Answer Addiction

Tag: mourning

  • 5 Ways to Process the Death of a Friend in 12-Step Recovery

    5 Ways to Process the Death of a Friend in 12-Step Recovery

    Dealing with the death of a close friend in sobriety can be tough. But if you follow some simple guidelines and take it slow, you can transform a painful trial into a caring tribute that honors their memory.

    When a friend in a 12-step fellowship dies, processing the loss can be challenging, even if the person was sick with a chronic disease or naturally nearing the end of life. The idea that someone might die is very different from the reality of that person dying and being forever gone. 

    Because of the way we share in 12-step groups, we quickly become intimately acquainted with our fellow meeting-goers. We also see our peers regularly—weekly or more frequently—often over years, sometimes decades, in the same rooms and homes and restaurants. The resulting relationship is uniquely strong and meaningful. So when a loss occurs, whether you are working a program or just on the outskirts of meetings, it can be tough to get through. However, if you follow some simple guidelines and take it slow, you can transform a painful trial into a caring tribute that honors their memory. 

    Recently, I lost a sober friend in a 12-step fellowship. Although we rarely saw each other outside of the meetings, there was a close connection between us. His smile helped me overcome a feeling of alienation after I’d moved to a new neighborhood and started to attend new meetings. He made me feel welcome. As a person with the disease of alcoholism or addiction or whatever you want to call that sense of being “other” and “less than” that bubbles up from within, I resisted, especially then, acceptance and comfort when it was offered to me. My new sober friend, a senior citizen in his 70s, helped me overcome this insecurity and feel “part of” a meeting that eventually became my beloved home group. 

    Not that long ago, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. At least, it seems not that long ago. When it happened, I immediately knew something was wrong. Although his smile remained bright, his health and strength were taken from him. He fought a courageous battle for well over a year. 

    My friend was loved by many, and after he passed, we had to figure out a way to process his death. The guidelines below, which focus on maintaining decency and decorum and avoiding added hurt and unnecessary damage, helped us grieve. (Although these suggestions may be helpful in general, they are specifically meant to be considered within a 12-step context.)

    1) Respect the Spiritual Principle of Anonymity

    The 12th Tradition of Alcoholics Anonymous states: “Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our Traditions, ever reminding us to place principles before personalities.” The majority of 12-step fellowships have adopted this tradition. In the digital age of mobile technologies and the internet, anonymity needs to be respected beyond the original boundaries of “press, radio, and films.” 

    Although many people, including myself, are quite open about sobriety on social media, others are strict about maintaining anonymity. When a sober friend dies, you may be tempted to post a tribute on their Facebook page, letting the world know that they died sober. Resist the temptation. By taking such an action, you could be violating their anonymity, and revealing something to family or co-workers that they would prefer to have kept anonymous. Also, don’t automatically assume you know all the details, which brings us to number 2.

    2) Never Presuppose a Relapse or Speculate on Causality

    Sadly, people in recovery sometimes return to drug and alcohol use, and sometimes it results in death. Although this was not the case with my friend, I have seen too many people overdose and die or develop fatal diseases because of excessive drinking. However, when a sober friend dies, until you know for sure from a medical report or similar legitimate source, you shouldn’t speculate on whether or not they relapsed. Such speculation is nothing more than gossip, even if you don’t intend it to be. As Aesop wrote in a fable and Thumper later adopted as his motto, “If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.” 

    Even if someone did die as a result of a relapse, do not act like the “wise” sage. It’s not your job to use that knowledge to warn others. Such an attitude raises you above the emotional reality and places your sobriety on a pedestal. And imagine if you are wrong. Then, not only have you damaged a sober friend’s legacy, you have hurt yourself by telling such a story. In these cases, better safe and kind than sorry and foolish. As a member of a 12-step fellowship, I don’t want to point fingers or take other people’s inventories. I don’t want judgment to consume my capacity for love and empathy. 

    Instead, focus on the good: What was special about your friend?

    3) Be Cautious and Respectful When Speaking to the Family

    If you meet a sober friend’s family at a memorial service or funeral organized by them, make sure ahead of time that it’s okay to discuss your friend’s sobriety. Many people remain anonymous even within their own families. They also have friends and co-workers who know nothing about what happened in the past. 

    It’s not your job to enlighten everyone about what a great speaker or sponsor your friend was. You will likely end up creating confusion and uncertainty. And if your friend did not disclose his or her participation in a 12-step program, you could be adding to the family’s already-heavy emotional burden. 

    If you believe the family may not be aware of a sober friend’s 12-step participation, then come up with a story about how you knew each other. Maybe a book club, a favorite activity, or a past introduction through mutual friends. 

    It’s easy to take the focus off of you by talking positively about your friend. You can tell people what a good person he or she was and how much you enjoyed their sense of humor. With my friend who died recently, his family knew about his sobriety and celebrated it. At the same time, people who knew him from 12-step fellowships talked about his business acumen, his lovely smile, and his joking personality. It was not hard to find topics to discuss that were outside of the 12-step context. 

    4) Set Up a Separate Memorial for the 12-Step Fellowship to Mourn and Celebrate a Sober Friend

    Although it makes sense to attend the family’s funeral or memorial service to show your support by being present, it’s a good idea to set up a separate memorial service as well. This second service can focus on your sober friend’s 12-step community. Often there will be a meeting before this kind of memorial service. Then, in the service, people will openly talk about the person’s role in the fellowship, and what gifts he or she brought to the program. The meeting and the service should both be open so that anyone can attend. When you publicize this event, be careful not to use social media in such a way that violates anonymity. In most cases, word-of-mouth at meetings and personal one-on-one communications should be enough to raise awareness. 

    5) Celebrate the Positive and Maintain a Loving Legacy

    Once a sober friend is gone, the best way to process that loss is to celebrate the positive. Rather than focusing on the loss, talk about what that person gave to others and their memorable qualities. My sober friend always made a point to offer a seat next to him to newcomers. He made everyone feel welcome. Today, I do my best to maintain that loving legacy by doing what he did. I keep his smile and his love alive by going outside of my comfort zone, following his example, and acting as he did. 

    As alcoholics and addicts in 12-step fellowships, we are vulnerable to our character defects, and sometimes end up relapsing as a result of them. The process of getting sober is about progress and not perfection, and we make mistakes and fall back into deeply entrenched negative patterns of behavior. The death of a sober friend reminds us of the real, lasting value of our sobriety. We can celebrate the positive while we grieve the loss. We recommit not only to our recovery, but also to practicing the principles that reflect the best qualities of our departed friend. 

    In Memory of Lenny Levy

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • On Ascension: Finding the Courage to Heal and Grow

    On Ascension: Finding the Courage to Heal and Grow

    My optimism was the reason I had stayed in abusive situations as well as my catalyst for leaving.

    The first garden I ever really tended to, I planted with an ex-partner. We’d spent several weekend mornings tilling and nurturing a small plot in my backyard, transforming the soil from arid and unkempt to rich and fecund. Upon harvesting, we filled a large basket with robust vegetables: chards, bright magenta-colored beets, green-leaf lettuce, cherry tomatoes, Anaheim peppers. I was most excited with the constant supply of tomatoes, amazed we’d started the produce from seeds and yielded such healthy plants. 

    Months later it became obvious that the garden was flourishing but the relationship was ending. I realized that after years of single motherhood, I’d allowed myself to attach to an emotionally abusive person out of loneliness.

    When the relationship ended, I was bedridden for three months, falling deep into a clinical depression. Whenever I’d get up, my head felt dizzy, my thinking dulled and lagging. I was unable to keep up with my full-time job and just let it fade away, hoping my savings was enough until I was well again. In the mornings, I would struggle to get my daughter ready for school and I’d return from the bus stop exhausted. 

    The Shame of Mourning

    The garden was forgotten. I couldn’t bear to weed or water, and every plant became shriveled and dry. Winter was approaching and as the cold settled in, I’d look out into the backyard from the window and watch the dead plants swaying with the freezing winds. As painful as it was, I felt stronger letting something we’d tended together die, as if in that letting go I was reminding myself that it had been only temporary, the needing anyone so badly.

    “You need to let go of him and focus on your daughter.” This was the constant advice I received from well-meaning friends. As a single mother, I always found it strange how policed my emotions were by others when it came to any romantic endeavors, how shamed I would be for mourning anyone at all. 

    I’d already known heartbreak, had mothered alone when my baby was only one. I didn’t need the reminder; single moms know well how to mitigate their sadness and still nourish their babies. Although I’d known it before, the depression had never taken hold of me so fiercely. I realized I was mourning more than losing a partner, or the aftermath of emotional abuse; I was also far away from the writing career I’d always imagined I’d have. And I was finally feeling the deep pain I had buried when my relationship with my daughter’s father ended. Even then, I’d been shamed for my sadness and advised to focus on my child. 

    It was a difficult winter, alone in my thoughts. I remember wishing there was a way someone could crawl into my mind and cradle it, almost like holding my hand to lead me out of my sadness. I didn’t even know what clinical depression was, though I realized I had experienced episodes over the years. I remember sitting blankly, staring at the grimy walls of a community mental health clinic where I was finally prescribed antidepressants. 

    Renewal

    A month after that, I was taking regular runs again, a practice I used to love. My stamina returned and the body that had shriveled up all winter grew robust and strong. 

    The following spring, I finally gathered enough intention to walk down the deck and face the garden. Pulling out the shriveled roots, I felt ashamed at my neglect. When I’d finished clearing the space, I watered and turned the soil, taken with how rich it had become. I sat in silence and thought about how that reflected inward, as well. The pain and solitude had alchemized me and what had sat inside that whole winter was now made anew.

    Years later, I’m sitting in my therapist’s office. She’s white, Midwest-born and raised. I hadn’t planned on having a white therapist, but when I’d filled out the preference form I only checked off “woman.” She had an optimism I appreciated, and I didn’t feel especially inclined to inquire whether she was aware just how much of that optimism came from her privilege. I saw parts of myself reflected in her personality. One of the more painful aspects of my internal calcination was accepting how hopeful I’ve always tended to be, even despite the harm I would seek out. My optimism was the reason I had stayed in abusive situations as well as my catalyst for leaving. I’d hope it would get better and once I saw it wouldn’t, I’d hope a doorway would appear. 

    My career was now in motion. I was dumbfounded by the task of negotiating a book contract without an agent and didn’t know how to proceed. I’d written and performed largely for free for my entire career and was realizing that I was afraid to ask for a substantial sum because I still struggled with my own self-worth. 

    A Reluctant Astronaut

    “Did you send the email?” 

    “I didn’t. Not yet, I just, don’t want to seem off-putting, you know? What if I ask for too much and they rescind their offer?” 

    “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” she said. “They approached you.”

    I cradled my head in my hands. “I don’t know how to do this. No one taught me about money. All of this is new. I’m navigating this alone and there’s no map, no manual.”

    “You know what you are?”

    I looked up.

    “You’re a reluctant astronaut. That’s what my mom called me and my sisters when we were afraid. You have the ability to travel through the universe, and you’re afraid to get in the captain’s seat. You’ve trained, you’re ready. You’ve got to get out there for all those who didn’t get the chance, and more so for those who will.”

    I blinked back tears. A reluctant astronaut. In all my life, no one had ever said anything even remotely close to those words, that concept. 

    “You’ve got to send that email.” 

    I realized how much her words had struck me. The queer daughter of first-generation parents, I was told that I would not be allowed to leave home for college. My older brothers were encouraged to exercise their freedom while I stayed in my hometown and worked while I went to school. I could only move out when I found a husband. I wasn’t taught I was a reluctant astronaut. Instead, I was tethered to the ground from birth. 

    I wondered what would have been of me had I been encouraged to fly. 

    ***

    There are times when I have to leave my daughter, now ten years old. Sometimes she’ll watch me pack, her eyes heavy.

    “Mommy, don’t go. I get scared when you’re far away, scared you won’t return.” 

    I don’t tell her I’m afraid, too. I’m not afraid that I won’t return, but that I won’t get to leave at all.

    I need her to be brave for both of us. She’s now old enough to understand she’s a reluctant astronaut, too. I want to make this natural for us, how sometimes I’ll have to go sit in the captain’s chair and close the hatch, home becoming small as a pin before fading out.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Finding Meaning in Tragedy: Addiction, Trauma, and Activism

    Finding Meaning in Tragedy: Addiction, Trauma, and Activism

    Turning grief into activism is a powerful way to process and give meaning to the pain of traumas like the death of a loved one who struggled with addiction. It is on the heels of tragedy that we can make voices of change be heard.

    Grief is complicated, individually experienced, and universal. And humans are not the only creatures on this planet who mourn their dead. Scientists continue to debate how complex the grief of non-human animals is, but the evidence points to many species grieving the loss of their kin and mates.

    For millennia, scholars have been searching for a way to explain the depths of human grief. Plato and Socrates mused on what death and dying meant and philosophized about the grieving man. Sigmund Freud, often considered the father of modern psychology, began psychological research into mourning in his 1917 essay “Mourning and Melancholia.” In 1969, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross published her influential book, On Death and Dying. The popular five stages of grief were born from her work.

    Social Media Affects How We Grieve

    Loss can be traumatic. Whether expected or sudden, close or removed but symbolic, grief can take hold when we lose someone or something significant. We mourn and ritualize loss as a means to process it. There are culturally distinct rituals for mourning families; processing the emotions that come with grief can be guided by these rituals. These customs help us find meaning in our grief, even when we don’t consciously recognize it.

    As social media continues to become a more ingrained aspect of modern life, people are developing new rituals to mark tragic loss. The social norms of these rituals (such as posting photos, posting on the wall of the recently deceased, or sharing a status that talks about special memories) is always in flux. But one norm that is constant in the age of social media is our immediate collective knowledge of loss. There is an urgency to information and the negotiation of emotions in a shared space. This immediacy is changing the old social norms of letting some time pass before talking about causes of death.

    There is another related but distinct way people sometimes process grief, and that’s by turning tragedy into a call for activism. Smithsonian Magazine published a powerful piece titled “The March for Our Lives Activists Showed Us How to Find Meaning in Tragedy.” The author, Maggie Jones, describes the instant response students had because they knew “time was not on their side.” With on-demand information, the collective conscience quickly moves from one tragedy to the next as new headlines take over. These Parkland students were not being inconsiderate in their quick call to activism, they were creating meaning from tragedy and were bolstered by the collective grief that took shape immediately, in large part because of social media.

    The Trauma of Drug-Related Deaths

    Across the United States, drug overdose deaths have been on the rise, particularly those involving synthetic narcotics (primarily fentanyl). Overdoses caused by the most commonly used drugs are tracked by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). And deaths due to overdose are underreported and misclassified. The stigma that surrounds addiction and the prejudice against people with Substance Use Disorder (SUD) relegates many overdose deaths to the world of whispers and rumors.

    My life has been marked by traumatic losses due to the effects of SUD. People close to me have overdosed, some survived and some died. I’ve also lost people to complications due to a lifetime struggle with Alcohol Use Disorder. Only recently have I seen these losses become conversation starters, where people will openly talk about the battles once fought by the brave folks who lost their lives to disease. Maybe that means we’re turning a corner in addiction stigma. Maybe we’re opening the door for people to feel less shame in talking about their struggles while they still have a chance to change the course of their lives. We can pay homage to our lost loved ones by sharing their stories and removing the stigma that may have kept them from receiving the help they needed.

    Recently a person in recovery told me that their co-workers do not know about their history and they will never tell them because multiple times they have made comments like “drug addicts are scum and should be shot” and “addicts are worse than rabid dogs.” The negative perceptions of people with SUD grated on this person and fed their alcoholism in a detrimental way. They believe they are simply a bad person who does not deserve help because addiction cannot be cured. This is a falsehood perpetuated by ignorant and fearful people.

    When we lose people and we share the entirety of our memories about them, from childhood to work life, and we share the truth of their battles with addiction, we are combating these dangerous preconceptions and prejudice.

    Overdoses aren’t the only way addiction kills. According to drugabuse.gov, “drug-related deaths have more than doubled since 2000 [and] there are more deaths, illness, and disabilities from substance use than from any other preventable health condition.” SUD is a diagnosable and treatable condition that deserves as much recognition as any other health issue for which there are awareness campaigns and funds devoted to find treatments to save and improve lives. Substance use disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental and behavioral disorder.

    Tragedy as a Call for Activism

    In a world where so many people process aspects of their grief online and where tragic events unfold live for millions of people around the world at the same time, finding meaning in tragedy is necessary for our mental health. When we experience trauma, we are at risk of developing post-traumatic stress. Trauma can manifest as a strong psychological or emotional response to a distressing or disturbing event or experience. We can be traumatized when we lose someone; we can even be traumatized when we hear that someone we care for went through a terrifying ordeal. If our ability to cope is overwhelmed, that is trauma. When someone develops post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), their sense of self in relation to the world around them has become damaged. Trauma has the potential to shatter our beliefs about our place in the world and our sense of safety.

    Finding meaning in tragedy can go a long way in preventing the development of post-traumatic stress and can be a marker in recovery from PTSD.

    In our changing experience of bereavement, tragedy is a call for activism. It is on the heels of tragedy that we can make voices of change be heard. Tragedy creates space in which people listen. Frequently, we want to connect with others when we experience loss; sharing grief reduces its intensity. Turning grief into activism is a powerful way to process and give meaning to the pain of traumas like the death of someone who struggled with addiction.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Death Threat: The Unique Dangers of Grieving in Recovery

    Death Threat: The Unique Dangers of Grieving in Recovery

    Though I’ve developed tools for dealing with heartache and anguish in sobriety, this level of grief is a sadness on steroids against which I feel futile and frightened.

    My father’s older brother, Stephen Dale, died at age 69 in mid-August. He was more than the family’s patriarch; he was its ballast, its mooring. The home he made with my aunt Linda served as safehouse to a chaotic tribe on holidays, birthdays, and just-for-the-hell-of-it pop-ins.

    Uncle Steve and I enjoyed a relationship where calls and text messages about long-debated or joked about topics would rouse the other in real-time. “Hey Uncle Steve, guess what I just saw…” We lived our lives in each other’s pockets — an intimate, instant-access closeness that is simply irreplaceable.

    He died very suddenly. One day he was there; then the next morning, before I could even reach the hospital, he was gone. Massive heart attack. By the early afternoon, I was writing the obituary, a prelude to the eulogy I would deliver days later.

    But this is not an obituary, nor a eulogy. This is about what happens next — when a recovering alcoholic, like me, finds himself mired in grief and unable to anesthetize himself with drugs or alcohol. It’s about the specific attributes of grief that, I’m finding, are particularly dangerous to people in recovery. And it’s an attempt to identify with my peers who may have suffered similarly but, as often happens to me, couldn’t quite congeal their disjointed feelings into a cohesive narrative.

    Grieving has peculiarities and pitfalls for those of us in recovery. Let’s discuss why.

    Pain That Many Know, Reactions That Few Experience

    Everyone in recovery has heard the cliché: “Bad things don’t stop happening just because you got sober.” In my seven years of sobriety, my wife has miscarried and, during her next pregnancy, I had a small stroke a week before our son was born.

    And given the recovery forums in which we now find ourselves — AA meetings, SMART, sober networks, etc. – most of us see death. We witness fellows with a common disease relapse and die. A record 72,000 Americans died of drug overdoses in 2017. I personally knew three of them — people who, sadly, literally couldn’t get clean to save their own lives.

    But Uncle Steve is different. He knew more about my past, my present and my psyche than anyone save my wife. He was incredibly well-read and unyieldingly tolerant, a combination that made him my chief counsel and safest sounding board. He was flesh and blood that, given a world of other options, I would have chosen to be my flesh and blood.

    A lot of us have Uncle Steves, that most special of relatives. Upon losing that person, anyone — normie or alky — suffers a harsh blow. We feel like a piece of our foundation has been uprooted, part of our shared history deleted. There are secrets about us that die with our Uncle Steves. They leave an unfillable hole, forever, and we know it. 

    For those of us in recovery, though, grief of this depth has its own oddities and perils. Strangely, upon learning the terrible news, our initial reaction can be both validating and shame-inducing: When I learned that Uncle Steve had died, my very first thought was “Shit, I can’t drink over this.” And because I knew I couldn’t, I knew I wouldn’t; the work I’d done in sobriety was about to pay off again, big time.

    Though comforting, this survival-minded reassurance brought an unsettling guilt exclusive to recovering addicts: the self-congratulation of passing a tough test to sobriety. It was just the beginning of what has become an ongoing struggle to rectify grief with recovery.

    Disruption, Deserved.

    Many of us in recovery have struggled mightily with both temperament and resentments. As someone for whom anger has been a tremendously burdensome issue, one AA literature passage that has always resonated with me is from the Twelve Steps & Twelve Traditions. In the chapter discussing Step Ten, it cites justifiable anger as an emotion that “ought to be left to those better qualified to handle it.” Alcoholics are inherently tone deaf when it comes to the level of outrage a given situation warrants – usually, we overshoot it considerably.

    In sobriety, then, we work to temper most of our emotions — good and bad — to find a balance most of us never knew. My dramatically downplayed demeanor has been a crucial element to my recovery. In this space a few months ago, I discussed the importance of limiting the amount of people, places and things that can “anger, intimidate, or otherwise derail” us. In my opinion, this is as true a marker of sober progress — and maturity — as exists.

    Grief, however, sticks out from this everyday mantra like a sore thumb. Especially when we lose someone of Uncle Steve-caliber closeness, deep sadness is not only justified but altogether appropriate. In fact, lack of sadness could be considered insulting to the deceased… our dead loved one deserves our emotional disruption. We owe our Uncle Steves that.

    For those of us whose recovery includes maintaining healthy habits and routines, the combination of a broken stride and broken heart is uniquely troubling. The aversion we’ve built up to emotional disturbances can be a disservice to our sobriety in these instances.

    Since my uncle’s passing, I’ve found myself nipping around the edges of a turbulent sea of grief, afraid to do anything more than dip my toe in lest I drown. Though I’ve developed tools for dealing with heartache and anguish in sobriety, this level of grief is a sadness on steroids against which I feel futile and frightened.

    More than anything, I fear that wading into these waters may lead directly to diving into a bottle; as far-fetched as that may seem for those of us with longstanding recovery, this guarded approach to our most valuable asset — our sobriety — is entirely understandable. In grief, however, it can become a hindrance — a defense mechanism stranding us ashore, emotional landlubbers.

    At least a portion of this procrastination, I realize, is rooted in fear of a less drastic reversion. With seven solid years of recovery, I know the chance of a physical relapse from this is slim. For one, it would be the absolute last thing Uncle Steve wanted. Whether they were in recovery themselves (my uncle was not an alcoholic), our Uncle Steves are vital aspects of our sobriety, and drinking or drugging upon their deaths is undoing part of their legacy. For that reason, among others, getting drunk over this is a nonstarter.

    No, what many of us fear upon losing an Uncle Steve isn’t physical relapse, but rather regressing to a state of heightened emotional vulnerability. In addiction and fledgling recovery, we were often hypersensitive and underprepared to meet life on life’s terms. Now, atop solid sober ground, meeting death on death’s terms feels like a rare, even unique scenario capable of causing a catastrophic earthquake.

    Sure, I’ve been shaken in sobriety before — but not this violently. I’m afraid of the aftershocks of so seismic an event. In recovery, we have healthy fears not only of drinking and drugging, but of revisiting the level of emotional rawness that made us stuck in addiction in the first place.

    Gradually, in recovery we’ve pieced our lives back together, and we don’t want these blessings to unravel in one calamitous emotional nosedive. This may ring particularly true with the multitudes of addicts who, like me, also have struggled with depression. Regardless, everyone in recovery can recall a time when emotional fragility made us unable to adequately function. As a husband, father and career communicator, it’s that panicked, fuzzyheaded state that I most fear.

    Like hard truths in early recovery, though, I’m finding that Uncle Steve-level grief has a ready-or-not resonance. When we lose someone that close, there’s simply too many things in our day-to-day lives that remind us of the deceased. Almost daily, I find myself reaching for my phone to share something Uncle Steve would find equally interesting or humorous. The resulting double-edged sword leaves me both missing my uncle and mad at myself for forgetting, albeit momentarily, to miss him.

    And more frequently, during fleeting moments of calm in my crowded-with-blessings sober life, Uncle Steve is there, quietly commanding attention. Ever patient, his spirit seems to loom as large, or as little, as I can handle in that moment. I swallow manageable doses of sadness with limited side effects and reassurance that, like in recovery, more will be revealed.

    That last sentence would have made for an artful sign-off, but life — or death — seldom provides such tidiness. As much as a loss can be a learning experience it is still, on the whole, a loss. And, like some of our worst acts in full-blown addiction, sometimes the knowledge and growth bestowed in recovery aren’t enough to offset the bad with the good. Some transgressions can’t be wiped away with transcendence.

    Uncle Steve has been gone two months and I, a recovering addict whose present peak required a series of bottoms, still subconsciously — and egotistically —expects this is building toward something grander than the inglorious absorption of tragedy. Often, our post-relapse recoveries from addiction have been linear, accruing wisdom and utilizing lessons learned. I keep waiting for Uncle Steve’s death to ascribe to a similar, simpler healing process – an expectation that has proven persistently misguided.

    No such revelations exist. In the end, those of us who struggle with addiction, despite being affected by grief in ways that differ from others, must deal with it in the same fashion: imperfectly, inconsistently, and with ultra-personalized feelings toward the dearly departed that were endearing in life but alienating in death. Unlike recovery, there’s no program for losing our Uncle Steves.

    View the original article at thefix.com