Answer Addiction

Tag: personal stories

  • Dear Sarah: A Letter to a Friend Who Can't Get Clean

    Dear Sarah: A Letter to a Friend Who Can't Get Clean

    Two and a half years pass, and you have just gotten out of jail again. I know it won’t be your last time, but I wish it were.

    To the Most Interesting Girl I’ve Ever Known:

    Do you remember the first day that we met? I do. I was sitting on a couch with a few other girls and we were watching a movie. That was pretty much all we could do to pass the time in detox. It was my first rehab and your fifth. That night you came out of the bathroom in ridiculous unicorn pajamas and your hair was wrapped in a towel. I didn’t even realize you were there until you started violently throwing up into a trash can. Everyone was watching you and shaking their heads. I found it sad that these women were judging you for getting sick. After all, we were all there to get better…weren’t we?

    I wasn’t. You weren’t either. I was in rehab because I had nowhere else to go and you were there because your parents forced you to get clean.

    The next day, you wandered into my room, jumped up onto my bed, and we talked about everything. We talked about how miserable it was to be stuck in this building when all we really wanted to do was to go out and get high. We didn’t want to be there, but it was really the best option for both of us at that time. 

    I learned so much about you during our time in that place. I found out that you were three years younger than me and that when your dad died, he left your mom an obscene amount of money. You have never lived in a house with less than five bedrooms and have never gone hungry. All your clothes came from the mall and you judged people based on what their teeth looked like. Your mom was used to you going to rehab every other month and she would make sure that you had plenty of cigarettes and nice things to wear.

    I had nice things to wear, too. My dad made sure that I had new clothes and nice shampoo for my first trip to rehab. I was homeless but far from hitting rock bottom…that came later. We bonded over our love of superficial things and our misery there. You confided in me that you were a new mother and embarrassed about it. You did not want to be a mom and you shot up every day during your pregnancy. You gave birth to a little boy three months early because you went into withdrawal and weren’t able to get your dope that morning. It pissed you off because you didn’t like children and still didn’t want any.

    I understood and didn’t judge you because I didn’t want children, either. I knew that if I were ever pregnant, there would be even less time and money for me to get high. After social services told you that your drug use prevented you from keeping the sick baby in your care, your mom adopted your son and took on all of the responsibility that you didn’t want to have.

    I understood you and you understood me.

    We were moved together to the residential area of the rehab program where they took away our comfort medications and forced us to interact with the other women there. That didn’t last long. We didn’t want anything to do with these women who had hit their rock bottom. We didn’t want to hear their sad stories or participate in anything therapeutic. If we talked about other people there, it was to judge or make fun of their appearance.

    Looking back on my behavior during this time, I am remorseful and embarrassed by our cruelty. We were both sick and should have taken advantage of the help that was being offered, but we weren’t ready. We fed off each other, encouraging destructive behavior. A few days after being moved, we were kicked out of that rehab together for buying drugs from a man in a different unit.

    Do you remember sitting on that curb in the sunshine with our freedom and trash bags full of clothing? A guy that you knew picked us up and bought us each a gram of heroin and a brand-new bag of needles. He then took us to a hotel in a sketchy part of town and we stayed there for the next three days. We looked at each other as we pulled out of the rehab parking lot and smiled so big. We had won our freedom and were now able to get as high as we wanted without consequence.

    We didn’t think about the fact that we’d both just screwed up a really good chance to fix our lives and to rebuild the trust we had broken with our respective families. We weren’t thinking about anything past the three days that the hotel was paid for. We bonded and became closer during that long weekend. You overdosed in the bathtub and I brought you back. The first thing you said to me was, “where’s my shit?” I laughed, you laughed, and we continued to get high. After being kicked out of the hotel we went our separate ways but continued to stay in touch. You went home to your big house and I continued to crash where I could because it was getting cold out. We even planned our next rehab stay together!

    We really had our priorities straight, didn’t we?

    The next “vacation” we took together was a bit more successful. We didn’t get kicked out, but we came close. We didn’t take it seriously and continued to judge people, something that I’m still ashamed of. You told me you’d been arrested twice since we’d seen each other last, both times for felony possession. You saw your son and he’s walking now, but you still hate being a mom. I nod and agree, it sounds like a hassle to me at that time in my life. We graduate from this 30-day program and go our separate ways again. You go back home again to your fancy house and I go to a sober living facility, something I wasn’t ready for. You came to visit me often and took me out for coffee on my birthday.

    I got kicked out of that place too and had to stay on a lot of different couches, each more desperate and filthier than the previous. My parents were done housing me because they saw me getting sicker with each visit. They saw me lose weight and gain track marks and strung out boyfriends while you were sleeping in your childhood home with a fridge full of food. I never compared myself to you and I never complained about my situation, especially to you. In rehab, we judged people like me; I had become one of the unfortunate. I was someone whose addiction had completely taken over her life. I was paying for my heroin with money that I stole or earned in ways that I don’t like to talk about. You paid for your drugs with money that your mom handed you and if that wasn’t enough you stole it from your stepdad.

    Maybe I was a little jealous.

    The following summer I hit my rock bottom. I won’t tell you how it happened, but it was brutal. The drugs we so enjoyed doing in your car ended up taking my soul and my self-respect. I decided that I needed to change and right after making that decision I met the man who changed my life. I’d started taking methadone a few months prior to meeting him and finally my life was starting to make sense. I had a home, a job, and someone who loved me unconditionally.

    I still called you every few weeks to check in. You told me you were still getting high and that you overdosed a few times and that you had just gotten out of jail again. We laughed about it and then we didn’t talk for almost six months because we were both so busy with life. The next time I called you, you kept talking about how “nasty” the girls in jail are and how they’re missing their teeth and you’re sick of having to pee in front of your probation officer.

    I didn’t tell you that the damage I caused to my own teeth led to them all being pulled and replaced with porcelain ones.

    You asked the last time I used and when I said eight months, you yelled at me. “How?! You were the WORST! You LOVE getting high!”

    I told you about the methadone and how it was really helping me fix my life. You said you will never be on that stuff because you don’t want to have to take something every day. I wish you would at least try. If not methadone… just try something. 

    I tell you I’m pregnant and getting married and you are in disbelief again. You say my child will have issues and I won’t be able to bond with him. In the same conversation, you get upset because I don’t invite you to my baby shower. My husband doesn’t want us to see each other and I agree with him. You are now dangerous for me and the little life that he and I built together. Perhaps you always were. I imagine you falling asleep or getting high in the bathroom as I open presents.

    I am a different person now and happy about it, a different kind of selfish.

    Two and a half years pass, and you have just gotten out of jail again. I know it won’t be your last time, but I wish it were. You don’t look three years younger than me anymore. We don’t talk on the phone because we don’t have anything to talk about. I know how you feel about the medication I take and that’s okay. I have a family now and a home, and I wish that one day you’ll get to have the same things. I want you to know that the unconditional love that your child has for you is better than the best heroin you’ve ever done. I want you to know that eventually, once you stop using, you can enjoy things again. Sushi is amazing. Sleeping in late is amazing. Not being sick and desperate every morning is amazing, too.

    We might never see each other again but I just wanted you to know that I still think about you and that if you give it a chance, you can find happiness too. You deserve to have a good life, we all do. Just try, okay?

    Your friend always, 

    Mary

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Learning to Have Sex in Recovery

    Learning to Have Sex in Recovery

    I had forgotten that I was once again in control of my own life… I needed to take charge of my sexual experiences just like I had taken charge of my recovery.

    So you used to hang from the chandeliers and now you avoid seeing yourself naked in the mirror? I can relate, friends. When I made the decision to stop using drugs 21 years ago, I was told “the only thing I needed to change was everything.” While this was not entirely true, there was one area that needed a complete overhaul: my relationship to sex. I wondered how I would ever transition from substance-fueled sex to a physical interaction that requires a bit of delicacy, and, dare I suggest, intimacy? 

    It wasn’t easy. 

    Men Are Pigs

    For background, I was raised by two very conservative parents that stopped sleeping in the same room by the time I was 12. The only “talk” my mother had with me was to explain that “men are pigs.” Fairly vague, even for the 1980s. My exposure to “sex” was accidentally finding pornographic magazines in bushes, late night movies on cable tv, and being sexualized by drunk adults. Sex became hardwired in my brain as this thing that men required and to which women begrudgingly submitted. There was little to no information about having sex for fun. Sex was associated with a quiet sense of shame. 

    On top of this, I was fat, and that made me feel unfuckable in suburban Ohio. I was okay with this at some level – remember, “men are pigs” — but I still wanted to try it. 

    The summer of my 17th year, my world got turned upside down. I lost 30 pounds, and suddenly the neighbor boy wanted to show me his dick, which I found entirely confusing. He’d never even given me as much as a sideways glance. I frequently got teased for being a virgin until finally my first real boyfriend “took” what I never felt like I had in the first place. Was I supposed to be feeling something? Anything? I mostly felt indifferent. 

    Alcohol and drugs arrived on the scene at the same time I was trying to figure out the machinery of an adult woman. After a few drinks, I would feel this rush of male attention that suddenly made sense. I felt “sexy.” My sexuality was a lure to pull in a person I thought liked me. Sex became a way of gaining what I wanted, a way of garnering much needed attention. Sex suddenly became more interesting. 

    The first time I had sex with a woman, I woke up from a blackout with her underneath me. Oh hey. Sex was this jumble of things, many of which made no sense to me. I had no idea how to make this thing work. Where was the owner’s manual?

    A Sense of Urgency

    Imagine my surprise ten years later when, 24 hours into my last detox, my crotch suddenly sprung to life without notice. There was a sense of urgency to explore the areas I had so frequently ignored while steeped in a nod. Unfortunately, all this was taking place in a jail cell. My bunkmate complained to deputies I was keeping her up at night with my vigorous activities. For the first time in my adult life, my sexual experiences didn’t revolve around what I could convince someone to do to me or with me. I would have to figure things out for myself. 

    When the first 20 pounds of jail house grits and potatoes hit my thighs, I wasn’t particularly worried. I had become so thin after years of heavy use, I vaguely fit the stereotype of a woman. As I was flat chested with the collarbones sunken in, a bit of padding was a welcome addition on my bony ass…until it went from a folding chair to a whole loveseat. My reignited passion for life was matched by my love of food. 

    Slowly, incrementally, the increasing pounds began stripping away my self-esteem. The idea of fucking anyone seemed like an effort. I fell into a state of sadness. I would not consider letting anyone touch me, outside of a few random pats on ass from my “brothers” in the rehab. 

    This was in stark contrast to my life six months earlier. I had spent many years in a community of sex workers, thirsty bottoms, and quid pro quo relationships with the dopeman. There were no boundaries, and even less consent. In those days, my body was open for business, while my mind was frequently sedated and broken into tiny pieces. 

    What was the solution? My first sponsor insisted that I look at myself in the mirror every night while proclaiming “I love myself.” The intention was good but the reality felt forced. What was it I loved? My face– with a distinct scar across my forehead from a drunken car crash? My smile– which was marred by chipped teeth from grinding on meth benders? The insecure person inside? 

    My First Time…Sober

    Despite my fears, I had a growing interest to road-test the plumper machine. My first sober sexual encounter in recovery was clumsy. I was on a four-hour pass from rehab but I returned in less than 45 minutes. I don’t know why I had even bothered to take my pants off. I stuck my head against the wall in the shower, soaking in the regret. I was disappointed he didn’t even notice that my bra and panties matched. The nerve! 

    The second was much more extravagant. We went to a cheap hotel because he did not have the proper ID to visit my sober living. I barely knew him. I just knew he wanted me. He left me a gift: a ring of hickeys around my neck that made it look as if someone had choked me. This skin memento provided uncomfortable material for my next women’s support group. 

    “What are you getting out of this?” one of the group members asked me. 

    Was I supposed to be getting something? I had forgotten that I was once again in control of my own life. It had been so long since anyone had taken my feelings and my pleasure into consideration. I needed to take charge of my sexual experiences just like I had taken charge of my recovery.

    After bumping my head one more time in the early days– literally and figuratively as the person was quite acrobatic– I made a conscious decision to give my body the rest it deserved. Until I could unravel sex from the need for validation, I would be just fine exploring my own body without the bitter aftertaste. I had confused attention with affection. I presumed that desire meant connection. For me, none of these turned out to be the case. It wasn’t bad sex, per se. It was the fact that my expectations were far exceeding the actual experiences. I had done none of the work to heal my wounded soul and had greedily assumed my equally recovering body would be able to catch up. 

    My Body Is a Gift

    My story has a happy ending. It took many years of unraveling my emotional and physical baggage and eventually creating a filter, a boundary, and a screening process. I began to realize that it was 100% necessary to communicate my needs. I had to discover what I liked, create my list of dos and don’ts. 

    For the first time, I began to enjoy my sexual self with no shame. My body is a gift. Not everyone gets to unwrap it. 

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Dad Day: Death Is A Holiday

    Dad Day: Death Is A Holiday

    Once a year on our fake holiday, we shine light on the person he was. We show him how much we remember—and how little we can forget.

    Almost a year had passed since my ex-husband, Josh, was found dead.

    As the anniversary approached, I felt pressure from friends and family to mark the occasion. My son and I had spent an entire year trying to regain shreds of normalcy and happiness.

    The idea of revisiting our loss with a date circled on the calendar seemed agonizing and dumb. It would be like swimming in a lightning storm. Sure, you might not get struck and drown, but why would you risk it?

    Plus, there were practicalities. Since Josh was “found” dead after a long battle with alcoholism, we didn’t know the exact date of his death. We couldn’t spend the day visiting his grave because he was cremated and his ashes were in our living room. I suppose we could’ve held a vigil next to the bookcase where the urn sits, but that seemed weird.

    What I knew for sure was that I couldn’t ignore the day. I didn’t want my son Dash to look back years later and wonder why we hadn’t done anything for that first anniversary. I never wanted him to think that I had forgotten his dad or didn’t love him, even though we had been divorced for three years before he died.

    Sobbing over photos and focusing on Josh’s absence would be an awful way to spend the day. I’m also not a big fan of the otherwise popular “celebration of life” thing, because of the way it erases our sadness. I think people should be allowed to grieve in all its complexity.

    I hated hearing, “He would have wanted you to be happy, he wouldn’t want you to cry.” First of all, that negates the pain of our loss, and second, if Josh could have whatever he wanted, I’ll bet that he would have wanted not to be dead.

    So I created Dad Day—a day when Dash and I do everything his father would have loved. Josh was British and loved Marmite, so we “eat” it for breakfast. We don’t really eat it, because it is a disgusting yeast paste that neither of us can stand. But we smear it on toast, take a bite, gag, then run to the sink to spit it out. After that, we stick to Josh’s other favorites: pizza, Dr. Pepper, popcorn, and gummy bears.

    Josh was a huge hockey fan, so we bust out his New York Rangers jerseys. Dash wears the white one all day, and I wear the blue one for as long as I can stand it. My God, the polyester! We watch cricket, which neither of us understand, and his favorite movies, like The Warriors, then finish the day with as many episodes of The Simpsons as time allows.

    Stories about Josh naturally come up. I tell Dash about the time he threw a big party while his parents were out of town. He would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t recorded a lot of it on the answering machine. Or the time he met Margaret Thatcher and accidentally dropped a condom at her feet. Her response was, “Well? Pick it up then!”

    Josh’s brother Max calls from Italy and shares more wild tales, like the Christmas they out-ran the police in Zanzibar, or the time Josh sent his six-year old brother Louie home alone in a London taxi, because he wanted to spend some time with a cute girl he had just met. We laugh about what a crazy teenager he was. And yes, we cry a little, because Josh would have loved Dad Day, and he’s missing it.

    Joshua Keep was born on April 21,1969 and was found dead on August 19, 2016. But he wasn’t just his delivery and expiration dates. He was his smile. He was the way he laughed and gave and yawned and worked and loved. I want to give Dash the intimate pieces of the man he can never know in this way. I try to breathe life back into Josh through stories and myths of his heroism, his stupidity, and his kindness.

    So once a year on our fake holiday, we shine light on the person he was. We pull him back to us. All of the things and the people he loved are still here. We show him how much we remember—and how little we can forget.

    “Dad Day: Death Is A Holiday” is featured in the upcoming anthology We Got This: Solo Mom Stories of Grit, Heart, and Humor slated for release on September 10th. 

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Sex, Drunk and Sober

    Sex, Drunk and Sober

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

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

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

    College Crushes and Fraternity Parties

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Sex and Blackouts

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

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

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

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

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

    Learning to Date, Sober

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

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

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • But I’m Depressed, Not Addicted

    But I’m Depressed, Not Addicted

    I was there to treat my depression. I couldn’t tell the truth. I couldn’t say I got smashed almost every night, whiskey whistling through my veins, thinning my blood and seeping into my brain.

    “Why are you here today, Emma?”

    Hungover and filled with self-loathing, I’d just revved my car onto a usually-busy street, hoping to get hit by a truck, but nothing happened. Not even a Smartcar in sight. Shakily, I’d walked back into my apartment and asked my boyfriend for a ride to the St. Vincent’s Stress Center. After I’d sat for an hour in a sunny lobby with green chairs and green carpet, a man in glasses and khakis called me into a lamp-lit room.

    “I’m in crisis.”

    “Are you going to harm yourself?”

    “No. I mean, I don’t think so.” I couldn’t bring myself to mention the high-speed reverse onto one of northside Indianapolis’ main thoroughfares. This guy would have to work to get the truth. “I have a history of suicide attempts, though. And depression. I just can’t do it anymore. I’m so overwhelmed with school and work and my dogs and my boyfriend and my house and my…”

    He cut me off and flipped to a new page on his clipboard. “Would you say you’re having suicidal ideation? Do you wish you could just ‘go away?’” Air quotes. Meaningful pause.

    “Yeah. Sort of. I want things to get better, but I don’t know what that looks like. I’ve been through stuff like this before. Depression, I mean. If I have to be hospitalized, it’s okay.” I didn’t want to be responsible for myself anymore. Being in the hospital would mean I could blank out for a while and let someone else take care of me.

    The intake assessor tilted his head at me. “We won’t hospitalize you unless we have to. Let’s talk about your day-to-day. What does that look like?”

    I ticked off my work schedule, school schedule, social schedule; listing my life as if from a résumé. One boyfriend. One job. Two dogs. Fifteen credit hours. Good grades. Dad nearby, but we weren’t that tight. Close with my mom, but she lived far away. No clubs. No sports.

    “Do you drink alcohol or use drugs?”

    I looked up from my lap. “I drink. I mean, I’m a college student.” If there had been a window in the room, I would have glanced out of it. I needed something else to look at.

    “How much?”

    I couldn’t tell the truth. “It depends. Between one and six beers a night.”

    He blinked and frowned for a millisecond. Oops. That was an underestimate. Is between one and six too much?

    He didn’t say. Just returned to his neutral expression and kept moving down his clipboard. “How often do you drink between one and six beers a night?”

    “Oh, maybe three times a week? I guess it depends.” Again, I couldn’t tell the truth. I couldn’t say I got smashed almost every night, whiskey whistling through my veins, thinning my blood and seeping into my brain.

    He blinked again, made a note on his board, and kept questioning, reducing my depression to a list of symptoms. Suicidal ideation. Feelings of worthlessness. Guilt. Sleep disturbance. Headache. Was I missing work? Missing school? Maintaining good hygiene?

    I just ran my car blindly into traffic, I thought, and this asshole wants to know if I brushed my teeth. Medicalizing depression sure was depressing.

    In the end, Mr. Blinky decided that I didn’t need immediate hospitalization. Instead, I’d be admitted to IOP: intensive outpatient treatment. Three hours at the Stress Center, three days a week. “With all your commitments, this will be perfect for you,” he assured me.

    Although I downplayed all my problems, part of me must have known I needed help—serious help. But I couldn’t admit it, not even to a person whose job description included “assessing mental health condition and recommending appropriate care.” I wanted the help forced on me, wanted to be figured out, fixed. Someone needed to see beyond my deception. That would take the burden of recovery off of me and place it on them. Secretly, I wanted to spend a few days in the psych ward, locked away from work, papers, dogs, and dishes. I couldn’t confess that, I thought. I’d sound crazy. I didn’t see the irony of worrying about sounding crazy when I sat in a mental health intake office.

    Instead of screaming, I nodded. Blinky placed me in a “dual-diagnosis program,” a familiar phrase from my teen years that meant I’d qualified as both mentally ill and addicted.

    “Most folks graduate in four-to-six weeks,” he said, handing me a pamphlet. “Good luck.”

    ***

    On my first night of IOP, I entered the Stress Center’s lobby to find a sweater-vested receptionist behind the tall desk. “Walk straight down the hall to the first office on the right. I’ll tell Dave you’re here.”

    Dave, a soft-spoken therapist with glasses, a mustache, and a lisp, met me at the door of his office. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he pulled his chair around to sit across from me.

    “Bring this with you every night,” he instructed, passing me a maroon folder with the St. Vincent’s triple-dove logo stickered on the front. “It’s like your Bible for this group. It’s pretty empty now, but by the time you graduate, it’ll be full of handouts, worksheets, and journals.” He lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Many of our patients hang on to these for years after they leave us because they find stuff they can use and reuse for the rest of their lives.” He closed his eyes, re-opened them. “That’s what we’re here to do. Help you get the skills you need to live.”

    I nodded, arranging my expression into eager, pliant, and friendly, my eyes sparkling, my smile full. Already, I was trying to charm my way out, as I had in my psych ward trips years before. Had I forgotten that putting up a front back then had led me to this place, this office, with its commercial-grade chairs, fluorescent lights, and a non-ironic “Hang in There” kitten poster?

    For the next 15 minutes, Dave explained what I could expect from my 12 weekly hours of IOP. Then he looked at me over his glasses. “You’ll also need to go to three meetings a week. Here’s a schedule of all the recovery groups in the area.”

    I took the pamphlet, thick as a chapbook, and showed off my nod-and-smile routine again. Skepticism crept in. Couldn’t this guy see that my problem was depression, not drinking?

    “We’re all set then. Let’s get you to your first group session. Don’t worry, we won’t expect you to speak up on your first night. Feel free to just sit and listen.”

    Dave led me to another fluorescent-lit room at the end of the hall. In it, a circle of identical chairs with padded green vinyl seats and backrests. I took an empty seat and surveyed the six nametagged patients around me. Robin, a thickset, bowl-cutted, auburn-haired, lip-ringed woman. Jack, a soft middle-aged guy who looked like Dave, but with a weaker mustache, aviator glasses, and adult acne. Madison, a thin girl who couldn’t have been more than 18. Ryan, a young guy with sagging, wide-legged jeans and a backwards baseball cap. Jane, a twitchy blonde with scars skimming her forearms. And Gladys, an older black woman who looked like an elementary-school principal.

    Dave walked in the room, smiling softly. “Everyone, meet Emma. This is her first night.”

    They replied in unison. “Hi, Emma.”

    Inside, I squirmed, but outwardly, I exuded alpha-dog confidence. Smile, lips closed. I told myself. Chin up. Relax in your chair, elbows hooked over the back. Cross your legs. Look at their foreheads when they talk. It’ll look like you’re making eye contact.

    The first group session consisted mostly of Ryan, the baseball-cap boy, talking about his “Moral Inventory.” To me, it looked like a scribbled list, but Ryan blushed with pride when he held it up. The other patients clapped as though he’d found a cure for lymphoma.

    “I finally did it,” he said. “I kept relapsing every time I got to this point, but now, I did it. I have my inventory.”

    Dave beamed. “Ryan, we’re proud of you. We all knew you could do it. Now, what did you learn?”

    Ryan’s gaze dropped to the floor. “It’s mostly fear. Fear is like this big demon, ready to eat me alive. It’s why I dropped out of school. Why I let my girl leave. Why I get in fights.”

    Dave turned to the group. “What are our two responses to fear, folks?” His lisp swallowed the “s” sounds. Rethponthes. Folkth.

    Robin raised her hand. “Fuck Everything And Run.” Dave looked at her over his glasses. “Sorry, Dave. ‘F’ Everything And Run.”

    “Or Face Everything And Rise.” Gladys, the school principal, finished the saying.

    It all sounded like cheerleading to me. Acronyms. Group responses. And a moral inventory? How could that not make me want to kill myself? If Dave hadn’t released us for a break, I might have asked to slit my wrists then and there.

    When we returned, I listened to the group members talk about hitting bottom. Four words bounced around my skull. I do not belong. Ryan had slugged his ex-girlfriend and blamed it on his dad, who had used him as a punching bag. Jack’s wife had left him after he got his third DUI and lost his license forever. He’d never been able to stand up to her, probably because he was raised by an overbearing mother. I do not belong. Jane smoked meth in the bathroom between double shifts at Burger King, her first job since she’d stopped prostituting. When she was eight, her dad had molested her. Gladys had gotten fired and had to move back in with her alcoholic mother. Church used to help her, but she couldn’t get herself out of bed before noon anymore. I. Do. Not. Belong. I was in college. I had a job. My driver’s license was intact, unsuspended. My parents loved me. I’d never been molested. I’d never stood on 38th Street in a miniskirt, hoping to snag a john. How could I be an addict?

    The next Monday, Dave invited me to his office after group. He wanted to “check in.” Air quotes. Meaningful look. He must have gone to the same training as the intake coordinator who’d interviewed me when I first walked in.

    “Have you found any meetings you like yet?”

    I hadn’t gone to a single one. “Adding on three hours’ worth of meetings on top of the 12 hours a week I’m here, on top of my 15-credit hour school load, on top of my 20-hour work week—it’s too much. I came here because I felt stressed and overwhelmed. How can I add more to my schedule when the main source of stress is my schedule?” My voice had risen in volume. I looked away, toward the door, and hunched my shoulders.

    Dave sighed. “If you want to get better, your sobriety should be a priority.”

    “But I’m depressed, not addicted. Maybe I could cut back a bit on the drinking, but addiction isn’t ruining my life. I don’t belong here. I’m not a meth-head. I haven’t lost my job. I haven’t lost my kids — I don’t even have kids. I’ve never gotten a DUI. I don’t do heroin.”

    Dave nodded and motioned for me to continue. He wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

    I didn’t know what else to say. I looked at my feet. “I’ll try, okay?”

    That night on my way out I threw my folder in the trash can, hoping the other patients would see it. I didn’t return. Instead of climbing the steps to IOP the following Wednesday, I slithered into a bar booth and ordered the usual, beer and a bourbon. Then a pitcher to split with my boyfriend. Fuck it, another shot. And another. Then—oblivion.

    That summer, while walking my dogs in the evening, I stared at the lives inside the yellow squares of windows I passed. I defined these lives, these people, as “good.” Young couples unloading groceries. Families sitting around oaky tables, eating dinner. A girl my age doing yoga in her living room. Husbands and wives suiting up for an evening run. It looked like love, warmth, virtue, balance. When I walked the dogs in the morning, I gaped at the men and women jogging or biking past me while I sucked on a cigarette and squinted my hungover eyes against the sun. Every morning, every night, as I contemplated everyone else’s healthy normalcy, I felt like an ugly exoskeleton, wishing I could fill myself with whatever they had. I could see it, but I couldn’t access it. Instead, I stumped down the road with my unwashed body and my stringy short hair, pulled along by two ill-behaved dogs. In my mind, my body, I couldn’t find those families’ goodness and light. The closest I knew to it was liquor, so I filled myself with that instead.

    ***

    That first round of IOP didn’t take, but maybe Dave and, more importantly, Ryan, Jack, Gladys, Robin, Jane, and Madison had planted a seed. A year later, I walked into my first meeting and said Hi, I’m Emma, and I’m an alcoholic. As soon as I said it, something cool and smooth moved to the center of my chest and clicked. That sentence was the most honest thing I’d said in years. It removed the barrier of I do not belong and replaced it with the doorway of Help me—I’m just like you. 

    Today, I’m ten years sober. When I give a lead, or speak at the psych ward, I try to remember the scared girl I was. Head thrown back, chin up, elbows wide; putting up a tough front to hide my fear. I look for her in every crowd, and when I find her, I make eye contact. She usually looks away, but that’s okay. Someday, she might be able to hold my gaze.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Recovery of a Real-Life "Nurse Jackie"

    Recovery of a Real-Life "Nurse Jackie"

    Before I ever stole a pill from work, before I was ever a daily drinker and habitual pill-popper, I was just a burned-out nurse, exhausted and in pain.

    Nurses are often referred to as “angels in scrubs.” It certainly fits. 

    Who else but an angelic being can provide unconditional comfort in the throes of tragedy, hold your hands through unspeakable heartbreak, and save your loved one’s life all while cleaning up an array of bodily fluids?

    Nurses do it with a smile.

    Florence Nightingale left her predecessors with big shoes to fill. Nurses must function as caregivers under extraordinary pressure, possess superhuman resilience, scrupulous morals, exceptional coping skills and be immune to afflictions that trouble the general population. Nurses need to be available to care, comfort and to cure. There’s no time to be ill or emotionally fragile. 

    By striving to live up to Nightingale’s standards, we’ve earned the #1 spot on Forbes list of trusted professionals, but we’re also the most susceptible to job burnout. We’re brimming with intelligence and compassion, but far from celestial beings. Nurses are 100% human and just as likely, if not more so, to employ unhealthy coping mechanisms. 

    A Registered Nurse for over 14 years, I can attest to this. I mismanaged work stress and job burnout in the worst way possible: by turning to drugs and alcohol. 

    It’s estimated that around one in 10 nurses struggle with substance use disorder. That’s no small statistic, considering there are around 3 million nurses in the US.

    Alcohol, opiates and benzodiazepines are an all-too-accessible source of fuel to get through the work day. They’re also excellent numbing agents to sleep off the stress of a shift. It’s not uncommon to hear a nurse exclaim “This shift calls for wine!” or to joke about the necessity of drugs to wash away the day.

    Nurses readily encourage drinking as a coping skill, use of anti-anxiety medicine is socially approved of and sleeping pills are shared between friends. But admitting one has lost control of one or more of these highly addictive substances is absolutely taboo. 

    It was eight years into my career at the hospital that I became physically and psychologically dependent on Vicodin. Migraines interfered with my ability to work and be a mother. My doctor prescribed an opiate, and I experienced blissful relief as the migraine melted away and euphoric energy filled the void. 

    The progression of my addiction was insidious but certain. Since graduation from nursing school, I could count on one hand how many hangovers I’d woken up with. Recreational drugs, including smoking pot, was out of the question. Yet when all the factors fell into place – a legit prescription, disengaged from my work, overwhelmed at home and sleep deprived working nights – my fate seemed inevitable.

    Slowly and steadily I transformed from a Florence Nightingale prodigy – working overtime, volunteering, climbing the ladder to nursing success – into a real-life Nurse Jackie. 

    Eventually I became tolerant and my personal prescription wasn’t enough. I engaged in behavior I’d previously considered appalling and unthinkable. I stole from my employer. Compulsion to use and desperation to avoid withdrawal won over any rational thought process. Opiates had become a cure-all for the physical and emotional exhaustion that consumed me.

    Like so many other nurses, when I realized the line had been crossed from medical and occasional recreational use to abuse and dependence, I felt trapped. I couldn’t just tell my manager. I couldn’t even tell a friend. Too much was at stake. Drowning in opiate addiction, (and drinking heavily to boost the effects or stave off withdrawal) I saw no safe shore to swim to. 

    Washington State, along with most states in the US, offers an “alternative to discipline” program due to the high incidence of substance abuse in healthcare professionals. But since the problem isn’t talked about, the solution isn’t either. The organizations are spoken of in whispers, as are the nurses who “ended up in the program.”

    I wasn’t ignorant to the existence of these resources, but I was completely misguided as to their intention and function. 

    I’d heard rumors of nurses who were caught “diverting” – the fancy term we use for stealing the leftover or extra amounts of drugs that are supposed to be “wasted” at work in the proper receptacle.

    According to gossip, they were escorted off campus by security or police as the state program was notified. At worst they were forced to relinquish their license. At best, job opportunities were limited to grueling shifts at nursing homes earning half the pay they deserved. 

    It was a living nightmare. Imprisoned by addiction, paralyzed by fear. Terrified of being recognized, I refused to attend any type of peer-support group meeting. Finally, out of desperation I contacted a private counselor. She declined to treat me based on duty to report.

    “Oh, you’re a nurse? I can’t treat you. Too much liability. But good luck I’m sure you’ll find someone.” 

    Fortunately, I found rock bottom. Not in the form of an overdose, which I was dangerously close to many times, but in being caught by my employer. Someone had informed them of my suspicious behavior. I was required to give a urine sample, and when it came back glowing dirty with the truth of my drug use, I was given a choice according to my state’s department of health policy: Enter into treatment or face criminal charges and potential loss of my license.

    Both options felt like professional suicide. For the next two weeks as I contemplated the decision, I also contemplated actual suicide. With the support of one family member I felt I could confide in, I made my way to treatment; sick with shame and certain I’d destroyed my reputation, my dignity and life as I knew it. 

    Out of work as a nurse, but intentionally working on recovery, my outlook began to change. One month of sobriety turned into multiple, and the chemical fog began to clear. I made connections with nurses who had or were recovering. I began practicing mindfulness, cultivating resilience and digging deep to understand what had transpired. 

    As I researched, I discovered my story isn’t unique. Being an excellent nurse and having an addiction are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they often go hand-in-hand. The highest functioning, hardest working, most in-depth critical thinkers end up stealing and ingesting drugs from work. Numerous factors play into this, the most basic of which is drugs and alcohol offer instant relief from a mind that won’t shut off, and they are physically addictive. Nurses in particular feel invincible as the caregivers – “it’s others who are sick.”

    Our comprehensive knowledge of medications and how to ingest or inject “safely” gives us a false sense of security. And 75-80% of nurses are adult children of alcoholics, including me. We’re essentially predisposed and then enter into a pressure cooker of a career. 

    My research also uncovered that sober, recovering and/or “graduated” from an alternative to discipline program nurses still don’t disclose this part of their lives. This is a tragedy in itself. When nurses keep their recovery in their dark, still-suffering nurses keep their active addictions in the dark. 

    Healthcare as an occupation does a disservice to professionals who enter into it by neglecting to educate, advocate and adequately treat. 

    Nursing schools should provide courses in mindfulness and self-awareness, encouraging nurses to uncover the sometimes-hidden nature of addictive tendencies and teaching strategies to manage them. This should be done long before ever exposing them to the workforce and giving access to a plethora of pills and injectables. 

    Educational institutions and employers should offer free education, confidential counseling and allow time off work for treatment. Lunch breaks should be mandatory and enforced; employees should be trained in self-care. 

    Instead of shaming nurses who are under suspicion or undergoing treatment by posting names and license numbers on public lists, the department of health should be involved in the development of peer- support groups.

    Trauma-informed rehabilitation programs need to be implemented for nurses and first responders who have been repeatedly subject to high stress and high stakes patient care. 

    Asking for help shouldn’t be a trauma itself. We need to change the narrative from “being reported” to being “given an opportunity to receive treatment and protect your license.” Treatment providers need to change the verbiage from “You can’t tell me anything, I have a duty to report.” To “This is an opportunity for honesty, to find you the best treatment possible so you can achieve health and well-being again.”

    I never wanted to be known as a real-life Nurse Jackie. It would have been easier to quietly complete my time in treatment and live out my career with a well-kept secret. But I know that there are many more angels in scrubs still suffering. Neglecting themselves while striving to meet the needs of their patients, too afraid to ask for help and too sick to overcome addiction on their own. 

    Before I ever stole a pill from work, before I was ever a daily drinker and habitual pill-popper, I was just a burned-out nurse, exhausted and in pain. I needed a safe place to admit I was hurting and an outlet to vent the pressure. I needed somewhere to take off my scrubs, shed the angel wings, and become vulnerable without being made to feel inferior. I needed to know I wasn’t alone, and that treatment was not the end of my career; only the end of my addiction. My career would have a chance to flourish.

    Stigma must be eradicated for recovery to be possible. Prevention, early intervention, and treatment must be advocated for fiercely in order for nursing to be filled with thriving, healthy individuals. I live sober out loud because I believe this change is possible.

    Tiffany Swedeen, RN, BSN, CPC/CPRC is a certified life and recovery coach, She Recovers Designated Coach, and a registered nurse in recovery herself from opioids and alcohol. Tiffany lives “sober out loud,” proudly sharing her story through advocacy and blogging and is passionate about helping others do the same. Her goal is to eradicate shame and empower all to live a life of radical self-love.

    You can contact Tiffany through her website Recover and Rise, read her blog www.scrubbedcleanrn.com and follow her @scrubbedcleanrn. 

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • How I Came To "Believe” In Safe Injection Sites

    How I Came To "Believe” In Safe Injection Sites

    The part of me that understands service is the backbone of my recovery, demands something other than pretending that there aren’t options available to people still suffering.  

    So last night I’m at a town hall event on drug addiction and someone mentions safe injection sites in the audience. My heart begins to pound from having my hand up and hoping to get called on, so I can ask about this, among other topics.  

    The panel looks around at each other trying to see who will bite first, as it’s clearly a controversial topic. Finally, the one “token recovery guy” speaks up, “You know, studies are positive, but people are very opposed to the idea, and the last time we had a discussion about it a fight nearly broke out.”

    And so, I wanted to get up. And I wanted to have that fight.  

    But I was taught to cease fighting anything and anyone. What about fighting substance use disorder? I thought my disease was doing pushups? Certainly, this disease is wreaking havoc across our country, especially with the younger generations, and what are we, as a community, prepared to do about it?  

    Who is fighting on the front lines? While communities claim “not in my backyard” absolution, so do the “anonymous people” who are in recovery in this country. They are told to have no opinion on outside issues. But, to me, this isn’t an outside issue, because the part of me that understands service is the backbone of my recovery, demands something other than pretending that there aren’t options available to people still suffering.  

    Thankfully, I have met many who are rank and file generals in this fight, however compared to the #’s we could have, it is disappointing, and makes creating change in our communities even more difficult.  

    Clearly, safe injection options are not a solution, but saying “he or she must not have wanted it enough” when they drop out of the only pathway we are offering, which for mainstream recovery is a 12-step program, is an even less valid answer.  

    12-step can be successful, alongside other treatment modalities, but it is often seen as “the” solution and not “a” solution.

    And what about statistics? Research shows that overdose rates decrease around the area of the safe injection site. If this statistic alone isn’t a good enough reason to support them how about that the rate of people who were entering treatment in those areas increased? 

    Look, don’t get me wrong, I was once on the other side of this conversation. I had a lot of misguided beliefs before I entered recovery. I once thought when I was 16 and my drinking career had just begun, that if I could get my dad to give me driving lessons while I was drinking, I wouldn’t have a drinking and driving problem!

    Clearly being open-minded that my own thinking could be wrong is an important aspect of recovery, and so while I was made to think I should be open-minded about the program, I was indoctrinated to believe recovery was a static black-and-white thing, and that I was a miracle because I didn’t use, and while this may be true, it also underlined another assumption, that those who didn’t make it were not entitled to these miracles.  

    The idea that there is a level of participation required for someone to enter recovery is not lost on me, but the fact of the matter is, more and more people, especially those from the younger generations, are struggling to find their way in recovery and our answer to the staggering overdose and relapse rates is “they must not have been ready.”  

    So now what? What do we do with people who aren’t ready? Tell them to go out and give their substances another try? Drugs which could easily kill them in one shot? In my mind, if someone is not ready for abstinence-based recovery it isn’t that they have failed, it’s that they may not have reached that point yet, they may never reach that point, and who are we to say what that should look like.  

    There are many people who reach a significant “bottom,” only to find themselves using again. Can anyone say, who is honest with themselves, that a “bottom” is what creates recovery? Surely it can help, but there are many who hit that point and beyond, and for those people, while their lives continue to crumble around them, what is available?

    To me, this is why we need to offer as many solutions to this problem as we can. Not offering alternative methods like safe injection sites, or medically assisted treatment, is like saying to someone who has diabetes they can’t go to the hospital for support, or shouldn’t have to take insulin, they should just use their higher power, and if they can’t clearly, they don’t want to be healthy enough.

    Change is possible without necessarily being at a point of relying on grace only. While I believe in grace and have my own stance on faith, I believe this “coveted” winners circle of recovery is an issue and is not saving lives, especially amongst young people.

    Do I believe willingness is an important key to recovery? Certainly, yet how many of us become willing along our path of using? So why would we not want to create opportunities for the people who are using, to not only stay alive, but be near recovery support services?  

    When someone has a reoccurrence of use, do we no longer consider them in recovery? Therefore, by that logic, anyone who is in active use has the potential to effect this same change in their lives. Hospitals, fire houses, police stations, med express, anywhere, anytime someone wants out of the cycle, it should be as easy as getting a flu shot. It is that easy to get high or drunk.

    Finding drugs is way easier than finding recovery, unfortunately, we don’t seem to be making much headway on that stat. It shouldn’t be so difficult to get help, and yet it is. Clearly, we have quite a way to go, and so while we stand at the frontlines arguing for much-needed treatment options, housing options, peer support options for people in early recovery, we need to also keep our eye on how we can affect those who haven’t gotten to that point yet.    

    So, I didn’t get up and fight at the town hall meeting, because I know that the only way change will be affected is if compassion and reason win over misunderstanding and hatred. The only way we can win, and by we, I mean the parents who lost children to overdoses, and by we, I mean the advocates who mentor peers who end up overdosed in alley ways, and never make it home to their families, is if we can convince society that shaming people is not working and giving them opportunities for change are the best ideas we have currently.   

    I understand clearly that this option is seen as enabling to some. That we are encouraging people to use by providing needles and a safe place to go. The concept is not lost on me, but current models are not working. Prevention talks often fall on deaf ears, and while it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t continue to try to reach people, it does mean we need to get real about whether we are doing all we can do to help prevent overdose deaths in this country. 

    If someone who is opposed has a better idea of how we can get the people in our communities, who are using illicit substances, out of the shadows and into the light where we can see them and help them, please by all means share it.  

    To me the big bad wolf in this situation is that we would have to admit as a community, that people in our community, have heroin problems. We don’t like to admit that, and unfortunately it’s killing people.  

    I would argue that whatever motives you have for being opposed to this option, check them against the idea that centralizing use as best as possible helps to a.) measure your community and its needs, b.) provide safety and support to a vulnerable part of the population c.) encourage the next step for people to move on with their lives and d.) minimize the risk to police and health care workers responding to overdoses.  

    One of these reasons alone in my mind is enough to at least give it a try. Saving just one life means so much, especially if it is your child, your brother, your sister or your parent. Sharing this pain with too many people in too short of a time period is how I came to believe in safe Injection sites. 

    Erik Beresnoy is a father, advocate, and a writer on topics that range from recovery, and spirituality to music and philosophy.  Erik has been an active member of the recovery movement since 2008, when he himself entered recovery, and began to not only repair his life but to also seek help repair his community by working to implement new strategies. His current projects include Empowerment Coaching for the Ammon Foundation, and implementing a transformational program in NYC called Dare to Dream for Synergy Education. He is a certified recovery coach as well as a board member for Rockland Recovery Homes. His other works can be viewed at soberspiritmeditation.com.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Twin Addictions And Parallel Recovery

    Twin Addictions And Parallel Recovery

    In hindsight, we both had tell-tale signs of the addict – irrational fear, feelings of inferiority, flights of fancy. But there was no room for two troubled twins in our divided, post-divorce household.

    I’d always been the golden twin by default. To quote the Radiohead song, I was “fitter, happier, more productive” than my twin brother BJ. I came out first, and he popped out seven minutes later.

    I was right-handed, and he was left-handed and had trouble writing and reading. He repeated kindergarten while I galloped on to first grade and was writing in my “Daily Log” in Mrs. Thornton’s first-grade class in no time.

    BJ was the needier one. Even though, as fraternal twins, we looked almost identical, I had a rounder face, a perkier smile, and a confident swagger that BJ lacked. He was literally always been behind me — at birth, in school, in life. I don’t know exactly what happened in the womb, but the evidence supports the notion that I drew the longer straw and got the better food and cozier reclining position.  

    BJ was also neurologically impaired. In our early teens, having already been tagged with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD), BJ was diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome.

    I was gay and suffered from acute anxiety starting around the same time, but I was an A-student and a blue-ribbon swimmer. I didn’t have any genuine self-confidence, but my steady accomplishments kept me trudging along while BJ treaded water.

    In hindsight, we both had tell-tale signs of the addict – irrational fear, feelings of inferiority, flights of fancy. But there was no room for two troubled twins in our divided, post-divorce household. So, I squashed my troubled side whether I was fully conscious of it or not.

    It wasn’t until 20 years later, when BJ and I both hit bottom and ended up in recovery, that our paths finally converged.

    I had plenty of childhood fears, but BJ’s, namely getting older and TV’s The Incredible Hulk, were more outwardly irrational. As a six-year-old, I didn’t rule out monsters living in our closet and didn’t love those scenes of Bruce Banner transforming into a hulking green monster. BJ showed it, though, by letting out a gut-wrenching scream and darting away from the TV set.

    One Sunday night, after an easy pill of The Dukes of Hazzard, my parents, still married at the time, decided to try to some conditioning and forced BJ to stay in the room during one of Banner’s transformations. My mother majored in child psychology in college, and I have no doubt it was her idea. She taught me to swim by pushing me in the deep end.

    BJ wailed and shook. It was unbearable to watch my twin writhing in terror. The intention was good I guess, but I think my mother saw A Clockwork Orange one too many times. My “happier” side was a mask, but the Hulk incident was an early indication that I needed to keep wearing it. 

    BJ’s Tourette’s started off as grunts and tics but progressed quickly into verbal outbursts. He started off by snarling at our younger sister Melanie. To be fair, she was a pain in the ass. But his actions felt involuntary. Even when she wasn’t provoking him with her brattiness, BJ would unleash his made-up epithet (“Bratface! Bratface!”) every time she entered the room sending her off in tears. I saw in his eyes and in his sunken body language that he didn’t mean it. But he had to say it. 

    Over the next few years, his disease became even more profane. During Family Day at the reputable all-boys Catholic high school my father forced me to attend without my twin, BJ yelled out during church, “Fuck God! Fuck Jesus!”

    I turned and shot him a piercing look. I hated this place and would have liked nothing more than to be sent to the nearby public high school with my middle school friends. But I was devastated. Why did he have to express this inside the church? Why couldn’t he wait until we got outside? I already felt like one of the awkward and unpopular students at the school. My anxiety caused by being an effeminate gay kid drowning in a sea of masculinity was no less emotionally crippling than BJ’s Tourette’s. It was just more manageable and easier to internalize.

    We were mirrors of each other, and my reflection had a seemingly incurable and publicly humiliating disease.

    By the time BJ’s Tourette’s was peaking, my parents, now divorced, agreed to take him to Washington DC to see an expert who wrote a popular book and specialized in the treatment of OCD, a regular companion to Tourette’s.

    But I don’t think the doctor knew enough about Tourette’s to justify the cost of treatment and regular travel from where we lived in New Jersey to DC. BJ started seeing a psychiatrist who prescribed meds, but nothing seemed to quiet his Tourette’s. If anything, it was getting worse.

    One night, dosed up on Prednisone, he huffed and paced our bedroom in a panic, repeating, “Why is this happening to me?”

    I felt like a witness to an exorcism gone awry and couldn’t understand why the doctors had prescribed a steroid to a kid who was already amped up. Unlike with the Hulk, there was no off switch. 

    By my late teens, I had grown ashamed of my other half and started to pull away from BJ. We were now technically in the same grade. He managed to skip a year with the help of a learning specialist, but we still weren’t like other twins.

    Unlike the Kean brothers, twins our age and equals academically and on the baseball diamond, BJ and I were in totally different orbits. I was on a college track, and he was still barely squeaking by in school. He was being home-schooled, because of the humiliation he experienced in the less competitive private high school he had been forced to attend.

    The sweat pouring from my palms left noticeable handprints on the black desktop in biology class, but I could quickly wipe them away with my shirt sleeve. BJ, on the other hand, couldn’t hide his nervous grunts and was being accused by his classmates of masturbating in the back of class. It always seemed worse for him. 

    In the last few months of my senior year, I was bullied by a homophobic wolfpack. I tried to get help from school counselors and my unambiguously queer gym teachers, but they were powerless to stop it. I had already been accepted to a top university in the Midwest, so I just needed to wait it out. Any guilt I felt over leaving BJ behind was replaced by the promise of a fresh start and the chance to operate as one person instead of an abler, less tortured half. 

    I tasted freedom in college, but halfway through school that freedom morphed into full-time partying. I was sexually active with boys and openly gay (or at least bisexual). But I had a river of shame and guilt coursing through my veins. Coupled with the trauma from high school and decades trying to keep up appearances against the weight of my disabled brother, I was suing my father and grandparents over a mishandled trust fund.

    I had left BJ behind to bear the brunt of my father’s rage. Alcohol, marijuana and cocaine offered a quick transfusion. 

    By senior year, I was skipping and failing classes. I was no longer the card-carrying A-student and golden child. Meanwhile, a few hundred miles away, BJ had started using too. Using the same cocktail of alcohol and drugs, he finally found the effective medication he’d been seeking all along to quiet his tics and offer some relief. Separately and for different reasons, we’d succumbed to identical, or more accurately, fraternal addictions.

    My addiction progressed into my early thirties when I had a psychotic break. Living in Los Angeles with a coke dealer on either side of the 405 freeway, I started experiencing panic attacks every morning for months. I went into therapy and started taking prescribed meds for the first time in my life. But BJ, now 3,000 miles away, became my genuine life-preserver. I called him begging the same question he had asked me decades before, “Why is this happening to me?”

    I didn’t expect an answer, but I finally understood his paralyzing terror from that night in our bedroom. Also, I knew BJ had been in and out of recovery for years but had never dared to ask about his experience. I had viewed his yoyoing as yet another failure and probably knew that I’d see my own addiction reflected back. Now, facing a dead end, I was finally willing to listen. The next year later, five days after our 33rd birthday, I walked into AA and didn’t turn back. 

    Ten years later, I’m still sober and working a program. BJ, who had a handful of relapses in my early sobriety, has almost eight years. Statistically, I don’t know what our chances were before we got sober, but I never would have predicted this outcome. We’ve achieved equilibrium together, and I’m no longer seeking anything outside of twin relationship to make me feel more unique. I turn to him to remind me what real courage looks like. I might have the fuller head of hair – BJ’s slightly more effective meds have thinned his – but today neither of us is the fitter, happier, more productive twin. 

    Brett Fenzel is a professional script reader for a New York-based film production company. In addition, he has had film reviews and essays published on HuffPost Blog and is currently working on his memoir tentatively titled “The Twenty-Year Divorce.” After 16 years in Los Angeles, Brett left the states in July 2017 and is now working remotely and living with his husband in the south of France. Brett can be found on Linkedin, and you can follow him on Twitter.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • The Myths & Methods of Mindfulness Meditation

    The Myths & Methods of Mindfulness Meditation

    I kept cravings at bay with 12-step meetings and counseling but continued to seek meaning and purpose that would lead to lasting sobriety. Then I found mindfulness meditation.

    I was raised to believe meditation was wicked. Along with yoga, Buddha, incense, and anything symbolizing or hinting of Eastern religion or ritual. The rationale? Meditation clears our minds of all thought, therefore leaving us susceptible to other-worldly suggestion and worse: evil energy.

    The caution filled me with dread. If my mind was “cleared,” I would become vulnerable to Satan’s control, and then anything was possible. I pictured myself a savage, meditating zombie, turning violent or psychotic, doomed to Hades.

    One too many chants of “om” and I’d transform into a freckle-faced, redhead Linda Blair. These fears were very real in the congregation of my childhood church. It would be decades before I’d be comfortable enough to engage in yoga for physical health, much less find spirituality and sobriety on a cushion, while flooding my nostrils with the heady smoke of palo santo. (A decadent alternative to smudging sage I highly recommend.)

    Despite the best intentions of my religiously conservative upbringing, by 30 I was tragically addicted to opiate painkillers and drinking IPA instead of orange juice alongside my oatmeal in the morning. I was in trouble. Desperate to quit.

    Limping along in 12-step meetings and counseling sessions, I kept cravings at bay but continued to seek meaning and purpose that would lead to lasting sobriety.

    Two events occurred that significantly impacted the direction of my recovery, leading to the life of sobriety and joy I’d been dreaming of. First, my counselor suggested I attend a course called “Mindfulness-Based Relapse Prevention.” (MBRP) Second, I heard Russell Brand in an interview share how he utilized transcendental meditation to help him kick heroin.

    “If Russell Brand can do it,” I thought, “surely I’m not hopeless!”

    I’d long since abandoned strict religion, expanded my worldview, and earned a Bachelor of Science. But I still had misconceptions to overcome. From a distance, meditation and mindfulness seemed foreign; a bit too “woo” for my nursing background in Western Medicine. But I wanted freedom from addiction more than anything. So I joined the eight-week course my counselor suggested and quickly learned mindfulness is backed by science, not voodoo.

    One session of MBRP and I was hooked in the best way. The gentle, individualized format reinforced compassion and welcomed curiosity. My heart felt as if it had come home.

    While presumably not as radical as my own youthful conditioning, limiting beliefs and inaccuracies are a common barrier to people trying out meditation. Whether you’re sober-curious, or the top coin-earning member of your local recovery program, meditation may boost your well-being to new heights. Don’t fall for the following myths.  

    Myth: Meditation means clearing the mind of thoughts.

    Method: Mindfulness Meditation consists of observing, training, and focusing thoughts; not eliminating them. The sign of a “good meditator” is not the capacity to make the mind go blank or think nothing. Many people fear they’re incapable of meditating because of incessant, restless, racing or overwhelmed thoughts.

    The truth is, all humans are continuously thinking; that’s just our minds doing what minds do best. Meditation improves our capacity to understand and even train the mind. No person’s brain is too chaotic to practice, it may just take some of us longer to discover successful techniques and cultivate these new skills.

    With time and perseverance, we can improve the quality of our thinking by bringing our awareness to the present moment. We detach from stressful, negative thought patterns, improving focus and concentration. Changing the relationship to our thoughts is an especially powerful tool in maintaining sobriety. And since cognitive function and personal control are fully intact, no need to panic; outside forces won’t hijack your brain for evil intent.

    Myth: Meditation is a religious ritual.

    Method: Meditation can be associated with religious ritual or tradition. So can most modern medicine, if you follow it back in time far enough. The history of medicine and healing intersects heavily with religion, and the earliest healers were shamans and apothecaries.

    Prior to scientific method and evidence-based practice, religion, magic and superstition formed the basis for treatments and remedies. With nearly 40 years of scientific research and present day MRI as a diagnostic tool, Western culture can appreciate what Yogis have known for centuries: Mindfulness works. And if mindfulness is the foundational concept, meditation is the practical tool. Meditation has roots in a multitude of religions, including Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, and Judaism. It’s prudent to understand and honor this, however, no doctrine or dogma is necessary.

    And one doesn’t need to feel they’ve betrayed their personal faith by practicing meditation; it’s a tool that spans the spectrum of spirituality from atheism to fundamentalism. Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction is a secular mind-body intervention that has been shown to help relieve patient’s suffering and enhance coping skills for chronic pain, stress, and illness – including addiction and alcoholism.

    This program and others like it are becoming increasingly accessible and acceptable to the general population, as research enlightens us to the benefits. Mindful meditation is a powerful tool in sobriety, helping to manage cravings, foster resilience and better our relationship to ourselves and the world.

    Buddhist-inspired recovery like Refuge Recovery, while non-religious, explicitly promotes compassion, lovingkindness, generosity and forgiveness. And who doesn’t want a big heaping dose of that throughout their recovery journey?

    Myth: Meditation requires sitting in Lotus pose on a cushion.

    Method: There’s no perfect position to meditate. Formal practice is often accomplished while sitting upright, with eyes closed or a gentle gaze toward the floor. An upright posture keeps us relaxed but alert, diminishes distractions and prevents sleepiness. But the essence of mindfulness is compassionate awareness, not physical punishment.

    I’ve heard Dave Smith of Against The Stream, begin his meditation instructions with these words: “Find a posture that is good enough for you.” Personally, I can’t sit with my legs crossed – much less in proper Lotus Pose. My feet fall asleep, the pain disrupting my flow. Some may say that’s an aversion I need to work with….and maybe some day I will.

    For now, I find what’s good enough in the moment. If the physical position causes you to cringe, try sitting with your back supported in a chair and your feet flat on the floor. It may be comfortable to lie down with a small pillow under your head or knees. There are many different chairs, benches, seats and cushion choices these days, making meditation accessible and comfortable for nearly anyone, not just those who can achieve instagram worthy Lotus level. 

    Myth: Meditation is sitting in silence for hours.

    Method: Silence means being alone with our thoughts, a scary precedent for many of us, especially in early sobriety. With four years of consistent practice, I still feel anxious if the lesson calls for extended silence. If the quiet puts you off, experiment with guided meditations.

    YouTube has an array of 60-second mindful exercises. Free Apps such as Aura and Insight Timer offer a seemingly endless assortment, with many in as little as three minutes. In just this brief amount of time, you can reset your daily intentions and regain mental clarity. Don’t beat yourself up if you plateau at the 10-minute mark or flee from the room when silence becomes unbearable.

    Mindful recovery teaches us to tolerate the discomforts in life – perhaps that starts with the silence on the cushion. Or perhaps for you, guided is the way to go. Either way, it takes gentle patience and persistence. This is personal training for the brain, not a quick fix for enlightenment. 

    Myth: Meditation happens on a cushion in a monastery.

    Method: Mindfulness meditation can happen anytime, anywhere, and isn’t practiced with a goal of perfect meditation under perfect conditions. It’s meant to help us get better at life. To help us develop compassionate, wise responses to external and internal stimuli. Some mindfulness can and should be done in ordinary spaces.

    For example, you can try an everyday task such as hand-washing or brushing your teeth mindfully. Similarly, eating meditations (like this raisin meditation) are a great method for concentrating the mind, expanding perspective, and cultivating awareness of the present moment.

    Integrating mindfulness into your lifestyle is the ultimate desired outcome. Just don’t attempt meditation while driving your car or operating heavy machinery!

    Mindfulness meditation can be a vital tool for successful sobriety. It improves our ability to live in the present moment, nurture ourselves and others with compassion and tolerate discomfort without reaching for substances to numb the pain. Let go of myths and misconceptions and begin practice today to start experiencing the rewards of living mindfully.  

    There are many types of meditation. This article discusses Mindfulness Meditation specifically, which is just one form of the practice. Resources for mindful/meditation recovery programs include but are not limited to: Refuge Recovery (Buddhist inspired, non-religious), Eight Step Recovery (Buddhist Path) and Mindfulness Based Relapse Prevention (science-based). Go here for other types of meetings in your area.

    Tiffany Swedeen, RN, BSN, CPC/CPRC is a certified life and recovery coach, She Recovers Designated Coach, and a registered nurse in recovery herself from opioids and alcohol. Tiffany lives “sober out loud,” proudly sharing her story through advocacy and blogging and is passionate about helping others do the same. Her goal is to eradicate shame and empower all to live a life of radical self-love. You can contact Tiffany through her website Recover and Rise, read her blog www.scrubbedcleanrn.com and follow her @scrubbedcleanrn. 

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Sober Dating: Overcoming Triggers & Temptations

    Sober Dating: Overcoming Triggers & Temptations

    The date turned out to be a boobytrap of triggers that I wasn’t totally prepared for. But mindfulness, resilience, accountability – recovery – kicked in when I needed it most.

    I startled as my phone buzzed a text against my thigh. It was my date.

    “I’m late, but I’ve got tacos!”

    Relax, I urged myself, taking a breath and taking in the surroundings. It’s going to be fine. It’s just tacos.

    This was my first date in well over six months. Unless you include a Saturday night in late August while I vacationed in Iceland. We ran all over Reykjavik searching for traditional lamb meat soup, to no avail. It was whimsical, it was carefree, but it was all the way in Iceland. And it didn’t even end with a kiss. This taco rendezvous felt like a legitimate return from a dating hiatus. 

    Dating is challenging. Sober dating can be truly precarious. First of all, I have very little courtship experience. My M.O. has always been meet, mate, marry. Eventually, I learned not to wed every guy who showed interest. Twenty years of consecutive long-term relationships meant that at 36 years old I became sober and legitimately single, for the first time in decades. SCARY.

    At the very least, it’s uncomfortable. And why do so many of us drink? To treat discomfort! “Meeting for drinks” is both neutral ground, and grants permission for each party to self-medicate throughout the ordeal. 

    It’s natural to want a strong drink (or in my case a strong drink and maybe a powerful pill) to relax. When I’m home getting ready, agonizing over my hair, outfit, and what to say, “just one” would go a long way towards numbing my nerves. But “just one” steers me down a dangerous path. Before I know it, I’d be back on stage at POP-Solo karaoke, blackout wasted, singing “Sexy Back” off key. (ALLEGEDLY! There’s no evidence.) It’s just not worth the risk. 

    Deciding when, or whether to “out myself” as sober to a guy is always a gamble. He had mentioned “wine” more than once as a suggestion for our first activity. (An early red flag I adeptly ignored). Refusing a glass in the moment can be difficult and awkward, so I casually commented prior to the date, “I actually don’t drink…but if you want wine, it’s cool.” When he didn’t respond with the all-too-common: “Really?? You don’t drink ever??!!??” my optimism was buoyed.

    So I waited for Taco Guy with zero alcoholic pre-lubrication, counting breaths as a healthy coping mechanism instead of throwing back shots at the bar. He arrived, tall and attractive. He had a large bag of local Mexican food in one hand, a spirited canine attached to a leash in the other. He even brought me a Fresca, remembering my preference for sparkling water. Fresca is no La Croix, but he got points for thoughtfulness. 

    The date started out smoother than expected. As dinner wrapped up, he clumsily remarked he wasn’t sure what to do next. “Normally I’d take you to a bar, go wine tasting…something revolving around drinks.” My teetotaling ways left him at a loss. 

    I remember those days, pre-sobriety. Alcohol: a necessary ingredient for every situation. I once turned down an otherwise solid, yet sober guy over this. “Sorry, beer is seriously that important to me. I practically live at breweries. We’ll have nothing in common!” 

    Taco Guy was stressed about what we wouldn’t get to do together in future meetings. “Wine tasting? BBQs and Beer? How do you have fun without drinking?” 

    In nearly two years of sobriety, I’ve hardly been bored. I secretly questioned his capability for booze-free entertainment, but stayed aloof. “Anything you can do with alcohol, you can do without. I promise. I’m super fun.“

    “Do you do anything bad?” he asked skeptically. I laughed out loud, thinking how he’d probably never know the truth about my former IV drug use and three years left in probation. 

    “Trust me,” I assured him. “I’m not all good.”

    He had a teasing smile. “Oh yeah?” Sweetly persistent and skilled at flattery, he convinced me to bring our dogs to his place. They could play in the backyard and we could watch Netflix. 

    What the hell, I thought. Prove you can be fun!

    Within 15 minutes, I was standing in his small, tidy apartment. He’d called me beautiful and made his interest in me obvious. Did this mean we were going to make out? Was I ready? Do I make the first move? What are the rules?

    In the past, this was easy. Drink, flirt, and use alcohol as an excuse for whatever indiscretion occurred. Sober dating is not easy. Sober sex is on a whole other level. 

    He spoke, blessedly interrupting my thoughts. “I’m going to have a whiskey, do you mind? I’m really nervous.” 

    “Go ahead, of course!” I answered bravely, but thought REALLY?!?! Not fair!! I’m stone cold sober, trying to navigate first date rules, and you get to wash away your worries with hard liquor while I sip water to tame my cottonmouth. UGH!

    He poured a hefty amount of Jack Daniels over ice, and I took the opportunity to use the bathroom. 

    Shutting the door behind me, I leaned against it, worrying. Is he going to kiss me? Or more? Is my deodorant still working? Should I wash under my arms? I should use his mouthwash!

    The mirror reflected back glossy color on my freshly styled hair, nervous rosy cheeks, and a trace of pink lipstick that had mostly wiped off on the Fresca. I looked decent. I’m not a bad catch, for a sober chick. Wait, what if he tastes like liquor? Is it weird if I ask him to use mouthwash? No that’s crazy. Or is it? 

    Leaning into the sink to wash my hands, a familiar sight stood out on the countertop: the bright, cunning orange of a medicine vial. Right there, in plain sight. No cupboard snooping necessary. 

    My vision went fuzzy on the edges. Drying my hands on a towel, I waited for the buzzing feeling to dissipate. I’ve been sober awhile, but I’m not immune to triggers. Medication bottles are not just benign bathroom articles. 

    I chewed on my bottom lip and thought over my next move. One of the labels was readily visible: “Metoprolol.” Phew, I thought. Heart medicine. No big deal. Without warning, my hand took over and snatched up another bottle, turning it label side up. 

    Hydrocodone-acetaminophen. Otherwise known as Vicodin.

    Fuck.

    I set it back down, but picked up another. 

    Oxycodone hydrochloride. Percocet.

    Double fuck. 

    Opiates were my drug of choice, my former best friend and the most seductive, manipulative, toxic lover I’ve ever tangled with. 

    Setting the menacing vial down, I stepped away from the sink, clenching my hands at my sides. 

    I could take a couple. 

    It only took a second for the thought to formulate. I envisioned the euphoric, care-free feeling. Pictured worrisome “first date rules” slipping away, letting go and enjoying the moment.  

    Picking up the bottle once more, I shook it lightly.  

    How many are in here? I bet he wouldn’t notice any missing. 

    The thought was brief. But it was charged with deadly potential. Lucky for me, mindful recovery teaches me I don’t have to believe my thoughts. I have a choice.

    I don’t want this. It isn’t me anymore.

    I extricated myself from the bathroom, delivered from temptation. 

    Taco Guy was on his second tumbler and had stepped outside to smoke. Menthols. Of course! My brand. At least they were, once upon a time. This date presented landmines everywhere I turned. 

    Against my better judgment, I stayed long enough to play with fire. Taco Guy is pretty hot, kind and gainfully employed. I wasn’t planning a future together, but I hadn’t yet ruled out seeing where the night would go. Holding a menthol between my fingertips, I said flirtatiously “It’s been awhile.” I took a drag, hoping I looked dangerous and sexy. Coughing, I just ended up likely looking like a silly girl who hadn’t inhaled in awhile. 

    I stayed long enough to smoke the cigarette and regret it. Long enough to sulk and wish things were different. It’s not fair. I don’t want to be an addict. I want to be normal – I want to be able to get drunk and make out. I wished, for a moment, that Taco Guy and I weren’t so incompatible.

    While I pouted privately, I knew I was kidding myself. The truth is, we are incompatible and I was uncomfortable. I don’t really wish I could drink and have an excuse for my behavior. I definitely don’t wish I could take his pills or go back to using. What I guess I really wanted was just to be on a date where I could be my honest, open, sober-out-loud self. 

    I don’t want to date if I can’t be real. That probably means when I’m genuinely ready, I’ll date guys who are also in recovery. I’d questioned this when I first became single and sober. Who do I date? Can I date someone who drinks regularly? I got my answer this night.  

    Crushing the cigarette in a well-used ashtray, I reached for my keys. 

    He looked rejected. “You’re leaving? I promise to be a gentleman. We’ll just watch a movie.” 

    Within a couple hours in his presence, I’d given in to smoking. Next, I might ask for a sip of whiskey. Once the brown liquid passed my lips, burning the back of my throat, I’d slink into the bathroom. Tilting the bottle of Vicodin back and forth, contemplating the siren song as the pills clicked against one another. 

    Nope. Not gonna happen. I love myself too much to go back there. 

    Driving home, I felt a mix of relief, pride, and sorrow. And a touch of nausea from the cigarette. When was the last time I’d looked a bottle of pills in the face and walked away? 

    The date turned out to be a boobytrap of triggers that I wasn’t totally prepared for. But mindfulness, resilience, accountability – recovery – kicked in when I needed it most. I was tempted, but not overwhelmed. I won that battle.  

    A few days later, Taco Guy texted. I had to be firm and honest. “I can’t date someone who drinks. That’s become very clear. Thanks, and good luck.”

    To my surprise, he replied with a compromise:

    “I shouldn’t drink either. I’ll try to stop. You could be a huge support and help to me with this.”

    As if the triple threat – alcohol, cigarettes and pills – wasn’t enough, co-dependency alarms rang in my ears. The final red flag was flown. 

    Firmly informing him that his request was wildly inappropriate, I blocked his number. 

    Over the last 20+ years, I’ve made really disappointing, damaging relationships decisions. Looking back, all I manage is, “What the fuck were you thinking?” 

    Just for once, I’d like to look at my life and think, “Well done, girl. You’re doing your best. It’s not easy, it’s not painless, but you’re making smart choices.“

    I think that time might be now. I could be doing it right for once. Saying “yes” to a drama free, recovery-centric era of radical self-love. Saying “no” to drugs, alcohol, and self-destructive behavior one nerve-wracking date at a time. 

    Tiffany Swedeen, RN, BSN, CPC/CPRC is a certified life and recovery coach, She Recovers Designated Coach, and a registered nurse in recovery herself from opioids and alcohol. Tiffany lives “sober out loud,” proudly sharing her story through advocacy and blogging and is passionate about helping others do the same. Her goal is to eradicate shame and empower all to live a life of radical self-love. You can contact Tiffany through her website Recover and Rise, read her blog www.scrubbedcleanrn.com and follow her @scrubbedcleanrn. 

    View the original article at thefix.com