Answer Addiction

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

    Eddie Pepitone: From Falling Down Drunk to Sober Stand Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    So I asked Eddie.

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

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

    What is the best thing about being sober in comedy?

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

    How did you deal in the early days of sobriety?

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

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

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

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

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

    Any other advice you think is helpful?

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

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

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

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • How Facebook Helped Me Overcome My Anxiety

    How Facebook Helped Me Overcome My Anxiety

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    So instead I opted to put it on Facebook.

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

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

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

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

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • The Walk

    The Walk

    I can effectively express two emotions, anger and rage, and if someone fucked with my little girl, they would be getting a double load of both.

    I hadn’t been back in the free world a month, but I was rolling. This time I was flat, no parole, no PO to fuck with, no fines, nothing. Things were back on track and it happened quickly. I had established an entirely new set of contacts on the inside who were in need of a man with my skill set. They helped me get up and running so I made sure I made good on their initial investment. After that, I carved out a deal to set myself up. My supply was steady and demand was… Well, demand in the drug game is something you never have to worry about.

    I got a text on my phone, not the prepaid burner phone that goes off non-stop, but my actual, personal phone. Only three people have this number and two of them are my children, so of course, I opened it immediately. It was my daughter, the one person who can melt my heart with a single word, touch, or look. She is 19 and a thing of pure beauty. She is the best of her mother and very little of me (I pray).

    “Daddy, I need you.”

    I can’t describe what went through me when I saw these words on the backlit screen of my phone. I’ve spent literally thousands of sleepless nights wishing I could do something, anything, to make up for the pain I’ve caused this sweet girl. This might be my chance.

    “what wrong” “u ok” my archaic thumbs desperately trying to type the letters and press send.

    “I’m fine Daddy just need to talk to you.”

    “where are you now”

    “at home.”

    “I’ll brite there”

    “??????”

    God damned mother fucking phone. “I’ll be right there”

    “Okay Daddy cu soon”

    I look around the house and think about what I would need. I dusted off a thousand dollars and stuffed it into an envelope. That’s not enough, I thought, and got fifteen hundred more. My phone… my keys… my gun… No, not the gun. Not around my baby, at least not until I know more. I lit a cigarette and got in my car.

    The drive was over too soon. I was consumed by anticipation. I was so happy to be going to see my girl, at her request, and to be wanted by her, or at least needed if not exactly wanted. That’s almost just as good. For a moment, I came close to letting myself be happy, but before the happiness set in, the worry of why she might be needing me kicked in. Happiness is something I have never quite been able to handle. I don’t think it’s meant for me. Of all the people she could have called, she called me. Her mother always handles the emotional stuff. Her stepdad is a good man, he makes decent money, but she called me. I am not a good man. I can effectively express two emotions, anger and rage, and if someone fucked with my little girl, they would be getting a double load of both.

    When I saw her standing there in her driveway, I forgot all about that.

    I got out of my car and walked up to her. She welcomed me in with a hug. Not the sideways kind either, but with her head turned, cheek against my chest, full embrace. The sweet smell of her hair filled my nostrils and transported me back to a time almost forgotten. My God this feels good, I thought to myself.

    “When did you grow up, baby girl?”

    “It happens fast, Daddy”

    Before I could ask her what was happening, she took me by the hand and started walking. It was a late spring day that was made for being outside. Her neighborhood wasn’t fancy, a bit run down, older, filled with young couples just starting out and old couples just finishing up. It was quiet today though, or perhaps I just wasn’t hearing anything around me. I was so intently focused on her, I realized, we were long past sight of my car or even her driveway.

    Just walking.

    She talked and I listened. She gave me the short hand version of the last 13 years of her life, the years I had wasted in prison. This remarkably strong, independent, young woman was five when she watched me get beaten until I was unrecognizable, handcuffed, and dragged out of our living room. She then watched as her home was completely torn to pieces for every dollar I had tucked away.

    But here we were today, walking.

    Stories of relationships, achievements, disappointments, highs, lows and everything in between went into my ears and swirled through my brain like an F5 tornado. I had no fucking clue whatsoever to say about any of it.

    So we walked, and she talked, and I listened.

    I listened to the struggles of a young woman, desperate to make her way in a hard, unforgiving world. I could hear the desperation and determination in her voice. Still, I had nothing to offer, no advice, no words at all.

    Before I knew it, we were back at my car hugging again. We were about to part ways and I had done nothing for her. Not one damn thing!

    “Wait! I brought you something!”

    I handed her the envelope that I brought and had forgotten until just then. She opened it a little, peeked inside, closed it, and pressed it against my chest.

    “That’s not why I called, Daddy. I just needed to talk to you. Thank you so much for walking with me, I hope we can do this more. I love you.”

    I was barely able to mumble “I love you too, baby girl,” before I got into the car. I drove on autopilot for a few minutes.

    “What the fuck just happened?” I felt the guilt of my life pile on so heavily I could hardly breathe. It was like a guy I heard about who had been hit by an avalanche. He said it was like the snow was all around him, squeezing him from every possible angle, and he had to make room around his body to get any air.

    This was a feeling I could not deal with. I did not possess any knowledge or skill that would allow me to work through this. The only thing I knew for sure was that I could make it go away. It would only be a temporary fix, but gone for right now was good enough for me. I knew what I had to do and getting home to do it as quickly as possible was my only objective. I had to get high.

    When I arrived, I went straight inside. I bypassed my personal stash and took out what I needed from my supply. I prepared a larger amount than usual and loaded it into a syringe. I considered that it may be too much and that I may overdose, but the way I felt, that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. I pressed the plunger of the rig until I saw a tiny drop hanging on the bevel of the needle. I tightened the belt around my bicep and with a familiar prick of the skin, the anticipation building, breath holding, a ribbon of red flashed in the barrel and .. .. .. .. gone.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • The Newly Sober and Recently Incarcerated Find Purpose at DV8 Kitchen

    The Newly Sober and Recently Incarcerated Find Purpose at DV8 Kitchen

    People want to look into the eye of someone they’re helping by eating there, and our staff wants to see people enjoying what they’ve made.

    Whatever our experience with life is, was, or will be, there’s one thing we all have in common: food. It’s one of the things we need to survive, along with the social support and shelter we need to thrive. These things come together in a powerful way at a dine-in bakery in Kentucky called DV8 kitchen, where Rob Perez and his wife oversee a staff comprised entirely of people in recovery, many of whom are coming out of incarceration and looking for a second chance. After getting sober at 25, Perez, already a career hospitality veteran at a young age, decided to open a fourth restaurant located within walking distance from three different transitional living facilities. They serve homemade bread and southern breakfast-style foods, and, most importantly, employees and customers are always interacting with one another. We spoke to Perez about the employees he’s lost to addiction in the past, the ways in which the bakery is impacting the community, and that time NFL Quarterback Chad stopped by to teach a workshop on leadership and teamwork.

    The Fix: Would you say there is a stronger chance of sobriety if you set your employees up with a job in a sober environment?

    Rob Perez: When you do a job with quality, you build self respect, self-esteem and pride in a craft you’re developing. In recovery, we need a support system and an accountability system. And the camaraderie you get out of a job when you have common interests, backgrounds and circumstances, is pretty powerful. We’ve had a few employees tell us that it’s nice not to feel bad about turning down invites from coworkers to grab a drink after work, or even feeling pressured to do so. Our staff don’t leave programs or meetings or houses and come to a foreign environment 40 hours a week, they come to a place where we all speak the same language, have the same customs, and discussions, so its a 24/7 program.

    Are there any logistical benefits to the way it’s set up?

    From a practical standpoint, even if people have insurance, most of the time, a recovery center’s money runs out after 30 days, and people have to start to contribute to the house they’re living in. So if businesses don’t take a chance on someone who has a difficult schedule to work around and a past to have to deal with, these folks can’t get through the program they’re in, and, generally, outpatient programs are a minimum of six months to one-year. Also, many of our employees have mentioned how nice it is to work with others who truly understand what they’re going through.

    Have the people you work with at the sober living houses given you any feedback about your impact?

    They think it’s working well as there’s a lot of accountability on the residents (our employees) to stay on track with the program. They really need to follow their program while they’re at work or they will be asked to leave the program altogether. In that way, we work in tandem with the sober living houses to ensure the employee is meeting their goals and staying on a good path.

    What do your employees do about housing when their stay nearby is up?

    The houses we work with have separate sober living environments our employees can go to after their initial first year of treatment. If they’re interested, we can also connect them with community services that will help them find housing.

    Why do you think there is still so much hesitancy to give people a second chance?

    When you say you’re a second chance employer you run a risk of people thinking ‘second chance’ means ‘second rate.’ They don’t want to spend money on second rate. What we’ve been taught in society is to be hesitant in employing convicted offenders and recovering addicts. Through DV8, we hope to show them success and really convince them that it doesn’t hurt to offer addicts or those who were previously incarcerated a second chance. Though we’ve only been open for about nine months, I’ve noticed that a handful of our employees have directly reached out to government officials to discuss the importance of offering second chance employment opportunities.

    Did people know your triple-bottom line when you first opened?

    In our first two weeks, people felt insecure about coming to a place that had many people in recovery in it, but we also didn’t formally announce it. Without us saying it, they knew people had incarceration in their past. But once I started to contact the media and talk about our mission and the people, it all changed. People want to know that they’re making an impact, and that’s why the glass wall we have between our cooks and service people and the customers is so important. People want to look into the eye of someone they’re helping by eating there, and our staff wants to see people enjoying what they’ve made. Ultimately, though, we want them to be unidentifiable from anyone else. The way they stand up straight, the enthusiasm, their confidence, we can see that they’re changing the way the public thinks about recovery and addiction.

    Tell me about your personal connection to the mission.

    Addiction found me and has crossed the paths of 13 other people in our other for-profit restaurants and, now, they’re gone. It affected the best server we ever had, it affects my city, and it affected me. I was a binge drinker. I didn’t have to drink everyday but when I did, I would frequently get out of control. I was always the last to leave a party, and the deeper I got, the more blackouts I had, taking risks with driving and getting out of embarrassing situations I had to reconstruct the next day. I was not as attentive of a husband as i should have been. I wasn’t being a good person.

    Rob and his wife, Diane. Image via DV8 Kitchen.

    When did you decide to get help?

    I had a blackout, went back to my workplace (then, it was the Hard Rock Cafe, on the corporate side) and made a fool of myself. I got suspended from work and had to tell my wife I couldn’t be paid for two weeks and I said I needed help. Diane’s an angel. She loved me through it and kept me honest and kicked my ass if she needed to.

    It also helps when pro-athletes come teach you a workshop.

    We’ve had a bank executive come to talk to employees about personal finance, a yoga instructor to talk about mindfulness, and, yes, NFL quarterback Chad Pennington came in to talk about teamwork. During his workshop, he discussed his journey to the NFL and why both teamwork and leadership were important. He also shared more personal stories about how his Christian values have helped him through his career and life journey in general. But, all kinds of people in the community are signing up three months in advance to lead these workshops. They really want to help.

    What do you think it is about the food industry that makes it such a popular ‘second-chance’ job?

    My gut is it has to do with working really hard physically, it’s mental as well. You learn to get along with people, form long-lasting relationships, make mistakes without fear and be able to say sorry. Then you get to serve your food and get instant feedback. In recovery, we need to know what our results are. I think we thrive in an environment where we “know right away.” If someone likes it, or what you do, it’s good to know it. There’s something spiritual about a dinner table, too, and having a meal with someone. Food, dining, and breaking bread is special and is innate to our happiness.

    Image via DV8 Kitchen.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Language Matters: A Recovery Scientist Explains the Impact of Our Words

    Language Matters: A Recovery Scientist Explains the Impact of Our Words

    If a person has internalized the negative stereotypes associated with being “an addict,” are they more likely to have a fixed mindset and believe they cannot improve or change?

    Over 21 million Americans have substance use disorder and fewer than 3.8 million individuals receive treatment each year. 28 percent of the individuals who need treatment, but do not receive it, report stigma as a major barrier to accessing care. If we want to destigmatize addiction — a highly stigmatized disorder — then we need a unified language.

    The words we use have been shown by researchers to not only negatively influence our attitudes toward people in recovery and people who use substances — to the extent of suggesting that a health condition is a moral, social, or criminal issue — but they also impact access to health care and recovery outcomes.

    This article isn’t a mandate for everyone to start policing language, but it was motivated by a genuine desire to look at the evidence: how we speak to someone with substance use disorder matters. In the midst of a public health crisis, we can’t dismiss the use of language as just semantics, trivial, or being overly politically correct. We don’t have that luxury when 64,000 Americans die from drug overdoses each year and over 88,000 die from alcohol-related causes.

    Building upon an already existing foundation of work in this field, recovery scientist and researcher Robert Ashford and colleagues conducted a larger study of the general public measuring both implicit and explicit bias elicited by certain common words and phrases, which was published in June. I was fortunate to speak with him about the study, the impact of language, and how we can apply this information to help fight stigma.

    The Fix: Let’s say you’re among peers in recovery and you refer to yourself by a term which your study has shown to be a derogatory, like “addict,” “alcoholic,” or “substance abuser.” How does that contribute towards the stigma those in recovery face?

    Robert Ashford: This is an interesting question, and one from an evidence perspective, we don’t have exact answers on. Anecdotally, we believe that even though it is probable that this type of language has an impact on things like self-stigma, self-esteem, and a sense of self-worth, it is more important that people have the right to label themselves as they choose, especially as it concerns the recovery community. The fact is that the use of pejorative labels has had a decades-long place in popular mutual-aid programs like AA and trying to tell the mutual aid recovery community what to do isn’t a goal, nor should it be in our minds. At the end of the day though, it is important for people in recovery to understand that the use of such labels may become internalized over time, leading to decreases in self-esteem and such. However, without more evidence, it is merely hypothetical at this point.

    In what ways does it impact their lives? For example: their access to, and quality of, healthcare?

    Generally, the use of terms such as “substance abuser,” “addict,” and others have been found to be highly associated with negative attitudes (i.e. bias) in the general public, among behavioral health professionals, and in medical professionals. These negative associations ultimately lead to all types of stigma (social and professional) and ultimately to very explicit discrimination. On a personal level, we know that just over 25% of individuals with a severe substance use disorder don’t seek treatment each year due to the belief that they will be stigmatized or discriminated against by their friends, neighbors, or employers. Additionally, this type of bias has also been found to decrease the willingness and efficacy of medical services delivered to patients that have a severe substance use disorder. Access and the quality of treatment in the United States has many barriers and enhancing those barriers through the use of language is an easy fix – just by changing the way we talk!

    What would be an alternative, less-stigmatizing term?

    Any term that puts the focus on the individual as a human is bound to be less stigmatizing. For example, individuals are not “addicts” or “substance abusers,” but rather, “people with a severe substance use disorder” or a “person who uses substances.” Language changes constantly, but the one commonality in terms of bias and stigma seems to be that when we can restore or focus on the humanity of an individual through our language, we will be speaking from a better place.

    How might that term be more empowering to the individual, and in what ways?

    As a person in recovery, I can speak personally that when using terms that are rooted in humanity, I get a better sense of myself and the conditions that I have either lived with or am living through. Often times when we are in the midst of a severe substance use disorder, faced with a constant barrage of language that is meant to disempower and dehumanize, we began to internalize those labels. While it is possible in certain settings that these terms are used as a reminder of a previous identity – intending to provide some sense of catharsis in the recovery process, or a mechanism for not returning to a previous state – I think it is equally plausible that we can be reminded and have that benefit by using terms that don’t immediately degrade our very essence as people.

    I’m curious how a growth mindset versus a fixed mindset might inform our choices of words? Corollary, how does each mindset inform how we interpret what we hear from others?

    This an interesting question, especially in applying the growth and fixed mindset theories from childhood development and education to the field of substance use and recovery. The theory suggests that those who believe they can improve or change (growth mindset) are more likely to engage in activities that allow them to grow, and those that believe they cannot improve or change (fixed mindset) or less likely to do so. In the context of recovery and substance use, this has immense potential to inform how language truly does impact individuals in or initiating recovery. If a person has internalized the negative stereotypes associated with being “an addict,” are they more likely to have a fixed mindset? While there are surely myriad reasons for the challenges faced by people with a severe substance use disorder, mindset may indeed be a big part of it.

    You’ve done an incredible amount of work in educating both those in recovery and clinicians about the importance of the language we use. Some of your research features infographics about negative language and presents a positive alternative (below). For those who may need further clarification, what is the difference between pharmacotherapy (or medication to treat substance use disorders) and medication-assisted recovery?

    The infographics we made from our results have sure inspired a lot of conversation – which is exactly what we hoped for as scientists! One of the constant topics has been around “medication-assisted treatment,” “pharmacotherapy,” and “medication-assisted recovery.”

    Pharmacotherapy is the use of medications to treat a disorder/disease/ailment – specific to our field, this would imply treating a substance use disorder with medications. The term had significantly more positive associations than a similar term, “medication-assisted treatment” from our tests and we wanted to make the suggestion to use it instead.

    “Medication-assisted recovery” on the other hand can be considered the use of substance use disorder medications, combined with the use of recovery support services such as MARS recovery meetings, engaging with a peer recovery support specialist, utilizing a recovery community organization, or attending a MAR-friendly 12-step meeting. The biggest difference is that not everyone who uses substance use disorder pharmacotherapy wants, or would consider themselves, in recovery. Keeping the two terms separate gives people an option, and from a research prospective, both terms are associated with the positive and their use isn’t likely to elicit implicit bias among the general public.

    Figure: Suggested Recovery dialects


    View the original article at thefix.com

  • How Sponsoring Fellow Alcoholics Is Teaching Me How To Parent My Son

    How Sponsoring Fellow Alcoholics Is Teaching Me How To Parent My Son

    How do I, an alcoholic with a dysfunctional childhood who didn’t even begin maturing until his early 30s, go about the daunting duty of raising a son to manhood?

    Recovery through Alcoholics Anonymous has helped me build an incredible life. A restored marriage, a promising career, and a comfortable suburban home highlight the tangibles; the wisdom of the program and mentorship of its members have provided the intangibles – accountability, purpose, sanity.

    Two years ago marked the most notable blessing to date: The birth of my first and only child, Nicholas.

    This gift, however, also presents my most vexing sober challenge yet: How do I, an alcoholic with a dysfunctional childhood who didn’t even begin maturing until his early 30s, go about the daunting duty of raising a son to manhood? How do I break, as much as any parent can, the cycle of insanity Nicholas has inherited?

    As Nicholas approaches toddlerdom – where he’ll start truly developing lifelong memories – solidifying certain notions of parenthood has become increasingly urgent. “What type of dad do I want to be?” is quickly becoming “What type of dad am I?” It’s becoming clear that these child-rearing concepts aren’t going to magically manifest; I need to search for them.

    And where I keep finding answers is the only relationship in which I’m actually qualified to give guidance: my role as an AA sponsor. Here are just a few of the many parenting perspectives my experiences as a sponsor have helped formulate.

    Coddling Is Counterproductive

    The most meaningful child-rearing principle that sponsorship has instilled in me carries even more significance considering our helicopter-parenting, participation trophy-wielding times: Coddling trades short-term ease for long-term hardship.

    Many addicts, myself included, are recovering from people pleasing as well as alcohol and drugs. Our diseases demanded instant gratification and, by necessity, we were talented at telling people what they wanted to hear in order to skate by or score more.

    When we become sponsors, we must play a longer game. We learn that giving a sponsee an undeserved pat on the back when what he needs is a kick in the ass is not only counterproductive, but downright irresponsible. Enabling a sponsee’s laziness or self-denial can mean being party to his relapse.

    Sponsorship has taught me that I can’t shield someone from tough choices, uphill climbs and heavy lifting. As much as I root for a sponsee, I can’t want his recovery more than he does; as my son grows, I’ll fight similar urges to carry an oversized share of burdens he himself must bear.

    The overall message is clear: work hard for worthwhile goals. In a sponsee’s case, that goal is long-term sobriety and perpetual personal progress; in my son’s, the goal is responsible, upstanding citizenship and self-sufficient adulthood.

    Here, AA is endearingly traditional in its nose-to-the-grindstone approach to progress.

    There is a grit factor in the rooms that, these days, is sorely lacking outside of them. To both sponsees and children, “get to work” is the kind of simple but meaningful instruction that is easily understood and, when followed, results in both tangible and character-building rewards.

    I’m finding that the less I coddle my sponsees the more favorable the result. I am increasingly confident that the same will hold true for my son. Soft sponsorship yields soft recovery. Ditto for soft parenting.

    Keep Calm and Carry On

    Roll your eyes all you want, but when this starting appearing on mugs and memes everywhere, I hoped (beyond hope, it turned out) that more people would adopt a mantra that AA so effectively espouses.

    Few markers are more telling of one’s maturity than the breadth and depth of people, places and things that anger, cower or otherwise derail him. As someone who, according to men with many more years sober than me, had “smoke coming from his ears” as a newcomer, I’ve learned this lesson particularly harshly. It’s taken years of trial and error – of getting a little less angry to similar situations, then reflecting on how useless and toxic that rage was – to form a demeanor even remotely resembling even-keeled.

    Watching my sponsees struggle with this journey – with getting totally jammed up over matters of dubious-at-best significance – is Exhibit A of sponsor-sponsee symbiosis. As I talk my sponsees down off the inevitable next ledge, I remind myself to practice what I preach.

    I am committed to developing this big-picture, c’est la vie attitude in my son. And while anyone with a two-year-old understands how successful I’ve been thus far (not much, if at all), I can look to my own imperfect, ongoing transformation as proof that progress takes trial, error and – most of all – time.

    For now, this concept lives in little things. “I can see that you’re very sad about having to stop watching TV, but you’ll see Peppa Pig tomorrow,” I’ll tell a crying Nicholas, as the credits of his favorite show roll while I usher him off to bed. Or “It’s PJ time,” I tell a sobbing, splashing boy engrossed in his bathtime toys. “We’ll get all dry and get some milk, how’s that?”

    These gentle nudges, I hope, will push Nicholas toward a more bird’s-eye worldview where he realizes that the little things in life aren’t worth getting upset over. As he grows I’ll instill in him, gradually and imperfectly, that a precious few things warrant more than a brief moment’s annoyance. Here, my role as a sponsee gives me the best chance to break yet another inglorious familial cycle: rage-aholism.

    Think for Yourself

    Though AA most assuredly isn’t a cult (cue the usual troll bile in my comment thread), at times it is certainly prone to an unsophisticated, unhelpful herd mentality. There are sayings and beliefs in the rooms that I find silly, arrogant, or wildly inaccurate.

    I am upfront about this with my sponsees; they are free to disagree with me on any of my program-related peccadilloes. The overarching lesson is each of us needs to find a recovery that is workable within the construct of our authentic self. “Faking it to make it” will only take us so far; eventually, recovery through the 12 steps is a journey in self-discovery, one which, per popular program prose, demands rigorous honesty.

    First and foremost is the childish belief, held by far too many in AA, that God has saved them specifically. Simply put, this implies that God chose to let others die. I often wonder whether the person proclaiming such nonsense realizes that his belief system is based on declaring himself more special than fellow sufferers. Neither my sponsees nor my son will be weaned on such pompousness.

    Oddly, another whopper that permeates AA is the polar opposite of this holier-than-thouism. It is uttered every time a newcomer is told that his experiences, strength and hope matter as much as someone with longstanding sobriety – that each of us “only has today.”

    This well-intending white lie creates an unproductive false equivalence between those who’ve thoroughly followed recovery’s path and those just beginning to trudge the trail. Because AA – like parenthood, I’m educated-guessing – is about mentorship more than anything else. My responsibility to pay it forward isn’t as relevant if everyone has the same amount of currency.

    This all boils down to three words that I find myself repeating to sponsees and, because of this, will find myself repeating to Nicholas: “You’re still learning.”

    Sit back. Relax. Learn. Don’t overextend yourself. No, sponsee, you shouldn’t go to a bachelor party in Las Vegas at four months sober. I have enough sobriety to handle that, you don’t. Yet. And no, 17-year-old Nicholas, you aren’t driving across the country with your friends because you aren’t ready to do that. Yet.

    These are just a few examples of how the privilege of guiding recovering alcoholics through the 12 steps will help me guide my son through childhood. As my sober experiences grow in tandem with my son, there will undoubtedly be many more points where sponsorship intersects with parenting – much to Nicholas’ benefit.

    And of course, there’s this: if Nicholas comes home with his eyes pinned, I’ll know what’s up. My rocky past and recovering present will allow me to recognize the warning signs of the scourge of my son’s generation: opioids. Should that day come, my recovery may help save my son’s life, as it did my own.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Harm Reduction: How to Engage Parent Advocates Effectively

    Harm Reduction: How to Engage Parent Advocates Effectively

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

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

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

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

    Benefit #1: Effectiveness

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

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

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

    Benefit #2: New Allies

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

    Benefit #3 Finding an Outlet for Grief

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

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

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

    Challenge #1 Working with Newbies

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

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

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

    Challenge #2 White Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Men… I’ve Always Been Obsessed With Them

    Men… I’ve Always Been Obsessed With Them

    It’s not him, it’s the version of him I’d chosen to focus on, ignoring all the bad behavior which followed, as I have way too many times.

    “Addicted to Love” is a great song––it’s also a not-so-great running theme in my life. Last week, at 62 ½, it dawned on me that there’s never been a time––nary a day of my life––when I haven’t had, first a boy, then a man, front and center in my brain. Attempting to add up the hours––the real estate––and what I might’ve done with both had I been more focused on me––rather than them––is depressing as hell. 

    I can remember being a little girl of not quite 8, chasing 10-year-old Andy Helfman––all day, all summer long––for at least three years running. I eventually caught him and got the chaste kiss I sought, and the satisfaction of discovering he liked me, too. Returning to the city from the Catskills, there was Roy. I picked him on the first day of school; in June he asked me out. I fell for Paul when I was barely 12. I harbored that love for years until he returned it, in his fashion––breaking my heart and hymen. There was Lenny––unrequited; with Randy, I came to wish it was unrequited; Vinny #1, and then Vinny # 2––both mine for the having, and both exceedingly inappropriate.

    I sound insanely fickle. And yet, I was fairly easy on the fickle, heavy on the insane. These were not short impetuous crushes. I harbored all of them well past their expiration dates, either until I got them or until the next one took hold, oft with some heart-breaking overlap.

    Looking back––how much of my quest was about the conquest? The chase. Winning. Ownership. Not to amass bounty, but to capture––love. To fill a hole, to prove my worth––which I could never seem to do with the people I deemed most important, including my rarely-considered self. I never thought of it in those terms––yet now––it’s impossible for me not to see the pattern.

    How many times have I given my time, attention, and power to a guy who either didn’t ask for it, didn’t appreciate it, or used it more as a means to control rather than love.

    I followed one boyfriend to the college of his choice, and another, post-degree, to the city of his––in both cases putting aside my own desires. I married the second one, knowing he was a volatile alcoholic. But, he was my volatile alcoholic. I waitressed, putting my career on hold, so he could… sleep. So what if there were holes in the walls behind every picture? You couldn’t see them, so I could pretend they weren’t there. I spent the majority of our years together obsessing… about how to get away from him.

    It took falling in love with someone else to manage it.

    My second marriage grew from a years-long professional friendship. The romance was built on mutual respect, affection, and ultimately, love. In my mid-thirties, almost immediately, I shifted my focus from my career to managing his and to starting a family. It was my choice, my great privilege and pleasure. For a decade, as his star ascended, our kids blossomed and thrived. When his up came crashing down, it took our love with it. We spent the next 10 years struggling over what once was, trying like hell to get it back––unsuccessfully. Graciously, the kids continued to bloom––magnificently.

    As a middle-aged single mom, without a career or a man, I obsessively struggled to find both. My long-starved creative passions swiftly found their voice and vision, and have met with some success. The money and the manhunt have been an exhausting, heartbreaking, ego-crushing exercise in futility. In spite of all the years, and lessons learned, I’m struggling to find my way with both. I’m still giving men who don’t deserve it––and sometimes don’t even know it––my time, energy, and my power. And, there’s always a man––and a way to stalk him.

    Back in the day, I did it with the phone: I’d call the object of my desire, hear his voice, or,sometimes hell-forbid, his parent’s voice, and hang up. I graduated to the walk-by––finding any excuse to pass his house, or where he hung out, in hopes of catching a glimpse––a smile––or a moment of his time. What a waste of mine.

    Facebook, Twitter and, Instagram took my occasional insanity and turned it into an ongoing opportunity to “check-in” on the latest object of my obsession affection.

    Dating apps are an even bigger nightmare, with distance offered at any given moment. Twenty-three miles? Hey! Where the hell are you?

    Finally, two weeks ago, I freed myself from the now daily insanity. Julian, my latest (mind) fuck, doesn’t utilize social media (talk about insanity). I had no way to monitor him other than to glimpse What’s App to see when he’d last been on. Why exactly? What did I gain by such behavior? Heartache. I knew when he was communicating, I also knew it wasn’t with me.

    I tried weaning myself from looking, but just as it was with pot 17 years ago, I had to quit cold turkey. I’ve stuck to it for 14 days, and it’s working. As each day passes with zero connection, he fades from my mind, and perhaps more importantly, from my heart. With distance, the rose lenses are clearing their hue––less obstructing my view. I’ve come to appreciate that I’d been romanticizing him, focusing on the alchemy of the connection, whilst ignoring the harsh cruelty of the abrupt disconnection. It’s not him, it’s the version of him I’d chosen to focus on, ignoring all the bad behavior which followed, as I have way too many times.

    For the first time in memory, there’s no man in my head. I’ve stepped away from the swipe. That leaves a lot of time and space to think about worthy people, ambitions, and causes––and maybe, at last, to include myself as one of them.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • When Teens Hurt Themselves…Online

    When Teens Hurt Themselves…Online

    “You should just kill yourself.” I thought that if people thought the messages I was saying to myself were coming from other people, they would be more willing to help me out.

    Trigger warning: The following story discusses self-harm.

    What happens when social media becomes the weapon of choice for self-harm; when the cyberbully is also the victim?

    Alicia Raimundo says she created ghost social media accounts to cyberbully herself as a teen in the hopes of validating her story. It was a coping skill, says the Toronto resident, now 28, and the only way she could think of to place her pain on full display in the hopes of friends and mental health experts coming to her aid. She didn’t know it then, but has learned since, that this form of anonymously posting critical, derogatory or otherwise hurtful comments about oneself is what mental health experts are now referring to as digital self-harm.

    “I thought that if people thought the messages I was saying to myself were coming from other people, they would be more willing to help me out,” Raimundo says, adding that she often posted mean comments others had said to her in person but for which she had no documentation or evidence. “I would say things to myself like: ‘You should just kill yourself,’ ‘You are a fake,’ ‘you are not worthy of love or support.’” 

    Raimundo, who has worked in the mental health field for eight years, says she also sent herself messages that read ‘You are hideous,’ and ‘You are just pretending and everyone will find out soon enough.’ She would rationalize the negative and violent messages she would send to herself, she says, by telling herself that the negative somehow served as a balance for the good in her life. 

    Raimundo’s story, although new to those unfamiliar with digital self-harm, is not unique. A survey published in late 2016 in the Journal of Adolescent Health asked 5,593 middle and high school students from across the US to share their experiences with cyberbullying and digital self-harm. Of those surveyed, about six percent reported anonymously posting something mean about themselves online. Males were more likely to engage in digital self-harm at 7.1 percent reported, with female respondents reporting at 5.3 percent. According to the survey, risk factors for vulnerable teens include sexual orientation, experience with school bullying and cyberbullying, depressive symptoms, and drug use.

    Teens who engage in physical self-harm also often struggle with depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, and/or difficulties with emotional regulation, says the American Psychological Association. It is important to note, however, that not all teens who cyberbully themselves have a mental illness.

    “Teens typically are experiencing many intense feelings and events for the first time, and during an already intense period of self discovery and understanding,” says Texas-Based Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist Associate Stephanie Bloodworth. “There are different reasons they may engage in digital self-harm, but the underlying force so often seems to be that they are seeking some kind of solution to their feelings of self doubt or low self worth.”

    These teens need help, says Bloodworth, but mental health caregivers and adult support figures should take care not to minimize the experience and mental pain of those they are trying to help. 

    “From a solutions focus, teens don’t need a different perspective, [such as saying] ‘This isn’t the end of the world, you know,’” Bloodworth says. “They need tools to help them handle what does feel like the end of the world they knew. They need tools and help to get the attention and support they need in healthy and appropriate ways.”

    Raimundo, the mental health professional who used to cyberbully herself as a teen, agrees.

    “I broke out of the cycle of digital self-harm by finally finding supports that listened to me and validated my story. People who I could speak openly and honestly to about engaging in digital self-harm, why I was doing it, and who would hold the space for me without judging me,” she says. “People saw me as someone trying to ask for help but not knowing all the right words to do so. They saw those messages as something that was actually happening in my head and addressed it as such.”

    Raimundo now works as an online Peer Supporter for Stella’s Place. 

    “I really wanted to create safe spaces online for people to reach out for help, because I found getting help from people who understood the internet as a community was really hard,” she says. “I wanted to provide positive spaces and places for people to access behind their phones and break out of the negative cycles they find themselves in.”

    Raimundo believes her experience with digital self-harm helps people open up if they are engaging in digital self-harm because it’s such a stigmatized form of self-harm that isn’t well understood. 

    “When they chat with me, it’s my hope that they are chatting with someone who gets it and can walk alongside them in their journey to recovery.”

    Raimundo also offers this advice to those who may find themselves in a position to help teens digitally self-harming themselves. Approach the situation with empathy and a listener’s ear, she says.

    “Don’t jump to the idea that we are doing it for the LOLs or because we are emotional vampires. Listen to why we are doing it, and try and connect us with the help with we need,” says Raimundo. “Yes, people engaging in these behaviors are crying for help, and we should give it to them.”

    If you or someone you know may be at risk for suicide, immediately seek help. You are not alone. Options include:

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Embracing Pride and the LGBT+ Community in Recovery

    Embracing Pride and the LGBT+ Community in Recovery

    “The sense of having two selves was the root of my addiction, especially in the beginning. It was exhausting to play a role I didn’t want.”

    Ten years ago, I was both terrified and ecstatic to go to my first ever LGBT Pride Parade. I knew that I was attracted to both men and women, but I had always kept this hidden. Being raised in the Catholic Church and in a conservative town, I was told it was a sin to act upon “homosexual desires.” To smooth out the edges of my mental tug of war, I took pulls of vodka and chased it with cherry Sprite.

    Broadway was bursting with vibrant seas of color and glitter. Rainbow flags replaced American flags, much to the dismay of the town bigots. A float rolled by with drag queens dressed like Beyoncé and Dolly Parton, hair teased as big as their ta-tas. Then I heard the roar of Harley Davidsons as a throng of denim-clad lesbians cruised by with signs that said, “DYKES ON BIKES.” Next, another group chanted: “hey-hey, ho-ho, homophobia has got to go!”

    I know this all sounds like a stereotypical version of Pride, but this was truly how it appeared to me as a newbie. Over time, I began to peel apart the layers and examine the nuances within the community. Pride showed me the power of embracing and celebrating your identity, even when it is associated with stigma, discrimination, and stereotypes. I realized that Pride gave me kindling for my desire to fight stigma, even long before I was in recovery.

    *

    As author of My Fair Junkie and Fix Contributor Amy Dresner wrote in (Re) Claiming Language: “I think the addiction/recovery movement needs to model itself on the gay rights movement and be vocal, out there, shameless and visible: parades, glitter, boas. Bring it all on.”

    After admiring Dresner’s writing for years on The Fix, then her memoir, I finally had the courage to message her. She sent me a kind response and we had an amazing actual phone conversation! Okay, I swear that my fan-girling has a point. She also spoke with me in more depth about the parallels between our communities: the stigma, the struggle with health issues like HIV, Hepatitis C, and losing friends to overdoses or suicides. Amy can speak to these similarities since she has experience with the LGBT+ community in L.A. “Even though I’m straight, I often attend and speak at LBGT meetings. I like the vibe there. They feel more real and more celebratory. They get my humor and irreverence. I feel like I can be more open about my crystal meth use and being promiscuous without them judging me, because they’ve been there too,” she said. We also share an immediate kinship with each other over burrowing our way from the trenches to light.

    *

    My first small-town Pride parade only lasted fifteen glorious minutes. After all, my city, Fargo, was famous for the Coen brother’s cult classic film and being the highest binge drinking city in the country, not LGBT rights. I wandered to a beer garden for another Pride event. A girl with hot pink hair asked for my signature for a human rights petition. I signed and wanted to flirt with her, but I realized that I didn’t know how. At the line in the bathroom, a woman noticed that I was shaking with anxiety and offered me a little blue pill she said was Xanax.

    “This will help chill you out,” She said. It worked. She led me down the street to the only gay bar, where scantily clad men grinded to Katy Perry under pulsing neon lights. Later that night, I drunkenly wrote in my journal: “we’re here, we’re queer. We’re junkies and drunkies.” I also realized that alcohol and pills were the easiest way for me to “break bread,” in the LGBT community. They were magical potions that could teleport me from being an outsider to an insider, give me the courage to flirt with women, to numb the shame. I’m not alone. For many, Pride and being part of the queer community is synonymous with drinking and drug use.

    Charlie* is a 24-year-old graduate student who is bisexual and is ambiguously trans. They are from a school district in Minnesota with the one of the highest suicide rates in the country. At their high-school, gay and “gay-coded” students were bullied, peed on, and called faggots. Charlie said, “For myself, the intersections of addiction and LGBT identity are so complex. It’s so ingrained in our daily lives, in our community lives. Our history. We weren’t given the social or political power to have public space. So, bars and underground clubs were our space…so addiction can sometimes become a learned behavior. For me, it was alcohol. I used it to suppress my identity.”

    According to a 2015 study by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Service Administration (SAMHSA), 30 percent of LGBT people struggle with some form of addiction compared to 9 percent of the heterosexual population. Bisexual women and trans people face the highest risk of drug use and abuse.

    I spoke with a 30 something freelance writer from the Midwest named Morgan, who said she had known she was “next-level” gay long before she even knew the word. “The sense of having two selves was the root of my addiction, especially in the beginning. It was exhausting to play a role I didn’t want. I think it was originally a combination of easing the pain of not being able to love the people I loved openly and resentment toward the society I felt excluded me. There was an ease and confidence about being my true self when I was drunk though.”

    Charlie said they have managed their drinking without the help of outside groups, but if they did need one they would prefer an LGBT-oriented recovery group. Meanwhile, Morgan lives in an area that does not have LGBT meetings. Morgan said she felt very uncomfortable at her first 12-step meeting and definitely didn’t feel comfortable disclosing that she is lesbian, because her home is near the birthplace of the notoriously bigoted Westboro Baptist Church. Her first meeting “was full of a Confederate-flag wearing, chain smoking old school crowd that didn’t have much experience with LGBTQI people.”

    What about people who want to connect with other queer folks in recovery, but live in a rural area or don’t connect with 12-step meetings? I spoke with Tracy Murphy, who is lesbian and founded a blog called LGBTeetotaler, which aims to “create community and visibility for queer and trans people in all forms of recovery.” Murphy is an inspiring example of the power of connection through the internet, which she said is “life-changing.”

    “Many times, when I’m dealing with cis hetero members of my recovery community, I end up feeling like I’m doing education while I’m also just trying to process an experience I’ve had… Having a group of queers to reach out to takes away that layer of education and emotional labor. We’re free to discuss and process without having to also explain why or how an experience is difficult,” Murphy said.

    *

    Talking to Murphy and Dresner inspired me to reflect upon my nearly ten years in and out of the recovery community- as an alcoholic/ addict in recovery and then as a social worker. Throughout those years, I’ve noticed a universal theme that weaves us addicts together. We all felt like misfits, outsiders. Like many others, I first went to meetings flashing my outsider identity like a badge of honor. I was surprised to discover the very thing that made us feel like misfits and lone wolves is often what connects us most in recovery. There’s a glorious alchemy that happens when a bunch of misfits unite for a shared goal of recovery.

    But sometimes, the alchemy doesn’t happen. I’ve heard this to be true especially among people in the LGBT community.

    Since Morgan didn’t feel comfortable in the AA group, she stopped going and eventually relapsed. Desperate to get sober and with no other options in her small-town, she decided to give it another try. She was happy to befriend another lesbian in the group, but surprised when the woman advised Morgan to keep the “personal information under wraps.” By that, she meant not to come out to the group.

    Morgan said, “It felt like going backwards to be in the closet after 15 years of being openly gay everywhere and that contributed to the feeling that maybe this program wasn’t going to work for me. It feels strange to do that and to fear judgement in a group that is all about acceptance and guidance and love… I have a feeling that I will eventually come out at least in the women’s group…My gut tells me I can’t have true recovery if I’m not being my true self.”

    How can mainstream 12-step meetings and groups be more inclusive of LGBT people? While this could be an entire book in and of itself, I wanted to ask others to see what they thought.

    Murphy said: “I think that some of the easiest and most effective ways for the recovery community to be more inclusive of LGBTQ+ folks are to really be aware of language and not make assumptions about the people they are addressing. For me, personally, I immediately get the message that I am not someone’s intended audience when the message being presented assumes that all women are feminine and attracted to men. Heteronormativity is ingrained in every part of mainstream society and, for people who want to make sure they are being inclusive of queer and trans folks, making sure that they’re not assuming people are heterosexual or cisgender is a huge step in the right direction.”

    While I think that Murphy has valuable advice, she has had very different experiences; she has not been interested in attending AA and was able to get sober with the support of an online community called Hip Sobriety.

    Josh* is a trans man from the Midwest who has gone to several rehabs, jails, and attended AA off and on for 20 years. He said that it’s hard to change an old institution like AA, but pointed out that they released the brochure: “AA and the Gay and Lesbian Alcoholic” in 1989. This omits others on the LGBT spectrum, but he said: “As for being included as an LGBT person, I don’t want to be treated any differently, just respected. Greeting goes a long way for me. Having people smile, shake hands, introduce themselves. Sounds simple but that’s where it all starts.”

    *

    I won’t be able to attend Pride this year. Ironically, I will be in a Catholic Church at my godson’s baptism. I will be thinking of my friends in Minneapolis and across the country as they march through the streets on floats, gathering signatures, and celebrating. But most of all, I will be thinking of the invisible misfits of the LGBT community- the ones struggling with addiction, the ones passed out before the dance even starts, the ones who are in rehab or detox.

    I will be sending the brightest beams your way, knowing that one day you will finally be seen and embraced the way that I have been.

    View the original article at thefix.com