Answer Addiction

Tag: Maggie Weeks

  • Drinking in Japan

    Drinking in Japan

    Japan was never the problem: it had been me all along! That realization led to an important discovery about my relationship with alcohol.

    People’s alcoholism evolves in many ways: some folks know by the time they’re 13 that they have a problem with alcohol, some learn in college, others later in life. I happened to be one of the latter ones; my alcoholism reared its ugly head in my early thirties. 

    I’d gone to Japan to work as a dancer, and later became married to a Japanese man. He was never home and I became so abjectly lonely, I’d hit the ex-pat bars for company, partying with rock stars, movie stars, baseball stars, businessmen, students, teachers, models, people from many different countries. It was a good time. But I didn’t drink much. 

    Then, one day, this raucously drunk girl (who came from some posh ivy league university and was teaching English in some elitist student exchange program), ranted about how much she and her pals hated what they called Prison Japan, then began dumping on Californians, calling us flaky, shallow people. I was so mad, I was ready to walk out the door. When she saw my subtle rage, she tried to assuage me.

    “Oh, c’mon Margaret, we were just joking, here, sit down again.” Then she said: “Hey, how come you never get drunk? That’s probably why you seem depressed. Maybe if you got drunk with us, you’d have more fun.” 

    Why Not Drink?

    Since this was a novel idea, I thought, Why the hell not? I never get drunk, lose control. Maybe if I’m drunk, this whole convo won’t seem so bad.

    So I began drinking, shot after shot, about six in a 45-minute span. All of a sudden, a certain undeniable warmth and euphoria shot through my body; I felt so carefree, so happy! I got so lively I found myself on the bar doing an imitation of Mikael Baryshnikov’s drunken-albeit-perfect tap-dancing number in the film Casanova. Yes, I felt indestructible and over-confident, sure my performance was almost as good as Baryshnikov’s. And the crowd went wild! Suddenly, I was part of the group. And it felt so damn good.

    I had no idea until that night that drinking prodigious amounts of alcohol could turn me into a fun-loving party girl. I decided right then and there that I ought to get drunk anytime I went out. Nightclubbing while drinking moderately was fun, but nothing compared to the euphoria and freedom heavy drinking bought me.

    I also discovered alcohol was my conduit to bonding with the Japanese, to really forming a connection with them. Their stalwart façade, worn throughout the day, would melt and they‘d become lighthearted or sentimental, sometimes bellicose; pretty much behaving like anyone who has had a little too much to drink.

    I never saw Japanese men get in bar fights—with the exception of the Yakuza, Japanese mafia. When Yakuza drank, they could become fearlessly aggressive; shocking violence could be unleashed abruptly, anywhere, anytime. Once I witnessed a Yakuza break a bottle and cut his girlfriend’s face. A vermilion stripe ran down her cheek, yet no one got up to help her. I learned later that the public was afraid to do anything for fear of repercussions! The only help she got was from a waiter who brought her a towel to stop the bleeding. She continued to stay by her boyfriend’s side, towel to cheek, looking down. I tried to help her, but got pushed back by management, telling me “Damena, dekinani, No, no, no, danger; you can’t go over there.” 

    Progressive Disease

    After some time passed, I noticed my drinking was getting progressively worse. Now I was consuming about 20 beers when I drank. The hangovers were staggeringly hideous. And they made me deeply depressed; alcohol is a depressant and I had a predilection toward depression anyway. It bothered me so much, I knew I had to quit. The hangovers were interfering with my relationship with my husband, my Japanese language studies, and my interactions with others. I so wanted to moderate. I’d even pray to the big Buddha in the park before going out, “Please, please watch over me. Don’t let me get drunk.”

    It didn’t work. Hard as I tried, I just couldn’t stop drinking excessively.

    I convinced myself that it was the loneliness of living in Japan that was driving me to drink. I was positive that once I got back to America, my drinking problem would sort itself out. Wrong. It remained intractably intact, I was getting stupefyingly drunk at least three to four times a week; one day to nurse a hangover, and the following day right back at it. 

    I eventually learned how to moderate, which gave me the proof I so desperately wanted: I was no longer an alcoholic. I was able to successfully drink casually and not to excess for about seven years. Then, out of nowhere, I got fired from a really boring dumb job. Inexplicably, I took it very hard. I decided it was high time to cut loose: drink away my disappointments and my feelings of inadequacy, and finally throw in the towel on this thing called life. I’d let it all hang out and drink as much as I wanted.

    Well, what I thought might be a two-day bender turned into a two-year bender. I spent most of my time on the couch passed out, at the liquor store, in rehabs, jails, or hospitals. I was up to two fifths a day, drinking more than ever. Hey, I’d given up on life, surrendered to King Alcohol . . . Why even try to moderate?

    I also was anti-AA. I’d convinced myself it was a cult and refused to go. But looking back now, I realize the real reason was that I was too prideful to have to admit to the group relapse after relapse. Finally, at my wit’s end, I went to an African American Christian rehab. I ended up staying there for six months. 

    This rehab didn’t mess around. It was lockdown and you weren’t allowed to go anywhere without staff present. And it did the trick: I lost my taste for alcohol and stayed sober for five years. But I still wouldn’t go to AA.

    Then, when I once again resumed my egregious drinking habits, my husband gave me an ultimatum: “Go to AA or I’m divorcing you.” I was shocked he’d say that because he was a normie and thought AA slightly freakish. But I got the message, and I believed him. So instead of going to the 7/11 at 5:59 to buy beer, I went to a meeting. 

    And this time AA worked for me. It’s amazing how my idea of AA as a cult evaporated the minute I really needed to stop drinking. I’m now sober three years, and with the help of AA I’ve become a better, happier person. 

    Everywhere I Go, There I Am

    I learned in the end that geographics don’t help—once you’ve become an alcoholic. Japan was never the problem: it had been me all along! That realization led to an important discovery: Alcoholism may be triggered by certain life events, but once you got it, you got it, and sometimes you need a lot more help than just moving away.

    Check out Maggie’s new Memoir Hangovers in Japan by Samari Shelby (pen name).

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Alone in Sobriety: How I Deal with Dark Thoughts, Cravings, and the Urge to Isolate

    Alone in Sobriety: How I Deal with Dark Thoughts, Cravings, and the Urge to Isolate

    In the beginning of my sobriety, I went to meetings as simply a way of getting out of the house and not being alone. However, a cherished bonus—and one I was not expecting—was the feeling of being loved.

    I’m supine on my couch, peering through my bay windows. The eucalyptus tree gently waves, the sun bouncing off the greyish green foliage. Oh my, never really noticed that before, the way the sun hits the trees… almost looks like diamonds are attached to the leaves. I sigh at the beauty of the agate blue lake against the backdrop of pink hills. In my celestial reverie, I think: Ah, this is the life. I need nothing but my view, my books, and of course my oxys and chardonnay. Life is, um, well, perfecto! I don’t need anybody! Life is dope! Ha, ha, pun intended! 

    But as we all know, the nefarious love affair with our substances has to end—unless we’re recreational users. You know, the type that can indulge, but ends up moving on to smarter and better things—like careers, marriage, and kids.

    But the addicted end up with no such future; and our fate comes at a staggering cost: numerous rehabs, jails, hospitals, and sometimes the ultimate price, death. So, if we want any chance at a decent life, we end up doing a program like AA or NA, or we join secular self-help groups such as SMART, or depend on MAT (medication-assisted treatment such as a methadone or Suboxone program). Others get well through individual therapy or exercise or church. And of course (not to leave anyone out), there is that rarefied set that quit on their own—no help needed.

    Sobriety or Self-Destruction

    But the point is: we get better or we blow up our lives.

    I chose rehab, a Suboxone program (six-month duration, thankfully done), and AA meetings to get well. And now, things . . .are better. 

    In the beginning my sobriety was no fun at all: when I looked through those same bay windows at the same beautiful view, a huge dose of anhedonia would hit me. Who cares if it’s beautiful? I’d think, seamlessly segueing into darker thoughts like: What a loser you are, or aren’t you a little old to still be blowing up your life?

    But gradually (I can’t stress this enough), I recovered and those ugly thoughts subsided. I still have them, but nowhere near as bad. 

    They told me in early sobriety to “stop isolating” and be around people. I found this exceedingly hard because while using, I’d convinced myself that I was an unrepentant misanthrope. Well, when I got sober I realized I didn’t really dislike anyone, I was more afraid of folks. So, again gradually (they call it “slobriety”), I’ve lost my fear of people and have learned to socialize more. Even though I’m a loner by nature, I know that humans are social animals. At the very least, I am going against biology when I’m alone all the time. 

    Learning to Love 12-Step Meetings

    Meetings can be one way to escape isolation without having to be super cheerful or interesting. In the beginning of my precarious sobriety, I went to meetings as simply a way of getting out of the house. However, a cherished bonus—and one I was not expecting—was the feeling of being loved. During my many failed sobriety attempts years ago I scoffed at the “let us love you until you can love yourself” platitude—only because where I came from, love was almost always conditional. Image was everything and being a woman of propriety was paramount (never mind what happens behind closed doors!). 

    But finally I was so desperate to get well that I took love wherever it was freely given. And I was pleased to discover there is nothing wrong with getting unconditional love from random people—because eventually those random people became my friends.

    There are times when being alone is inescapable, and this is when my thoughts can get downright dark. But at least now I have tools to deal with them. I can do some cognitive therapy and challenge my thoughts: “Oh, come on! You are getting better!” Or: “Oh come on! You’re trying, give yourself a break.” If that doesn’t work, I get on my knees and pray.

    “God, please direct my thinking! Give me the strength to manage my life!” Even though I’m not sure I believe in God, I do it as a gesture of humility. And sometimes a calmness, a sense of focus, a clarification of the next “indicated step” presents itself, and I say a prayer of gratitude to the Universe for getting me out of my head and into action. 

    If the silence gets too deafening, I’ll call someone. To “get out of self,” I generally reach out to someone who may be having a harder go at it than me. Or sometimes I just do something goofy like turn on some old school rap like Too Short’s Shake that Monkey and just jam out like an oblivious white girl. My twerking leaves a lot to be desired, my butt is just too flat. But it’s remarkably good exercise.

    Fear, Rumination, and Acceptance

    Sometimes, I’ll force myself to sit with these dark thoughts: acknowledge my insecurities, my chaotic and destructive past, my fear of never measuring up. This last trajectory can be dangerous because it can immediately put me in an even darker mood that lasts for days where I end up ruminating in obsessive, sad, or angry loops that keep playing like a film projector that won’t shut off. 

    But I do believe that recognizing these dark corners of my psyche and accepting them, then coming up with a plan to negate any further damage by changing my actions to more positive and kinder ones is probably the best way to go. Because sometimes keeping busy in order to avoid thinking is like the old expression: brushing it under the rug. The dirt piles up in my mind, making me toxic.

    When I’m alone and the cravings for drink and pills get fucking intense, I’ll walk around the block like a demented person, or even worse: I’ll go to the smoke shop and buy one cigarette at a time. 

    When I have no social engagements and there are no meetings, self-pity can overwhelm me, my thoughts of loneliness so deep I’ll find myself obsessively checking my phone to see if anyone has texted. This is probably the hardest “alone” time there is, when you realize you’re alone because you have no one to be with. And I want to scream: “I know I fucked up! I know I acted the fool high! But I’m sober now and a totally different person!” Usually there is no answer from the heavens and I have to sigh myself into a grudging acceptance. 

    Remembering “This Too Shall Pass”

    Sometimes the only consolation for being sober is my stubborn refusal to get high no matter how lonely and sad I feel, and the knowledge that this too shall pass. And it always does. That day will surely come again where I’ll be outside, gazing at a gorgeous old Victorian home in the historic part of San Diego, or walking in the woods, or snuggled up with my hubby watching some improbably good show on Netflix, and I’ll say to myself: “I am, right now, presently, 100% good with the Universe.” A warm contentment will engulf me—much subtler than the synthetic euphoria of oxy. But it doesn’t matter because here’s the thing: I earned it, and that alone makes it a far more powerful and beautiful experience than drugs ever gave me.

     

    How do you handle the dark times in sobriety? Let us know in the comments.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • I’m Open and Willing, Dear Sponsor, but Wait a Minute!

    I’m Open and Willing, Dear Sponsor, but Wait a Minute!

    We know “our best thinking got us here,” but that doesn’t mean we need to be open and willing to take abuse or be manipulated.

    When you first came into the program, you might have heard your “best thinking got you here.”

    You’re told since your way hasn’t been working, maybe it’s time to try something else.

    You’re told you need to surrender.

    You’re told you need to start listening and follow directions.

    Well, if you were like me (gung ho!), and made the decision to be “open and willing,” I’ll bet you gave the program your best shot: you took the suggestions readily; you went to 90 meetings in 90 days; you read the Big Book daily; you got a sponsor; you did the steps. And hopefully, you started to see some progress. Your life began to improve. You cleaned up the wreckage of your past, mended relationships, got involved in service work, and really started to feel better about yourself.

    If the “your best thinking got you here” aphorism played like an endless loop in your brain, you might have felt that you’d lost the ability to think rationally for yourself and that you needed guidance. Should I break up with my addict boyfriend who just happens to be violent?  Well, um, yea . . . but you might have been so enmeshed in codependence while simultaneously combatting your addiction that you honestly didn’t know what to do.

    If you were like me—with some crazy, delusional thinking going on—and you were put on a six-month waiting list by your insurance to see a therapist, you’d need some help, and fast, and that help might have come by way of a sponsor. And if she was a good one, she’d listen, be empathetic, and gently suggest healthier ways of coping with your problems.

    Some people will say that a sponsor’s job is solely to lead a newcomer through the steps—not be a counselor, therapist or life coach. And while some sponsors may stick to this definition, most of the ones I’ve met take a much more involved role. My peers in recovery say they call their sponsors when they want to drink, when their ass is falling off, when they need help! The many times I discussed a problem with a fellow member after the meeting, I invariably heard, “Have you run this by your sponsor?” Or “Call your sponsor, that what she’s there for.”

    Sponsors can be unquestionable lifesavers. Through the years, I’ve had sponsors who have really saved my ass. One time, I was dealing with a relative who had a meth addiction and bipolar disorder. She was delusional but also cruel and selfish. But because she was “blood,” I enabled her. After one particularly trying event with her, I remember calling my sponsor and telling her I didn’t know what to do. She told me to do nothing—walk away. And not feel guilty. It ended up being the smartest thing: my relative got much better learning how to cope and take care of her problems herself instead of manipulating me into doing her bidding.

    But be careful. Not all sponsors should be sponsors. They may only recruit potential sponsees because their sponsor told them it was their turn to get one, not because they are qualified. And if you get with one who isn’t right for you, she could cause you some damage. As a newcomer, you’re incredibly, nakedly vulnerable—and impressionable. So can you see the conundrum here? You want to be open and willing, you want to start following suggestions and take direction—but you still have to listen to your gut and not confuse vulnerability with gullibility.

    When I first met this particular sponsor, I was blown away by her enthusiasm for the program. She was very bright, seemed very together, articulate, funny, educated, empathetic, kind, the whole enchilada. She told me she had tried myriad ways to recover because she’d always been searching for that thing that would fill her up that wasn’t drink drugs food men money or status, and after searching far and wide, she finally surrendered to AA. She claimed it was the best decision she’d ever made. Since she seemed to have what I wanted, I asked her to be my sponsor. I was sure she’d say she was way too busy, because at the time she had six sponsees and was working. But to my delighted surprise, she said “Oh, my of course I can.”

    I was wildly excited and hopeful. I was not working at the time and was willing to do just about anything asked of me. She could see I was clearly broken, my life practically in ruins, and assured me she would help me get through these very trying times of early sobriety.

    We dived right into the steps. She also instructed me to do 90 meetings in 90 days and get a coffee commitment. But gradually—almost imperceptibly—I discovered something else: She wanted to mold me. At first there were mild corrections of my speech or attitude, but it got to the point that I felt oppressively censored. If I ever said “should” or “have to” she’d immediately correct me and say, “not ‘should,’ not ‘have to’” it’s “I ‘get to’” do blah blah blah. In hindsight, I would have told her “Look, ‘should’ is an intrinsic word of the English language, it means something needs to be done. I think I know the difference of when I ‘get to’ do something and when I ‘should’ do something.”

    Another thing she’d do when I told her of a problem I was having with someone, was immediately cut me offbefore I could even finish. She’d interrupt and say, “I want you to think of three good things about this person. Remember, they are doing the best they know how. Find your compassion.” Which is good spiritual advice, but when the shoe was on the other foot and she was pissed at someone, she’d get downright eviscerating, nary mentioning three good qualities of the victim of her rant.

    But her all time fave platitude was: “If you spot it you got it!” said immediately to moi every time I complained to her about a person I felt was being unfair, selfish or mean. And she did have a point: sometimes, when we see something we don’t like in a person it’s because we recognize it in ourselves. But not always! For example, do we renounce the bully because we are bullies ourselves? Maybe, but usually not. Then she’d get into mystical stuff and go on about karma and say, “Everybody gets what they deserve because it’s all karma.” When I asked, “So the old lady that gets raped by a stranger, how did her karma cause that?” Her reply, “Well maybe she did something to deserve it. Now, personally, I’ve never been raped.” Whaaatt?

    But what put me over the edge was something she said that I knew, even with my broken brain, was incontestably wrong. I didn’t have to chide myself this time for thinking that I wasn’t being open and willing enough to learn, or was being controlled by my ego.

    While we were taking a walk, I confided in her about a doctor who had sexually assaulted me when I went in for a pelvic exam.

    She responded: “Well, you aren’t going to like this, but can I say something to you?”

    “Well, sure, I guess.”

    She took a dramatic big breath, squared her shoulders and said, “Okay here goes. I think, that maybe you asked for it.”

    I was dumbfounded. At the time, I explained to her, I was 19 and alone in New York City. I’d gotten my first bladder infection, couldn’t pee and could barely walk straight I was in so much pain. All I wanted was some antibiotics.

    “What do you mean I was asking for it?” I asked, frightfully confused.

    “Well, I didn’t want to bring this up, but now is as good of time as any. I see the way you talk to the men in the meetings. You’re very sexual, you know.”

    “What?” I boomed. “Are you fucking kidding me? I try to treat everyone, men and women alike, with respect, and hopefully, kindness.”

    “Well that is not how it is being perceived. People talk you know. I’m hearing all kinds of things, like ‘God, I can’t believe Margaret is married! The way she talks to the guys.’”

    Now I was pissed. I am an incredibly happily married woman. I adore my husband dearly. I would never, ever, go out on him. I am not even remotely attracted to other men.

    I realized then that her thinking was irrevocably off and I had to cut bait. I finally got the courage to fire her but it took time; she wielded a lot of power at the meetings and she intimidated me. It was an incredibly painful experience. I was already so vulnerable and sensitive, and totally confused. To have my sponsor, the one I’d done my steps with, the one who knew my deepest darkest secrets, become something slightly resembling, well, delusional, was demoralizing to say the least!

    It took me a while to get back to my homegroup. I was so shattered. I really thought of everyone as family there: they were so nice and kind, it was easy to be friendly back. But . . . but, what if my sponsor was right? Could I have been so wrong, so delusional? Was I flirting and were dudes coming on to me and I just didn’t see it? Eventually I went back and shared what she told me to a couple of trusted AA pals. They told me they’d never heard or seen any of the behavior she was reporting about me. 

    The reason I’m sharing this story is not to criticize AA, or gossip about members, or diss sponsors. I’m sharing my story because I don’t want the same thing to happen to another vulnerable newcomer, a newcomer who knows her thinking is off and is willing and open to change, but may be confused about the accuracy and validity of some of her sponsor’s suggestions, opinions, or directions.

    Listen to your intuitions, and your higher power. If you’re having problems with your sponsor, share your experiences—without using names—with other trusted members in order to get some perspective. Because we are scared and alone when we come into the rooms. We know “our best thinking got us here,” but that doesn’t mean we need to be open and willing to take abuse or be manipulated.

    Most of the time, sponsorship is a wonderful example of people helping other people. Sponsors can help talk you out of a drink, and because they’re drunks like you, they usually get where you’re coming from. But just because someone is a sponsor or old-timer doesn’t mean they are perfect.

    Face it, we are all deeply flawed in some way. But sponsors have a very serious job to do, and they should be doing it out of altruism, not as way to assuage their own ego by lording over vulnerable newcomers who they can control, manipulate or abuse. So be careful. Be open and willing but keep your boundaries firmly in place. And if things get creepy, don’t spend too much time being resentful (like I did!). Instead, break it off with him/her before you develop another codependent, dysfunctional relationship, and chalk it up as an invaluable learning experience.

    View the original article at thefix.com