too many friends die from an overdose that could have been helped if the system was different.

    “People died before they could advocate for themselves,” Howland-Bolton said of the shame and stigma that causes drug users to hide their use and put themselves in unsafe situations because of their addiction.

    The union’s main goals are to confront the stigma against drug use that makes users hide and to promote treatment options outside of what is traditionally offered. While marching in the parade, and at the eventual protest, members will be holding signs that list the names of their dead friends and acquaintances, drug users who were sent through traditional treatment (sometimes multiple times) but for one reason or another, it didn’t work.

    Traditional Treatment Can Be a Setup for Failure

    Over and over, members of the union described the precariousness of traditional treatment methods. Missing a meeting could mean mandatory volunteer hours that they have to fit in between more meetings and work and life. A parole violation could mean being sent back to jail where their treatment plan would be interrupted. Getting out of rehab without a support system to help them find housing that isn’t with other users means they are often right back where they started. 

    Jane* is a member of the union who is also going through Ithaca City Drug Court, which is specifically for offenders whose charges are associated with drug use. Drug Court participants are expected to stay clean and get treatment and find a job or go back to school. It’s set up to be a nine-month program but she’s been in it for two years. Jane has done inpatient treatment multiple times and said she’s a perfect patient while there, but it’s never enough time to address the trauma that fuels her addiction. She’s currently doing an outpatient program, and thankfully she has a counselor who allows her to be honest and gives her flexibility.

    “Right now, I’m free. I’m not in jail, I’m not in rehab, I’m out in the real world,” she said. “But, if one thing goes wrong, that’s gone. That’s all taken away. And that’s terrifying.”

    Often, she feels, with traditional treatment, they aren’t given the opportunity to succeed. She sees the union as a place for support and connection for users or past users, support that isn’t offered in the current system.

    *Not her real name

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Warning: Detoxing in Jail May Lead to Severe Injury or Death

    Warning: Detoxing in Jail May Lead to Severe Injury or Death

    Given the undeniable and inextricable link between jails and dangerous withdrawal from drugs and alcohol, isn’t it time that more jails had adequate detox infrastructure and medical personnel?

    In January, Frederick Adami was detained in Bucks County Correctional Facility in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Soon, he began vomiting and defecating profusely and persistently. His cellmate’s pleas for medical assistance were ignored for hours. The next morning, guards found Adami dead in his cell. The cause of death was opioid withdrawal – a condition that, when properly medically supervised, has a near-zero mortality rate.

    In March, an inmate in a Delaware County, Ohio jail died from opioid withdrawal despite being on the facility’s medical addiction protocol. A sheriff’s office spokeswoman felt “pretty confident that there were no red flags … that there was nothing more that we could have done.” In nearby Logan County, a pending lawsuit charges that an inmate died last June after being strapped to a chair while withdrawing from alcohol — a drug whose legality belies the grave risks of nonclinical detoxing, including seizures and the substance-specific delirium tremens.

    Hard Facts and Half-Measures

    The story of withdrawal oversight in our nation’s jails is one of convincing facts met with half-measures. According to an instructive paper published by the Center for Health & Justice titled “Safe Withdrawal in Jail Settings,” 64,000 Americans died from drugs in 2016 (the number climbed to 72,000 in 2017), and 20.1 million people reported substance abuse issues in 2016.

    The paper then cites a truly eye-opening statistic: nearly two-thirds of people serving sentences in jail meet the diagnostic criteria for drug dependence or abuse. Incredibly, that data is from 2007-2009 – before the current opioid crisis and its record addiction and death totals. And since these detained people with addictions to alcohol or drugs are separated from their substances by metal bars, jails are often ground zero for withdrawal symptoms to both begin and worsen.

    Alarmingly, these hard facts are followed by soft recommendations. The paper concludes that “medically supervised withdrawal from alcohol or illicit substances is ideal whenever possible,” and that “partnerships with local medical providers can help jails safely manage withdrawal syndrome.”

    “Ideal whenever possible” is official-ese for “if it’s convenient for you” and especially “if you can afford it.” And “partnerships with local medical providers” is an intentionally vague phrase providing more cover for jails than coverage for the jailed.

    Wardens Are Not Equipped to Treat Withdrawal

    Isn’t it the duty of law enforcement officials to prevent unnecessary injuries and deaths in their own jails? High, drunk, or sober, shouldn’t concern for inmate safety be a priority? What’s more, as withdrawal tends to occur early in the detention process, it undoubtedly affects many detainees who haven’t even seen a judge yet, much less been convicted of a crime.

    Given the undeniable and inextricable link between jails and dangerous withdrawal from drugs and alcohol, isn’t it time that far more jails had adequate detox infrastructure and medical personnel?

    The issue clearly isn’t getting the attention it deserves. New York City — a historically forward-thinking city whose mayor, Bill de Blasio, is among the country’s most progressive — is a prime example, since its jail system has been a focal point of change in recent years.

    New York plans to replace its notoriously decrepit jail at Rikers Island with a number of smaller jails spread throughout the city. Despite improved safety being a key tenet of the long overdue initiative, the word “withdrawal” can be found exactly zero times in its 50-page roadmap plan. 

    Granted, the plan does include a program called HealingNYC, which treats opioid-dependent inmates with methadone, a known treatment for weaning. However, merely distributing meds won’t matter if an inmate shows the types of severe symptoms — including relentless vomiting and defecating — that can lead to long-term health issues or death. Further, methadone won’t do a thing for those withdrawing from alcohol.

    Though no national record is available detailing withdrawal deaths in jails, the scenario is far from far-fetched: according to HealingNYC, 17 percent of the 55,000 people admitted annually to NYC’s jails are in acute opioid withdrawal. Investigative reporting by Mother Jones found 20 lawsuits filed between 2014 and 2016 alleging that an inmate died from opiate withdrawal complications — a figure that, according to an attorney for one of the victims, likely represents a mere fraction of the actual total.

    And neither figure includes people going through alcohol withdrawal, a condition with even more dangerous complications. 

    These situations call for medical personnel, not just medicines. As a larger report on our jail system’s healthcare crisis in The New Yorker noted, “withdrawal can require close monitoring and specialized treatment that jail wardens are not equipped to provide.”

    Healthcare Behind Bars: Profits Over People

    And while many local jail systems have turned to private entities to provide healthcare for inmates, unsurprising reports have surfaced that many of these organizations place profits over people, and tend to operate only as effectively as they are overseen. In Arizona, which employs a private healthcare provider called Corizon, a pending lawsuit accuses the state of care so shoddy that it violates the Constitution’s Eighth Amendment ban on cruel and unusual punishment.

    As a recovering alcoholic, I’ve both heard and witnessed frightening accounts of alcoholics and addicts detoxing without medical assistance. Too many of these stories unfolded in jails following recent arrests; in 2011, my final drinking spree ended with 30 hours in a lower Manhattan jail following a DUI. Fortunately my withdrawal symptoms were minor, but I have no confidence in the ability of that antiquated facility — so dank and dungeon-esque it earned the nickname “The Tombs” — to handle serious withdrawal.

    Nobody is expecting perfection. Compared with larger, more concentrated state and federal prisons, jails are inherently scattered, transitional facilities operated by county or municipal law enforcement departments. With more than 3,000 jails across the country housing some 700,000 detainees, it’s unrealistic to mandate each be fully staffed and equipped to treat all facets of drug and alcohol withdrawal.

    However, we can and should do far better. Amid recent encouraging changes in the way the criminal justice system treats drug-related offenses — reduced sentencing, increased redirection and referrals to rehabs, equipping police officers with the fast-acting opioid overdose-preventing drug naloxone — it only makes sense to improve the way we deal with addiction and alcoholism at a detainee’s first true danger point. Increased funding for proper detox facilities and trained medical personnel at jails should be considered another stepping stone in an ongoing fight to reduce drug- and alcohol-related injuries and deaths.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • HBO’s “Euphoria” Explores Addiction, Trauma, and Gender…in High School

    HBO’s “Euphoria” Explores Addiction, Trauma, and Gender…in High School

    Teens today have access to the world in a way many of us never experienced in our formative years. The drugs, sex, relationships portrayed in the show are absolutely something we see on the regular.

    It’s no wonder why HBO’s new drama Euphoria has already been renewed for a second season—the riveting series is a no-holds-barred look at overstimulated teens who use drugs, deal with childhood trauma, and have sex; it’s a perfect recipe for “must-see TV.”

    As gut-wrenching as it can be—scenes and images are raw and uncensored, eliciting visceral reactions—the vibrant ensemble cast led by Disney Channel star Zendaya and transgender model-turned-actress Hunter Schafer lights up the screen, making for electrifying viewing. 

    Creator Sam Levinson Struggled with Addiction as a Teen

    Executive produced by rapper Drake and based on an Israeli teen series, much of what is seen onscreen was inspired by creator Sam Levinson’s personal experiences struggling with addiction.

    “I spent the majority of my teenage years in hospitals, rehabs, and halfway houses,” Levinson told the audience at the premiere screening in Hollywood. “Some time around the age of 16, I resigned myself to the idea that eventually drugs would kill me, and there was no reason to fight it. I would let it take me over, and I had made peace with that.”

    But then Levinson discovered a quote in a book that would change his life: “’In the end, we are nothing more than an amalgamation of our actions, and that’s ultimately what defines us.’ …that really spooked me in a sense that, if I were to die today, who would I be? I’m a thief. I’m an addict. I’ve been shitty to almost every person in my life that I love,” Levinson acknowledged.

    “There was this voice that was clear as day that said, ‘stop fucking doing drugs.’ I’ve been clean for 14 years.”

    While there are numerous irate people on social media accusing HBO of being too extreme, what the show describes is not all hyperbole: Teens who are using drugs are often self-medicating stress or trauma with untested high-potency chemicals. It’s an environment ripe for addiction or overdose.

    “What we are witnessing with the availability of drugs and the viciousness of marketing aiming at normalizing use in younger and younger populations is a tragedy of immeasurable proportions,” said Daniel Ahearn, a certified addiction specialist and meditation counselor, who has worked with adults and teens in trauma clinics and rehabs for the past 16 years and also runs PTHWRK, a Buddhist-based meditation program.

    Teens Use Drugs to Deal with Stress and Trauma

    “Children are dealing with enormous stress in environment and influence on a daily basis. They are suffering and the drugs are becoming their outlet,” Ahearn told The Fix. “The real problem is the drugs work. They work for a while. Then things tend to get bad. Real bad. We are seeing record numbers of overdoses in younger and younger people.”

    Ahearn is happy to see that at the end of each episode, HBO provides information on where to get help. “It’s important that Euphoria is offering an outlet of health and wellness resources. It’s hopeful that people are having this discussion and the series is contributing to this in a real way.”

    Beck Gee-Cohen, director of LGBTQI+ Programming at Visions Adolescent Treatment Center, believes what is being portrayed is a “mirror” to the real world.

    “Many parents/adults do not want to believe this is actually happening in the life of teens. However, those of us who work in the field of addiction/mental health see it regularly, and many times it’s worse. A show cannot capture all the pain/trauma that a person goes through; when we watch it from a 2D standpoint we can separate ourselves from it, because it doesn’t feel real,” he said.

    “The trans character in the show has given an amazing narrative to what life can be like for a trans teenager today. Her being trans is not the main conversation. We are actually just starting to hear the word trans in the third episode and how it is relevant to her navigating a possible sexual relationship. In the past, a TV shows’ main focus would be about her being trans. Instead, we get to see her character’s depth, strength, and struggles, just like any of her cisgender peers.”

    Transgender Youth Have to Deal with an Added Layer of Oppression

    In working with trans youth, Gee-Cohen noted that gender is only one piece of the puzzle. “These teens are navigating a world that is coming at them at light speed. They have access to the world in a way many of us never experienced in our formative years. The drugs, sex, relationships that are being addressed in the show are absolutely something we see on the regular in teens today, despite gender. When it comes to trans young people, there is an added layer of oppression and struggle that needs to be addressed in order to help them find their way. As professionals, it is our responsibility to get educated in best practices and creating affirming environments for these young trans people to thrive.”

    In the series, Algee Smith (The Hate U Give), plays a football star adjusting to college life: “Euphoria is a must-watch because it’s truth and reality that we live in today. It’s important for us to know the state of many people dealing with these same issues. If we don’t talk about it, we can’t help fix it.”

    He continued: “We have so many different characters from different walks of life that a lot of people will relate to. From the life of teenage Rue (Zendaya) to the very adult life of Cal, every character has their own secrets that they live with.”

    Eric Dane (Grey’s Anatomy, The Last Ship), who has had his own struggles with addiction in the past, plays Cal Jacobs, a married man with a secret: “I don’t think anyone will look at this and think drugs are cool. This is not a series that glamorizes drug abuse in any way, shape, or form. It’s done so truthfully that it shows a lot of this stuff for what it really is. There is an honesty and beauty to the eventual redemption.”

    One of the standout performances in Euphoria is Barbie Ferreira, who plays Kat, a high school student dealing with body image issues and sexuality. 

    “Playing Kat really allowed me to [understand] how the exploration of sexuality can come in any and all forms. The role brought me back to how I navigated the world as a curious teenager, with internet access and a chaotic amount of free time to spend diving into the niche worlds of the web. I wasn’t really into many hobbies outside of the internet, as a true Gen Z baby.”

    Sex, Drugs, and Social Media

    In an early episode, Kat has an unimaginable breach of privacy that left the character feeling vulnerable and exposed. 

    “She immediately reacts by making extreme decisions that make her feel the power she had lost,” said Ferreira. 

    “The fact that one person with an iPhone can take away Kat’s precious and strongly guarded anonymity that so many of us cling to is a frighteningly real fear and anxiety that is growing in modern society and continues to be brushed under the rug with little conversation about it. I love Kat because although her decision to be a cam girl is far from healthy, it’s a step into owning her power and feeling her worth.”

    Kat’s relief and excitement at finding something outside of her real life rings true for everyone who uses the internet as an escape or sanctuary, to feel a sense of importance and understanding, noted Ferreira.

    “Her need for escapism in fics and fan culture hits home for me and millions of other self-professed outsiders, who felt community with strangers via text posts and gushing over people we will never meet.”

    Watch Euphoria on HBO.

     

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • The Joy of Saying YES to the Addict I Love

    The Joy of Saying YES to the Addict I Love

    Karen had to let go of her addicted son in order for them both to heal. Years later, her son is sober, healthy, and helping others. Here is their journey in their own words.

    In November 2016 I wrote an article for The Fix titled Saying NO to the Addict I Love, about how hard it is to let go of someone you love who is an addict. You try everything you can to help them, but you only succeed in becoming a bigger part of the problem. At that time, the measures I finally took to change my bad habits were so drastic that I put what little possessions I had left into a storage unit, packed a bag, and left the country. My son, Harry (others call him Harrison), and I had to go our separate ways, and I had to trust that God or the universe or whatever you want to call it would lead us both where we needed to go. 

    Addicted to Intervening

    I landed first in Sucre, Bolivia, one of the most out-of-the-way places I could find on the map that still had decent internet. Once there, the knowledge that I was impotent to do anything ate away at me like parasites. I couldn’t even make a phone call to my son. Guilt wracked my body. Being so far away forced me to see things more clearly. I started to realize that I, too, am an addict of sorts. I am addicted to intervening, to cleaning up messes so I can pretend they aren’t there, to giving and giving, even when it’s detrimental and makes no sense. I simply can’t stop myself. 

    The withdrawals from this habit were intense. Alone in my small garret room, besides suffering from severe altitude sickness, I sat on my bed at night and compulsively rocked back and forth in mental anguish, sometimes for hours. I began to worry I had some physical ailment but I’ve since learned that this type of rocking is a product of PTSD. 

    That was the beginning of three years of wandering the globe. I morphed into a digital nomad. During that time I didn’t see my son. Slowly, I learned to let go of those feelings of panic and despair and focus on what fulfilled me. I traveled to places as diverse as Costa Rica and Morocco, and most recently Luxor, Egypt, where I’ve spent the past year. 

    I started to find gratification in my travels; I’m a writer and kickboxing coach, so I worked on my urban fantasy series and connected with boxing gyms where I’d teach and train. On my terrace in Luxor, I hung the first boxing bag to ever be seen in the West Bank villages and began training girls. I started My World Project, a volunteer program connecting kids in far-flung places through writing and art. 

    Shortly after I arrived in Luxor last April, I learned Harry was in jail again and facing serious prison time. The familiar feelings of panic and despair washed over me. Resolutely, I took a few deep breaths, put on my gloves, and punched the bag. Martial arts and kickboxing training have saved my life and my sanity on many occasions over the years. 

    Hope Is a Scary Thing

    And then, a few weeks later, the news that Harry had been accepted into the Salvation Army. The upsurge of hope I felt also made me afraid. Hope is a scary thing. Yet, as the days and weeks went by, he seemed to get better and better. When I returned at Christmas, I had the joy of hugging my sober son—my artistic, intelligent son, with the clear blue eyes and the big smile. Few moments have felt as good as that embrace. My son had followed his path and done what he needed to do. I had done the same. And now, here we were.

    Three years ago, I hardly would have dared to believe this day would come. Yet I have the joy of saying YES to writing this follow-up piece with him. My son is an incredible human being and my love for him knows no bounds. It is with great pleasure that I turn the story over to him.

    *****

    Hello, my name is Harrison, and I’m an addict. 

    From a young age I never felt like life made any sense. Everything hurt, nothing was fun, and being a good kid seemed very dull. I was a reader and a writer and probably thought too deeply and darkly about things. 

    I will always remember the first time I got loaded: the world seemed to light up around me, nothing hurt, and boring became fun. When I was high or drunk, it was like the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. I didn’t care that my father wasn’t really around and that I felt like a black sheep in my home. I didn’t care if kids at school liked me. Nothing really mattered. Soon drugs had become the solution to all my problems. In middle school, I went to school intoxicated, ditched class, and had few friends. Most of my peers hadn’t begun experimenting with drugs and alcohol while I was trying everything under the stars. 

    Choosing a Life of Crime

    As middle school came to end, though, curious minds began to show interest in me and my small circle of friends. We began providing drugs (for a small fee, of course). We went from outcast loners to the most popular kids in our area. Everybody knew who had the dope. It started with small stuff like marijuana and pills, but when somebody wanted to step up their game and try the real thing, well, we had that, too. Slowly but surely I lost the little interest I had in school. I knew what I wanted to do with my life: I was going to be a criminal. 

    Drugs were my escape and they worked for a while, but a few years later they weren’t even scratching the surface anymore. I was 23, with two daughters, a strung-out girlfriend, and completely lost. All I knew how to do was hustle. L.A. County Jail was a frequent pit stop for me. Every time I got out, I’d say “I’m never coming back here” but shortly afterwards I’d be in that blue get-up, once again behind bars and writing letters to the outside world. 

    My mother got the worst of it, watching my kids when I was too fucked up and getting thrown out of apartments because the neighbors knew her son was selling drugs. 

    In and Out of Prison

    It got so bad that my mom literally left the country and we stopped talking for a long time. I continued walking the same road, knowing I was hell-bound and not really caring. I kept getting locked up, I was used to it. But my imprisonment didn’t end when they let me out. The world felt dark, cold, and bitter. I began to resent the people around me. In a room full of people—close friends, family, didn’t matter who—I felt alone. 

    I think I perfected this drugged-up, criminal lifestyle to the best of my ability. I had a cycle: I would get out, hustle some money together, get some stuff like cars, nice clothes, electronics, and even a mobile home one time, and hold onto it until the cops found me. Get locked up and lose everything. Do my time. Get out, and repeat. I was stuck on a weird hamster wheel. 

    Finally I got sick of it.

    The last time I got locked up, I was looking at some serious time. I guess that was around the time my mom was in Egypt. I was withdrawing from heroin again and I was in pain. I knew nobody would answer my calls, so I didn’t bother. I knew I couldn’t make bail, so I didn’t bother. I didn’t want to get out and do the same shit again. So I did something that I never did: I prayed to God and asked for an answer. I asked for him to release me from this strange cycle of anguish that I was trapped in. I asked him to show me how to live. 

    Now, prior to this, my belief in God was non-existent, but the very next day I got a visit from someone who interviewed me for a rehabilitation program. In order to get in, my paperwork had to be approved by the judge. But when I finally made my way to the courtroom and faced him, it looked like I was going to be denied. 

    So, before the hammer dropped, I spoke.

    Give Me a Chance to Change My Life

    “Your Honor, if I get sentenced time in prison, chances are when I get out, I will do the same thing I always do and you or another judge will see me again shortly. Give me a chance to change my life. Allow me to try a different way.” 

    Miraculously, the judge did a complete turnaround and let me into the program. I’d made a million promises to stay sober before. But this time, the moment I stepped through the door of the Salvation Army, I surrendered. The program was strict and you had to work hard; it was exactly what I needed. Day by day, I changed deeply ingrained habits. They taught me how to live a normal life. 

    While learning how to actually hustle and work my ass off legally, I learned another very important lesson: Wanting to change will not make anything different. Action is what will make things different. Henri Nouwen’s quote really hit home for me: “You cannot think your way into a new way of living, you have to live your way into a new way of thinking.”

    I used to think about changing my life, as if it meant something, and even talk about it. But nothing happened. Then I started actually doing stuff, like my laundry and making my bed—simple stuff—and it changed my mentality. It’s been over a year since I stood in front of that judge and made that promise. And just last month I stood in front of him again, clean and sober, and he congratulated me.

    From Criminal to Hero

    Today I work in a rehab helping people with the same struggles I know so well. I used to be a criminal, and now I’ve heard people call me a hero. It took a lot before I was ready for recovery, and I don’t know what finally flipped that switch. I wish there were some magic words I could say that would make you understand, but the truth is, back in the day you could have told me anything and I wouldn’t have cared. My experience is what defined me. I used to be the best at being the worst. Now I use my powers for good. 

    My Mom is proud of me today. Even though my children are on the other side of the country, I’m able to be the best version of me, one day at a time. 

    Life is good…. Like ACTUALLY good.

     
     

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Is Recovery Possible Without Abstinence?

    Is Recovery Possible Without Abstinence?

    If I told an AA meeting I was having wine once in a while, the group would tell me that I am headed for certain demise.

    Benders, Blackouts, and Finding Recovery

    In 2013, I bottomed out in no uncertain terms. After years of heavy drinking that spawned blackouts and dangerous behavior, I had a three-day bender that left a 24-hour hole in my memory and landed me on the doorstep of a local AA meeting.

    I attended those meetings for a couple of weeks, and they saved my life. In those rooms I found people who validated what I had suspected for a long time: I was an alcoholic.

    When I stopped going to meetings, it wasn’t because I rejected the program. It was because my lifestyle had changed: shortly after I stopped drinking, I uprooted my life and began traveling. Whenever I arrived in a new city, I always looked up a meeting, just in case I needed one. But I never felt the need to go, because I was never tempted to drink. 

    I was sober for nine months when I finally settled in one spot and I felt ready to tackle the program. I returned to the rooms and found a sponsor.

    I’d had high hopes that AA was the missing piece of my sobriety. Those nine sober months had been lonely as I struggled with the unpleasant feelings that had previously been ignored with the help of wine. My friendships had become riddled with conflict as I became sensitive to even minor misunderstandings. When I was drinking, those bumps had been smoothed over with alcohol. Without it, I couldn’t move past an argument. I thought maybe it was a sober thing, and other sober people would have advice for this new territory.

    But my return to AA lacked the same connection I’d initially felt all those months earlier. My new sponsor asked me, with undisguised disbelief, “Nine months, really? All on your own?” She went on to tell me how she had once been sober for three years without AA. She eventually began drinking again because she hadn’t been accountable; she hadn’t told people in her life that she was an alcoholic. 

    Without AA, You Will Fail

    I corrected her assumption that we were the same. “I tell people I’m an alcoholic, and that I am sober.” When she responded with visible relief, I realized that she’d been skeptical about my claim because she assumed I was still in denial. In that moment I felt the inflexibility of the program, and the words of speakers I’d heard echoed in my head: “Without AA, you will fail.” There was no room to do it any other way.

    After that coffee with my sponsor, the hope I’d had for AA dissolved. I realized I wasn’t looking to AA to help me stay sober, I was looking to AA to help me be happy.

    Instead of returning to AA, I found a therapist. At the end of our first session during which I had tearfully explained my sobriety and my sadness, she diagnosed me with severe depression. After hearing my history, she suggested that I had always been depressed and likely self-medicating with alcohol. 

    I asked her about AA, and if she felt it was necessary for me to continue attending.

    “Are you tempted to drink?” she asked.

    “No,” I answered truthfully. Even with the challenges of my new sober life, I’d never considered it. I wanted a solution, and I already knew drinking wasn’t it.

    “It sounds like your lack of connection to the meetings is only furthering the isolation you feel,” she told me. “If you feel like you want to drink, go. But otherwise, it sounds like you’re okay.”

    My sadness wasn’t a byproduct of new sobriety, my sadness was depression. When she told me I didn’t have to go to meetings because I wasn’t struggling not to drink, I was validated.

    Sober, but Not Abstinent

    I began having sips almost two years later. I don’t remember the first one, but I do remember having no desire to get drunk. They continue to be infrequent and small, leaving me with no desire to drink to the point of drunkenness. I have even had a sip too many on occasion: my cheeks flush and my tongue grows loose. I used to drink for that feeling. Now, it stops me in my tracks, repelling my desire for more.

    The commonly understood language of recovery does not allow for this kind of behavior. People on the outside only understand recovery in the terms presented in movies and on television: Alcoholic bottoms out. Alcoholic attends AA meeting. Alcoholic gets shitfaced after having one sip of a drink at a party and AA friends drag her out of a bar. Alcoholic is sober one year, speaks at AA meeting, and then eats cake. 

    And it isn’t just people on the outside. If I told an AA meeting I was having wine once in a while, the group would tell me that I am headed for certain demise.

    To be clear: I am not advising anyone who wants to stop drinking or who is currently sober to try sipping alcohol. Having any amount of alcohol while “in recovery” is a controversial topic and beyond the scope of this article. We all need to do what works for us to stay sober and healthy.

    But in my experience, there’s a difference between sipping and slipping. Before I received my depression diagnosis, there was one purpose to drinking: get drunk. Now that I manage my mental health properly and no longer self-medicate with alcohol by drinking to excess, I don’t have the desire to abuse it.

    Sipping vs. Slipping

    One week into my sobriety, I did come close to slipping. I’d had dinner with a friend after work and on the walk home I started to white-knuckle it. The walk was a landmine of my drinking haunts: the old man bar at the halfway point, the liquor store a couple blocks from my apartment, the fancier bar after that, and then, one building away from mine, another bar.

    Keep walking keep walking keep walking, I coached myself. You’ll go home and answer those emails and have mac and cheese for dinner. Then you’ll go to sleep and get up early tomorrow for your jog to the AA meeting.

    I made it inside my apartment with no detours. But then I checked my email and I read a piece of good news that I had been waiting months to hear. That’s when my resolve wavered. I wanted to celebrate, and my first thought was: Prosecco!

    I paused. I thought about it. What would happen if I did buy that Prosecco? I knew that I would drink it in its entirety by myself. Bottle done, I would head to the bar around the corner and have some more, and finish the night with my usual three-whiskey nightcap.

    I knew that meant I would not wake up early the next day to jog to my morning AA meeting. I knew if I didn’t go to my meeting I was probably going to take the day off being sober, and then the next one and the next.

    What stopped me from drinking that day wasn’t the thought of a horrible hangover, or even the prospect of soul-blackening shame, but the knowledge that my good news would not be any better if I drank to celebrate it. By the same token, the need to celebrate my little victory as a means to offset my usual sadness wasn’t really necessary, because I knew that sadness wasn’t going anywhere—with or without booze. If drinking wasn’t going to make things better—and I knew it wouldn’t—why bother?

    It was years before I recognized I was chasing a feeling of false relief that would never last long enough. Abusing alcohol was, in fact, only making me more sad and depressed. Once I understood the why of my drinking, I was no longer compelled to drink to excess. I had neutered its power over me.

    Will I Be Kicked Out of the Recovery Club?

    Up until I wrote this, I was hiding my sips from all but my closest friends, because there is no vernacular in recovery to explain it. It’s simply easier to say I’m sober, and play along with others’ commonly-held picture of what recovery looks like. That’s easier than opening myself up to the judgment of those who are in recovery—and even those who are not—who will tell me I will fail, as I was told so many years ago by people who had sipped and ultimately slipped. They’d say that by doing this, I cannot consider myself sober. 

    I’d be kicked out of the club.

    As they are, though, my sips are an indulgence, equivalent to the dessert I have a forkful of but don’t need to finish, or an expensive pair of heels I’ll try on, but talk myself out of buying. The sips aren’t samples of what I miss, and they aren’t tests of will. Along with the taste of the wine itself, there are overtones of pleasure and victory and a hint of bitterness mixed in with my relationship to alcohol. The bitterness isn’t because I want more: it is the memory of that never-ending chase and where it led me. The bitterness is the reason I only want a sip—a sip I will continue to take, at my discretion, because I want to, and still remain sober.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Sex, Drunk and Sober

    Sex, Drunk and Sober

    Once I got sober again, I’d like to say my behavior towards men was completely different, that I only had sex when I was one hundred percent sure I wanted to, that I didn’t judge and hate.

    I remember the first time I had sex. I was 26, far past the age of most of my friends, and I’d waited for the first man I really loved. My mom had said a few things regarding the subject when I was growing up: wait for someone you love, and act like a prostitute in bed. A bit different, the two pieces of advice, but both valid in their own rights. Fortunately or not, I took both pieces to heart. I waited, and I waited, and I waited… until I felt both safe and in love, and once I’d grown to feel comfortable in bed, I did act a bit; well, maybe I overacted.

    The important part is: I remember the first time I had sex. As in, I was in a dry period in my life, a period that stretched about eight years when I wasn’t drinking/drugging and I wasn’t going to AA. I’d had my first drinks (or drunks) when I was quite young, but then I waited until I was an “adult” to really let go. My freshman year of college, I drank all the time. I went to so many fraternity parties I lost track, and each time I got drunk and found myself on a stranger’s bathroom floor throwing up into the toilet, I told myself that it would be the last time.

    College Crushes and Fraternity Parties

    That same year, I found myself in love with a fellow freshman from my English literature class. I spent the semester obsessing about him, how I would lose my virginity to him, and my emotional virginity, too—I’d had a boyfriend before but he never really knew me. Our high school relationship ended about three months into the beginning of my drinking career, when I found myself dating his friend while I was still dating him long distance. Nothing I would have done sober. Everything I would find myself doing drunk. 

    Which leads me astray from the young man I was in love with, the one with the dreamy blue eyes. My roommate, who’d become a good friend, told me one Saturday that the man I had a crush on was hideous and pale and ugly. I knew he was pale, a quality I found attractive on him, but hideous and ugly—that was a bit strong for a guy she hardly knew. Or maybe that was the point – she was tearing into someone she hardly knew. She then told me he was having sex with her good friend, who wanted to turn him into her boyfriend. I took this as: stay away, let her have a go at him, as if he was a piece of meat. I guess we did see men as meat back then.

    That same day, he called me on the hall phone in my dormitory and asked me to come with him to his fraternity party, the same one my roommate and I were already going to that night. I told him as much, and said no. The truth is, after the conversation with my roommate, I was more interested in how I would get alcohol for the pre-party since we were still underage. My character defects were working overtime, and I had already decided I didn’t like him anymore. “Love” went to “like” in the scope of an hour. 

    I cared so much about what others thought—I was deep in my drinking stage (one of them)—and even though my roommate was looking out for her friend and not necessarily me, the warning was working: When we got to the party, each time my former love tried to approach me, we giggled and ran away.

    Later, a mutual friend called me up to his room. 

    “I can’t believe you’re acting like this, it’s so out of character. You’re hurting his feelings. I didn’t think you were like that.” 

    I had no defense. Had I been in touch with my feelings, I would have said, “I’m not capable of an adult relationship. I’m not really an adult.” The truth is I didn’t want the responsibility that came with age; as much as I’d spent my childhood wanting to be older, I now found myself wanting to feel younger.

    Sex and Blackouts

    I was drunker that night than almost any night in my entire life. When I ran from my crush, the way alcohol crushes love and right thinking, I was ruined by beer and vodka and grain alcohol punch. 

    Wine before beer, drunk for a year, beer before liquor never been sicker. I think it was the latter that night. But I can’t blame my behavior on the alcohol any more than someone who gets a DUI can.

    That night, I left the party with someone else—I ran straight into the arms of a young man from my high school, someone I thought was cute and kind, and he drove us to his dorm room where he started to try to take off my clothes. When I ran outside and threw up in the bushes, he brought me back in, stuck some toothpaste in my mouth, and started kissing me again and attempted to rape me. I was so drunk I couldn’t push him off, but I did say, “We know the same people,” which ended up having the same effect, thank God. A kind rapist, I remember thinking later, in my innocence, my youth. 

    I couldn’t have sex very often when I was drunk because I hardly had the capacity to move. I don’t remember one sexual encounter when I was drunk because, though I am sure that they happened, I was brown- or blacked-out at the time. Or maybe I have blocked it out. I do remember in my twenties asking strangers from bars and parties to come home with me, and then I kissed them and told them I wouldn’t have sex with them. I don’t remember anyone raping me when I was drunk, but I was putting myself at risk.

    Once I got sober again, this time with the help of AA, I’d like to say my behavior towards men was completely different, that I only had sex when I was one hundred percent sure I wanted to, that I didn’t judge and hate like I had with my college crush. The truth is, I am flawed, even sober, or maybe especially sober. I take full responsibility for my behavior these days, so I feel the flaws strongly. I am older, but I am not perfect. 

    Learning to Date, Sober

    I remember sex now, most of the time, and I enjoy it. It was difficult for me to feel when I was numbing myself, both emotionally and physically. Today, I have boyfriends who treat me well or I break up with them, even if it might take a little time to see the full extent of how they are treating me. I wish I could say it’s better when I date someone who is also sober, but relationships have their hard and soft angles, their anger and their beauty, whether we are drinking or not. I find that being sober doesn’t make us good people, but it does allow us to strive to be good people. 

    It’s not like I was a bad person when I was drinking, I was just too lost and empty, unable to find or create an ethical foundation for my behavior. I would read a book without taking it in, because I had nowhere to absorb emotion. I was a Flatsy, one of those dolls from my youth, where there is no space to put love, or its opposite.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • I Tried “Medical” Marijuana in Sobriety, Here's What Happened

    I Tried “Medical” Marijuana in Sobriety, Here's What Happened

    I was a destructive, chronic blackout drinker for years; marijuana, on the other hand, always seemed like a potential safe zone.

    Three years ago, at six years sober, I decided to try medical marijuana. “Try” is a cuter word than “relapse,” and “medical” made it seem like it was under the care of a doctor. But there were no doctors involved. And I should’ve known that for the kind of addict I am, when it comes to drugs, there is no try. There is only do, and do, and do more until one day you are on your floor sobbing because all the doing is making your life a living hell but you don’t know how to stop.

    I Know I’m an Alcoholic, but Pot Is Not Alcohol

    I was a destructive, chronic blackout drinker for years (not to brag). This is a gift only in that I have the clarity to know that “casual” drinking is not an option for me. Even the idea of a glass or two of wine with dinner makes me shudder because I want the whole bottle for dinner, followed by a dessert course of hard liquor and total chaos. I could one day forget this and convince myself that things might be different, but luckily it hasn’t happened yet. I’ve made too many amends and recounted too many drunk horror stories at dinner parties to ever go back.

    Marijuana, on the other hand, always seemed like a potential safe zone—a gray area in between complete sobriety and destructive annihilation. Before getting sober in 2010, I was too busy getting wasted on booze to give weed much attention. Unlike with alcohol, I don’t have a back pocket full of marijuana horror stories to put things in perspective. 

    It doesn’t help that the drug has a reputation for being extremely cool and relatively harmless. In TV and movies, heavy weed use gets to be the punchline while heavy alcohol use is the point of tension or tragedy. Alcoholics on screen always seem to crash their cars and destroy their families, while the potheads make dumb jokes and go on snack-related adventures. Sign me up please!

    Plus, medical marijuana really does help a lot of people—it’s been reported to work wonders for people with PTSD, cancer, epilepsy, and other problems I don’t have. It also seems to help people with problems I do have: anxiety, depression, insomnia, ADHD, feeling bored, feeling restless, feeling feelings, the pain of being alive. Based on what I’d read and heard, weed was the potential antidote to about 95% of my problems. 

    Weed’s public image has gotten even better as it becomes legal in more U.S. states, which I fully support even if it does me no favors. The days of reefer madness have been replaced by a culture of vape pens, gummy bears, bud-tenders, and medical marijuana. I live in LA, where you can’t go a block without a billboard or a storefront touting the drug as a solution to all your problems. Fun, glamorous, and soothing, it’s both therapy and leisure! For someone who loves therapy and medication as much as candy, an anti-anxiety medication in gummy bear form is almost irresistible.

    At six years sober from alcohol and drugs, I knew intellectually that smoking, vaping, or eating weed was probably a bad idea. But my imaginative addict brain convinced me I could be a “functional pothead” like I’d seen on TV and movies. I told myself I could smoke up like Frankie from Grace and Frankie or Ilana from Broad City. I didn’t take into account that I’m neither a divorced aging hippie with a bottomless bank account nor the most confident 20-something in the world. Or that neither of these characters are real people.

    Functional potheads exist in the real world, too. I know because I’m friends with them. Many are super-successful and seem happy with their lives. 

    So, with no doctor in sight, I made the decision to join the usually-high club.

    I Was a Dysfunctional Pothead from the Start

    Moments after getting high at a friend’s apartment, I realized my sobriety, which I’d worked so hard to attain, was gone. I also realized the universe was a simulation and everyone I’d ever met was mad at me. I had a debilitating panic attack and woke up the next day on my friend’s couch covered in Dorito crumbs. So, I did it again. And again. And again. For years.

    Weed didn’t torpedo my life the way drinking had. It worked slowly, gradually eroding my mental health and the life I’d built for myself. Like a frog in water slowly heated to boiling, I didn’t realize what was happening until the damage was done. Even then, I didn’t realize, because any time I had a bad feeling, I got high. If I felt shame, sadness, dissatisfaction, worry, pain, or longing, I got high. But emotional pain, like physical pain, exists for a reason. It’s your brain’s way of saying “SOS! We have a problem! Fix it!” Instead of listening and resolving the problem, I just shut the voice up with a weed pen.

    In some ways, weed did improve my life, especially at first. It made parties, which I had avoided since getting sober, more fun and easier to navigate. There’s a reason people numb their brains to ease the discomfort of interacting with groups of other humans all crammed into one place. One of my biggest struggles at parties is how to escape a conversation without the excuse of “grabbing another drink.” You can only go to the bathroom so many times before people get suspicious or try to do coke with you. Weed helped me detach from my anxious, people-pleasing brain and just enjoy hovering right outside the moment, looking in. 

    Sometimes I miss being high at parties. But since most of my life does not take place at parties, it’s not worth it.

    Must All Addicts Be Completely Sober?

    I want to make this clear: I’m pro-weed, just not for me. Like most rational people, I believe that it should be legal. It’s not marijuana’s fault I can’t use it wisely. And it’s certainly not the people wasting their lives away in prison for possessing or distributing it, most of them men of color. Draconian and racist U.S. drug laws have been shamelessly exploited by the police and the prison industrial complex for way too long. So I support the legalization of weed for medical and recreational use. Even if that means I have to smell weed smoke on every street corner and see it passed around at parties like pigs-in-a-blanket. 

    I also disagree with the idea that all addicts must be completely sober. Addiction is a complex problem that manifests differently for everyone and we don’t all benefit from the same treatment. Total abstinence works for some people (i.e. me), but I know recovering addicts who benefit from weed, sometimes as a form of harm reduction. I have lost friends to overdoses because they couldn’t stay sober. So if one kind of high prevents you from a much more lethal one, I’m all for choosing the lesser of two evils. Especially in a society where most people can’t afford therapy or prescription medication. Maybe some people need weed to just make it through the day, and that’s okay.

    For me, it didn’t work. I wanted weed to provide a temporary escape from this reality to a wackier one where food somehow tastes even better, like it does in every Seth Rogen movie. But the “temporary” part didn’t work out for me. I’ve never been good at dipping in and out of reality. If I find an escape, I’m buying a one-way ticket, learning the language, and putting down roots. Bye, reality! I’m an ex-pat now.

    The good news is: I finally got my high horror story. The bad news is it’s not exciting enough to tell at a dinner party. It involves long stretches of panic and paranoia, paralyzing depression, compromising my creative dreams, and isolating myself from people. Shortly before getting sober, I had a panic attack from taking too many edibles while hiking and two very kind strangers had to help me down a mountain. I’ll revisit that one next time I try to tell myself it’s a good idea to “treat my anxiety” with weed.

    Since quitting, my anxiety and depression have improved, in part because the doctor-prescribed medications I take are no longer cancelled out by weed use. I’m more productive, which makes me happier. And food, it turns out, tastes just as good sober. My life isn’t perfect, but it’s a lot better than it was. A big part of me wishes I’d never taken that 2.5-year vacation from reality. But at least next time I pass a billboard advertising weed as “therapy,” which happens at least once every time I leave my apartment, I know to smile and just keep walking.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Music and Emotion: How Songs Help Us Grieve and Heal

    Music and Emotion: How Songs Help Us Grieve and Heal

    Music can express how we feel when our grief renders us speechless.

    After my father’s death from suicide 16 years ago, I was always looking for signs—the flickering of a lightbulb, a bird flying overhead, anything that would let me know he was still with me. But in all those years, there was just an empty feeling, a giant black hole where those signs should be. 

    Then, a couple years ago, on the way home from lunch on my birthday, I heard Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young” on the radio, and I knew. I just knew it. That was the message from my father.

    Before and After

    Like many people who have lost loved ones to suicide, I tend to view my life in terms of Before and After; there was my life before he died and then there was my life after he died. I also tend to categorize music in much the same way. There are the songs that evoke the memories of my childhood, like the oldies from the ‘60s and ‘70s that we listened to on family car trips. I can’t listen to Simon & Garfunkel or Gordon Lightfoot without memories flooding back –like when my father introduced my sister and me to his record collection. We played those records for hours until we had all the words memorized.

    Then there are also the songs that remind me of the dark days and months just after he died. A month before his death, I bought Norah Jones’ debut album on a whim and it sort of became the soundtrack of his death. My mother and I listened to it constantly, so every time I hear “Come Away with Me” I’m immediately transported back to that time. Suddenly I’m that scared, confused 21-year-old who can’t believe she’ll never see her father again.

    These songs make me so sad, and yet I can’t stop listening. It’s almost like I’m drawn to the pain that those songs evoke, as if listening to them will somehow help me continue to process my grief.

    How Music and Grief Are Processed in the Brain

    As it turns out, there’s some validity in my yearning to listen to these songs. Listening to music actually lights up the brain’s visual cortex, which processes visual information and stores important memories.

    “Music has been found to have a nostalgic effect, allowing individuals to recall memories, feelings and emotions from the past, so as an individual listens to music, they will start associating it with memories and feelings,” says Aaron Sternlicht, a New York-based psychotherapist. “Musical nostalgia can be helpful in the grieving process to help resolve emotions that a grieving individual may have previously been suppressing.”

    After that birthday message, I started listening to “Forever Young” on repeat. I listened to it when I was writing. I listened to it when I was responding to email. I even listened to it when I was just surfing the web on a random Sunday afternoon. And then I heard it again one morning in March as I was browsing the aisles of Walgreens. At first, it felt completely random and I didn’t think much of it. Then I started putting the pieces together: Shopping together was one of our favorite things to do together, and it was March, the month in which my father died. The coincidences seemed too serendipitous, albeit bittersweet, and the words of the song just cut me like a knife.

    It felt like a message from him, filled with all the things he wanted to tell me. I was relatively young when he died, and there is so much we missed, so many conversations we never got to have, so much life advice he never got to give me. 

    For so long, I’d thought about all the things I’d say to him if I had the chance, but I never gave much thought to all the things he might want to tell me. There’s just so much I want to chat with him about — so many questions about life and what to do and hoping he’d be proud of me. Hearing the lyrics, I pictured my father giving me all sorts of advice, just like he used to. He was always fond of telling stories and imparting wisdom, and I miss his presence so much, looking over my shoulder and encouraging me onward. He was the ultimate cheerleader.

    It’s Not Just Me

    The more I thought about the powerful connection between music and grief, the more I wondered if others felt the same way I did. Did music also make them feel close to their loved ones? Did it help them in their own grieving process? And what is it about certain songs, albums, and artists that connect us to loved ones we’ve lost?

    To get some answers, I opened up the conversation on Twitter and Facebook. Before long, the stories started pouring in, full of love and memories. People were incredibly open and willing to share their stories as a way to honor their loved ones while at the same time acknowledging their grief. Here’s a sampling of some of the powerful experiences they shared with me:

    When I was in high school, my best friend and I made the world’s stupidest music video (with my parent’s massive camcorder) to Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated.” She tragically died of a bad reaction to pain killers/anti-depressants (we never quite got a clear explanation) about eight years ago. Every time I hear that song, I laugh thinking of that ridiculous day, but also want to cry. —Catherine Smith, Philadelphia

    My grandpa was a Johnny Cash lookalike. He would even be hired to do impersonations at conferences! Cash is one of my favorite artists because he reminds me of my grandpa (whose name was actually JC, haha!) Last year I went to the Johnny Cash Museum for the first time and cried when I walked in—it was like seeing his face everywhere. —Syd Wachs, New Zealand

    Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” reminds me of my dad, who passed away in September. That was his favorite song. The song has definitely taken on new meaning since his death. —Melissa Cronin, Vermont

    When my grandfather died (quite a bit ago), I listened only to country music for about a month straight during my grieving period, as country was his favorite genre. I never listened to country before then, and I can only think of him now when I listen. —Isabelle Lichtenstein, Boston

    When I was 16, my beloved Cairn terrier was attacked and killed by another dog. I can’t stop crying whenever I hear “Somewhere over the Rainbow” because Toto in the Wizard of Oz is played by a Cairn. —Julia Métraux, New York

    My grandparents, especially my grandmother, loved Elvis, so I walked down the aisle to an Elvis song and it really helped me feel like they were there. —​​​​​​​Abbie Mood, Colorado

    [My mom] died three days before my 32nd birthday. I’d always wanted to take her to Hawaii because she’d always wanted to go and she’d never been anywhere. During my second trip traveling alone in 2012, I was standing in a McDonald’s restroom and heard “I Hope You Dance.” I’d never listened to the lyrics before, but I felt she’d sent me a long-distance dedication, Casey Kasem-style. I started bawling. —​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Miranda Miller, Cleveland

    My Dad’s Message to Me

    Just like Miller, I like to think that the words in “Forever Young” are a message from my father. My favorite line is: 

    But whatever road you choose, I’m right behind you win or lose.

    What a comforting, gentle reminder from him. Just hearing those words makes me feel like I’m still close to him, as if there’s part of him still here with me, right behind me, always, just like the song says.

    Music can be a comfort when everything around us is confusing. Music has the power to begin to heal our soul, even if only a little bit at a time. And, music can express how we feel when our grief renders us speechless, says psychotherapist Ana Jovanovic.

    “It can help us cry, verbalize our feelings and also, feel connected to others,” she says. “When you’re listening to music, you may be able to better recall some of the most significant moments in the life you’ve shared. It’s a piece of experience that helps us stay connected to a memory of a person, even when they’re gone.”

    What songs are meaningful to you and why? Let us know in the comments.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Addiction and Poverty, Dignity and Friendship: An Interview with Chris Arnade

    Addiction and Poverty, Dignity and Friendship: An Interview with Chris Arnade

    Even in harsh situations people can find dignity, and create these beautiful things. Even in the crack houses, even in the drug spots there is beauty. It’s not just all down and out.

    In 2011, Chris Arnade was a successful bond trader, working on Wall Street and experiencing a level of success most Americans only dream of. He seemed to have it all – a degree from a prestigious university, a nice home, and family. And yet just a year later, he began a project that would eventually morph from distraction to obsession: photographing and documenting the lives of the drug addicts who were then denizens of Hunts Point, thought at the time to be one of the roughest neighborhoods in New York’s South Bronx. 

    Arnade had become disillusioned with the financial industry during the mid-2000s financial crisis, and he left Wall Street for good in 2012. In 2013, he published a series of photographs titled “Faces of Addiction” on the image hosting site Flickr.

    In 2014, Arnade began taking long road trips across America, documenting “the back row” – his term for the people who had fallen through the cracks of the Great American Success Story, those who are routinely ignored, marginalized, and demonized. At oases of calm, like local McDonald’s restaurants which often serve as places of refuge for the down-and-out, Arnade found unexpected resilience, dignity, and even humor in the lives of America’s forgotten.

    Photographs, interviews, and observations from these journeys comprise Arnade’s latest book, Dignity: Seeking Respect in Back Row America. I once again had the opportunity to talk with Arnade about how he went from being a cog in the finance industry machine to the lens that strives to expose the worth in people so many think of as worthless.

    The Fix: You’re a scientist, you worked on Wall Street, where you had a very successful career. What made you decide to make the transition from Wall Street to becoming a documentarian? Actually, you’re more than a documentarian. As I recall, you were very much involved in the lives of the people that you met in Hunts Point. What was the catalyst for that transition?

    Chris Arnade: A combination of curiosity and frustration. Frustration with Wall Street and how, especially after the financial crisis, how the industry was, and how much damage it had done, and how closed-minded people on Wall Street were to the fact that they had done damage. So, I kind of, in some way, blew off my job and just starting walking around the town, and that’s kind of what led me to Hunts Point. Not just Hunts Point, but other neighborhoods like Hunts Point where people tell you not to go to.

    Then it became somewhat political, where I was seeing things that are very different to what people had said I would see. Neighborhoods [where] there’s a lot more sense of community. It wasn’t as dangerous as people said it was, it was far more inviting, friendly, than people said it would be. But also people were screwed over, and so the neighborhood had been kind of unfairly stigmatized. And it made me kind of frustrated that people here weren’t necessarily any different that the people on the Upper East Side, but they were treated a lot different.

    It was an area that people judged quite harshly, but you saw another level, you saw the community, you saw other pieces.

    Right. And also…it was the first time I was really spending a large amount of time around hard-core addicts, and so the stereotypes for addicts were all wrong. They were no less intelligent, no less hard working, no less decent than any other people. Here they were, being in this awful situation, and being treated like shit. So, some of that was going on, just being kind of like, “Oh my God, this is so wrong.”

    Did your experience in Hunts Point change your thoughts about and viewpoints of addiction?

    Yeah, I became a lot more sympathetic. I certainly understood a lot better how stigmatized the community is. This is, I guess, seven years ago now. A lot has changed in the seven years, for the better. I think seven years ago, you’d regularly hear people saying, “Addicts deserve this.” I don’t think you hear many people say that anymore, thankfully…The biggest change I saw was, if you had asked me before, I would’ve thought it would’ve been pretty easy to get clean, to get sober. Life sucks for them and this is unfair, but why don’t they just get clean? When I was in Hunts Point, I realized just how hard that is, it’s impossible sometimes.

    Did you have a sense of addiction from the medical model?

    Yeah. From that perspective, I’m in the minority I think. I don’t want to get people angry and say it’s not a medical condition, [but] I don’t see it that way. I see it as more of a cultural issue, in the sense that you’re surrounded by it. You grew up in these neighborhoods. I see it as a response to basically being either traumatized, or stigmatized. The sense of being cast aside, and feeling like you don’t really fit in anywhere, and that life is kind of meaningless. 

    So, one of the things I write about in the book is: I talk about how— and people don’t want to admit it— there’s a strong community in the drug houses. You walk into a crack house or drug trap, or you crawl underneath a bridge and hang out with people shooting up, it’s a real community. Friends, there’s people, it’s a place where you fit in. And, I think there’s a lot of people who don’t feel like they fit in, or are not accepted in other clubs. Nobody wants to let them in their club, so why not go to the club underneath the bridge?

    McDonald’s became almost a symbol while you were in Hunts Point. Why McDonald’s?

    I think there’s two reasons. One is, well, it’s been the place addicts go. It’s often the only place that is opened to all people, when you’re really pushed to the margins. That’s where the addicts were, that’s where my friends were. People who would spend all day there. They’d go pick up a newspaper out of the garbage can and maybe a soda cup, and refill the soda, sit in the corner, and maybe shoot up in the bathroom, clean up, and just otherwise get lost alone for maybe four or five hours, and no one bothering them. No one telling them “move,” nobody telling them to get out; do this, do that. As I say, a place to regain a sense of dignity, where people don’t stare at you. 

    And the second one, it’s one of the few places that worked. I think Hunts Point’s doing better now. I don’t know, haven’t been there in a while, but I think back then [McDonald’s] was one of the few places that actually was functional, that you could just go to. It was open, and had a bathroom.

    And McDonald’s remained a touchpoint for you in your travels across the country.

    I didn’t really want it to necessarily, but it was for the same reasons as I found myself at McDonald’s in Hunts Point. I found myself in McDonald’s in Portsmouth, I found myself in McDonald’s in other places, because that’s the place where, if your goal was to write about people who were living in the margins, you go to McDonald’s. That’s where they were. I also wanted to be there because I could charge my phone, charge my computer, and I could use the bathroom, and I could clean up. And also, I like the coffee there. You had free WiFi, all those things that people want.

    You also visited many community churches across the country, how did that affect your experience with faith?

    I’m not an atheist anymore, but I’m certainly not religious. I write a lot in my book about how I grappled with thinking about the role of faith, and what I believed before that. I’m a lot more open minded about people. I certainly have a lot more respect for religion, for faith, than I did before.

    It’s interesting, because very often science seems to be at odds with religion and you are a scientist. 

    I’m not doubting that the science community is extraordinarily well-intentioned and does great things, and wants to help the people, the homeless, and they want to help the addicts. Certainly, doctors do and certainly, people do. The average scientist doesn’t understand how, on the street it doesn’t feel like you’re being helped by science. Even a lot of readers won’t understand this. Detoxes, certainly ones that serve the poorest of people, are not necessarily accepting places. They can be sterile cold places, not very welcoming. Hospitals are the same way.

    The places you would think would be the least judgmental, very often are the most.

    The thing is, it’s just a matter of legwork too. If you’re in the worst neighborhood, worst stigmatized, worst drugs, worst crime…the groups that go in there and talk to them on their level and don’t treat them like things they don’t understand are churches. They really go into these communities and do outreach. Some people might be upset with that outreach, but I think the reality is they’re there, they’re boots on the ground.

    And I noticed, in the book, it wasn’t like you visited homeless shelters or spent much time in treatment programs.

    No. I think McDonald’s are the homeless shelters during the day, the day shelter. When people can’t be in the shelter, they walk over to the McDonald’s and hang out there. There are certain McDonald’s that were open 24 hours, especially ones in the inner states. That’s where they hang out. They try to hang out all night there.

    Was your experience of this kind of journey different than what you expected it was going to be? Did you have a sense of what you were going to see or what you might encounter? 

    I didn’t think I would see as much pain as or as much frustration as I saw. Every town has a neighborhood, or multiple neighborhoods that are like – this isn’t a blue-state, red-state or urban thing, it’s everywhere. You go into any town, and there’s going to be a problem, a place where there’re drugs, and where there’s frustration, and where there’s poverty. I guess, what I found, what kind of shocked me or disappointed me in some ways, is just how easy it is to find. You don’t have to go searching for it. And how out of touch politicians are, with what’s going on in their own country. 

    So, the magnitude was greater than you expected yet, it seems like you have hope. In your book, that sense of hope comes across, despite the fact that as you said, the problem was greater, the magnitude larger, but there’s hope, still.

    People are resilient. So, even faced with these awful structural problems that are kind of put on them, they do their best. It’s like in Hunts Point. 

    The things I worried about that didn’t get a lot of attention are like the pigeon keepers, right? People who take pigeons and make beauty out it. A lot of people think it’s nothing, they’re just rats with wings, but if you go up on a roof and watch the pigeons fly, they’re gorgeous. The same with the guys who fix up Schwinn bicycles, which are literally being tossed out by wealthy people, or ignored, they turn them into these really cool things. 

    So, I think what I appreciated is the resilience. Even in harsh situations people can find dignity, and create these beautiful things. Even in the crack houses, even in the drug spots there is beauty. Where there’s people putting together small works of art, and there’s humor. It’s not just all down and out. There are funny moments, people have fun. It’s not just all evil.

    The tragedy of the streets means few can delude themselves into thinking they have it under control. You cannot ignore death there, and you cannot ignore human fallibility. It is easier to see that everyone is a sinner, everyone is fallible, and everyone is mortal. It is easier to see that there are things just too deep, too important, or too great for us to know. It is far easier to recognize that one must come to peace with the idea that “we don’t and never will have this under control.” It is far easier to see religion not just as useful but true.

    From Dignity: Seeking Respect in Back Row America

    View the original article at thefix.com