mental health

Thanks for Saving my Life

Many Second Chances Recovery , , , ,

I don’t miss flashing red and blue lights. I don’t miss spending so much time chasing my next escape that I lost who I was. I don’t miss wondering what the hell I did the night before, or why a strange car might be parked in the driveway. I don’t miss trying desperately to remember the complicated, intricate lies I felt I had to tell in order to extend the charade that my life had become.  I don’t miss detox. I don’t miss psych wards. I don’t miss the isolating, soul-crushing feeling of hopelessness, and I don’t miss who I used to be.

I’ve been fortunate to have been given the gift of some time in recovery, and lately I’ve done some reflecting on it all.  One of the things that keeps pushing its way to the forefront is the reality that that I wouldn’t be here without the help of an army of people.  

In a world where common philosophy is to be self-made and self-sufficient, I have come to realize that I can’t even pretend to claim that status, and I’m okay with it. I am a collection of influences, interventions and conversations taken from the people who have crossed my path. It’s past time to thank just a few of the people for crossing when they did. 

Law enforcement

In all my experiences with law enforcement, belligerent as I often was, they were always more than patient with me. With very, very few exceptions, my encounters with law enforcement were positive, even under the often crappy circumstances I pulled them into.  As with life in a small town, we all knew each other, and as with life in addiction, we saw more of each other as time wore on.  But, they always arrived ready to de-escalate and to show empathy and understanding with me, no matter how their days had gone before coming into contact with me.  One of my old hometown officers even drove me to my last detox after he had completed his shift. Others still check in from time to time, and I appreciate that.

Law enforcement officers have tough jobs to do, and I know I didn’t do much to make it easier on them back then. I have a lot of respect for them, especially the guys who served my hometown.

My hometown clinic

When I began this process of recovery after many failed attempts, I planned with the understanding that it would be my last chance. I had to look at things that had gone wrong in previous attempts in order to give myself a better chance at survival.  I had to become willing to try things I wasn’t willing to do before, whatever they might be.

At the time of my recovery, I didn’t receive treatment for opiate addiction and withdrawal. There were no methadone clinics, I didn’t have suboxone, nor any other medication-assisted treatment that today is known to offer the best long-term recovery outcomes.

To add to that, and to make matters more complicated, I wasn’t honest at the time about my relationship with opiates, due at least in part to the stigma associated with it decades ago. As far as that part of my addiction went, I left myself no choice but to go through the withdrawals without the stabilizing benefit of medications.  Being upfront about it could have made things a lot easier, but I wasn’t. Lesson learned.

One of the things that was available for my addiction to alcohol was Disulfiram, or Antabuse. Disulfiram works by blocking the enzyme that breaks down consumed alcohol to acetaldehyde, resulting in a very unpleasant experience.  Without that enzyme, alcohol basically becomes a poison to the body, and the effects of consuming alcohol while taking Disulfiram are nightmarish. In case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve tried it. I don’t recommend it.

When part of my recovery plan called for Antabuse, the people at my hometown clinic welcomed me in after work three days a week for a long, long time.  I was always met with a smile and led to a room, usually without waiting.  They would dispense the medication and allow me to sit for 20 minutes, or however long our conversations would last on a given day.

After they had spent long days tending to people who were sick or injured, they would invest their time to improve my chance at recovery.  Each person I encountered at the clinic treated me like I was the most important person there. Three days a week, every week.  I’ve never forgotten the kindness of the life savers at the clinic in my hometown, and I think of the impact they have had on my recovery often.

Pastor Lewis Thompson

Nothing about me or my environment would lead you to believe I am religious about anything.  While I grew up in a church, I have never had the enthusiasm many have for organized worship.  I’ve always been more private about my relationship with God, the Universe, or whatever it is that carved out all the wonder that is life and existence.

None of my reservations about church membership, singing in the choir, or participating in activities mattered to Pastor Thompson.  When he learned of my struggles, he offered to share his time with me. This is the same man who would, a few months later, end his sabbatical early to return to tend to my Dad’s passing.

I decided to take him up on it, even while playing scenarios in my head about some sort of fire and brimstone message regarding the evils of drink. As it turned out, we had some of the best talks I’ve ever had with anyone about recovery, specifically, and about life in general.

What made those talks memorable was that Pastor Thompson didn’t share so much as an agent of a particular faith bound by a certain message, but rather as a student of the miracle of existence and as an advocate for the power of hope, joy and connection. Pastor Thompson, in my experience, was hope personified. 

There was no quoting of scripture. We would simply talk. He had an entire flock to take care of, so to speak, and he took time with me. There were no lectures on right or wrong, good or bad. Instead, we talked of the tangible and intangible, and that within that mix, the power of change stood. The human spirit as a universal property and a powerful mechanism in the harnessing of reclamation and power, and whether he knew it at the time or not, he was sharing with me one of the most powerful principles of recovery, the principle of hope.

There aren’t too many days that go by that I’m not reminded of Pastor Thompson and his impact on my life, and some day I’ll see him again.

Detox staff 

Going into a medically-supervised detoxification (“detox”) is quite an event. People don’t casually stroll into a detox unit to check it out. Depending on the substance or substances a person uses, withdrawal is at the very least uncomfortable, and can even be deadly, depending on blood levels, duration of use, tolerance and other factors. If one is lucky, they get some form of treatment, usually inpatient or residential, that immediately follows detox from alcohol or other drugs.

There is a kind of reckoning when one goes to detox, that there has been a level unlocked in the progression of the ingestion of chemicals in which the engaging of medical professionals is required to safely intervene in that ingestion.

In my experience with detox stays (there have been a few), I was always shocked by how they did what they did (and do) for the people they do it for, in the way they do it. Detox just plain sucks, and the people who had to put up with me saw me at my worst. Yet, they were always patient, kind and understanding, all within an often unforgiving process. They didn’t put up with a whole lot of nonsense, but they didn’t give any either, and I am grateful for them.

Inpatient behavioral health staff

Today, psych wards are called by cleaner, more sterile, more user-friendly, non-stigmatizing names like “Behavioral Health Unit” or, “Secured Behavioral Health Center.” For lack of a better description, these are fascinating places in the way that there are people from all walks of life, often making up every demographic in the area, who face a wide range of mental health issues, all captured within one small unit in an otherwise huge hospital. Mental health issues are health issues, and they are more common and more devastating than we’d like to believe.

For many, substance use disorder and mental health issues go together. That was certainly the case for me, and that mix of self-medicating untreated, or undertreated, mental health and substance use issues led me to a few fairly short stays in such a unit, if there is such a thing as a “short” stay there.

Much like the rest of my examples, the people who worked at the units I visited went above and beyond in what was often a chaotic environment, and through their care, expertise and resources, they did a lot to make sure I could be here today.

Naysayers

Naysayers are everywhere.  You’ll find them in your neighborhood, at work, school or social events, and you may even find a few among family and friends. 

I’ve had to deal with the Naysayer within me, and still do, whether the messages have been planted by someone else or are a product of my own experience with setback, past failures and insecurities. 

External Naysayers are different from the people in your circle who are healthy, supportive mentors, friends or peers who challenge you or share a perspective out of care and concern. Naysayers are in the business of dream and purpose limiting, and they enjoy the status quo. There is homeostasis, a balance, that people tend toward, even when that balance is toxic or unhealthy. At different points in my life, I seemed to surround myself with Naysayers, or at the very least, welcomed their presence as some sort of elaborate form of self-sabotage.

Naysayers can certainly hold power over a person, depending on relationship dynamics. They can plant messages that become part of one’s thought cycle, especially if they have some influence in your life. Settle. You can’t. You’ll never. You’ll always. Why can’t you just. You should. In my experience, these are some of the preferred tools of the Naysayer.

But beneath my outwardly calm, fairly quiet, introverted outer shell lurks an equally present non-conforming, pissed-off ten year old. Right or wrong, that kid comes to the surface when I am in contact with a Naysayer. He always has, and I’ve learned that it’s a built in safety feature for me as my journey continues.

I’ve come to terms with the idea of a sort of gratitude and empathy for Naysayers, because they have helped me to maintain a defiance that fuels my recovery from the things that once all but destroyed me.

Those who model recovery

People model recovery, not by telling you , but by showing you. Hell, people who aren’t even “in recovery” from substance use disorder or mental health issues are role models for me, and we’re all in recovery from something. Football and basketball coaches I have been blessed to have worked with and played for over the years, a custodian where I once worked, and an old health teacher of mine have modeled recovery, to name just a few. There are many definitions of “recovery,” and just about every organization has one.  If you’re lacking a role model in an area of your life, I invited you to find one. One would be hard-pressed to swing a stick and not hit a prospective role model. They are out there, they are everywhere, and I am lucky that I’ve had the opportunity to meet some good ones.

Old friends

I used to be hell on wheels. One never knew quite what they were going to get with me. I could be the life of the party. I could also be an out of control shit storm. I was sick, and I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to. How do you tell someone you consistently think about escaping your own life while trying to hide from it all by numbing yourself with chemicals, while also not being able to explain the need to do both?

I was no good for a reasonable relationship of any kind when I was in active addiction, and a lot of good people paid a price for my inability, or unwillingness, to tell those closest to me what I was going through. Instead, they were left to come to probably the only reasonable conclusion they could arrive at: I was trouble.

I pulled people close and pushed them away, often at the same time. What was going on inside me often made its way to the outside, no matter how hard I tried to keep it in, and I worked hard at it. I was often wrapped tightly in the spiraling cycles of addiction and mental health issues that were out of control. As a result, I treated a lot of people like hell while they tried in vain to figure out what was going on and how they could help. It is a testament to the strength and character of those who did the best they could with me, even when I gave them every reason not to.

People gone too soon

I am aware that I have been given more chances than I care to admit sometimes to figure this stuff out. We all know someone who has lost their battle to addiction, mental health issues, or both. Like everyone else, I mourn the loss of those gone way too soon, and with grief travels the wonder of what might have been.

It used to tear me to the brink of rage. I used to get angry about it, and sometimes I still do. The death of one friend led in time to a relapse, which in itself, was completely counterproductive and disrespectful to what our goal was in the first place. Our goal was to recover. Another lesson learned.

I still grieve, but not like I used to. I can’t stop time or be consumed with guilt over what magical, super-human thing I could have done to save someone, and no one else should ever be in that position, either.

I’ve come to terms with loss in the only way I have been able to. I believe I’ll see them again. Until I do, I take their memory with me. That seems to make it easier to keep moving. Do their spirits live on? They do here. Every single day.

Self-help groups

Overly-enthusiastic 12 Step Guy, Sober-for-years-and-still-pissed-at-the-world Guy, God Saves Guy, Treatment Relationship Guy, Newly Sober Expert Guy, Working A Solid Program Guy. At one time or another, I’ve been most of them, and probably still am in one way or another. We are all works in progress, and that’s the often overlooked beauty if it all. To my peers in recovery, thank you for putting up with me. I am here, and I am always going to be.

Mental health and addiction counselors

At one time or another, I despised each and every one of them.

During one of my first rehabs, a little old counselor told me I needed to say, “I am a beautiful, intelligent, worthwhile human being,” in the mirror every morning. I thought he was joking. Turns out he wasn’t. It took me years to say that without sarcasm, but I remember it decades later.

I was fortunate enough to be a part of consistent, safe, supportive, evidence-based programs where I was held accountable and was part of the decision-making process from start to finish over how I was going to go about the business of not dying from the things I was dealing with. Change isn’t about comfort. For me, it was about calling me on my crap, sharing some practical tools, and identifying the strengths I had and how to use them. As time goes on, I realize more and more how lucky I was to have access to those resources.

Over the years, I was blessed with competent, ethical, person-centered counselors who challenged and supported me, even when I didn’t want them to. Most of them used their platform, not as a hierarchical, pathology-based, empowered-helping-the-powerless relationship, but as a partnership where we got to work and straightened up my wreckage together. That is counseling at its best, and I thank them for it. All of it.

Family

I wasn’t raised in a home that was neglectful or abusive in any way. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I was raised in a loving, caring home with an equally loving extended family, neighbors and family friends. Many of the people I have known who deal with addiction and mental health issues weren’t so lucky. There is a connection between abusive or neglectful childhoods and alcohol and drug use in the family, and future mental health and addiction issues, but I didn’t have any of that.

I think the hardest thing for my family was what must have been the overwhelming feeling of helplessness during my dance with addiction and undiagnosed (at that time) mental health issues. They couldn’t love me enough, or cry enough, or worry enough, to help me not destroy myself and everything around me. They didn’t know if they were enabling me or setting boundaries, and I didn’t do much to help them out with it all. They didn’t know if they should yell at me, or hug me, or both. They didn’t know if they should stand back or step forward. They didn’t know if they should tell someone or say nothing. When the phone rang at 2:30 in the morning, they didn’t know if it was one of my drunk friends or if they were going to be notified that I was found in a ditch somewhere. They didn’t know how to deal with their own life issues and health emergencies when their lives were often consumed with waiting for the sky to come crashing down again, as it always seemed to. They didn’t know how to answer questions from neighbors and friends about my name being in the paper for one substance-fueled escapade or another. They didn’t know if they should get help themselves or continue to do what they could to get help for me. This is often what a family experiences when someone struggles with addiction.

Lost trust and shattered dreams aside, every time I asked for help, they were there. A trip to detox in the middle of the night. Driving me to outpatient treatment after I’d lost my license more than once. Visits to one of my several inpatient treatment stays. Financial support, even when they had to cut out other things to make it work. I could go on for days about the ways my family showed up for me, even after all I put them through.

Each time I told them I was going to try again, failed attempt after failed attempt, they supported me. I imagine their enthusiasm and hope may have been a bit beaten up each time something went wrong, but they never lost it, and I don’t know how I would have made it through all of the garbage without them right down there in the mess, sleeves rolled up, ready to go. I would have been gone long ago if it wasn’t for my family.

My circle

I have been given the gift of some longevity in the realm of addiction, mental health issues and recovery. The people in my life today help feed the fire of recovery. They see possibilities instead of roadblocks. They offer their insight and experience, rather than judgment. The people in my life contribute to what others helped start, and I try, sometimes failing miserably, to share that with others. We often make the mistake of believing we are somehow finished works, or that we have to do it on our own. That doesn’t fly with the people in my life today. We are all works in progress, and I am grateful I have people who are supportive of, and hold me accountable to, that work.

So, in the end, I am no where near self-made, despite the fleeting delusions I sometimes have. I am certainly in charge of my recovery today, but a lot of people helped make that possible, as unlikely as it may have seemed back then.

For all the things people have done and continue to do for me and others in recovery, and for those who help people get to recovery, you have my undying appreciation and respect. I’ll finish what we started together, I’ll take care of it, and I’ll keep working at it. Thank you for giving me that chance.

If you or someone you know needs help with substance use disorder or mental health issues, reach out. Google resources in your area. Call your county department of human services. Use the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services (SAMHSA) Treatment Locator online. Contact someone you know who is in recovery. Resources are there, and you don’t have to go through it alone.

In memory of those who lost their battles while waiting for help to come.

Mornings with my Demons and Aaron Beck

Many Second Chances Mental Wellness , ,
Good morning, demons…

It usually begins an instant after the generic alarm on my phone signals the dawn of a new day, and I am rarely disappointed.

“This is stupid. I hate this,” comes a grumble from one corner, scratchy and raw due to the excessive yelling from the day before. “Turn that damn thing off.”

“I am not equipped for this,” a whisper comes from another corner, still covered in darkness.

From yet another corner, “Well, this is just super.  There’s nothing more breathtaking than the beginning of another wildly mediocre day in this freak show.”

Here they come.  Anger, Fear, Resentment, AND…

“Act normal.  It’s really not a problem.”

…Denial. 

“Just don’t encourage them.  No one has to know.  No one will ever understand,” says a stern voice, as morning overcomes the night.

Time to start another day, I think to myself and smile as I turn off the alarm and get out of bed.

It hasn’t always been this way.  I mean, it hasn’t always been the case that I could begin a morning this way and smile.  In fact, anxiety, depression and addiction were fueled for years by the unrelenting onslaught of negative thoughts in my head, while the issues I had were, in turn, fueled by my constant, toxic supply of negative thoughts.

The idea of the critical inner voice isn’t a new one.  A quick Google search will show results for articles and papers that suggest that we can have anywhere from 12,000 to 60,000 thoughts per day, and anywhere from 60 to 80 percent of those thoughts can be negative.  According to research, the overwhelming majority of those negative thoughts are usually the same negative thoughts we had yesterday, and the day before.  There is also the popular belief that negative self-talk or critical inner voice, or monologue, has increased sharply in recent years, in large part due to the cumulative effects of the pandemic, social and political division, and the abundance of (and easy access to) critical material on social media. 

That seems to make sense. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to be exposed to negative people, places or things for any length of time without absorbing at least some of that negativity.  Complicating matters internally, new negative messages are combined with existing material to create a larger sample for the brain to cycle through, apparently over and over again.

So, why smile?  After years of research, trial and error, wounds and scars, a little bit of hard work and some luck, here are five reasons I’ve learned to welcome my critical inner voice each morning with a smile.

CBT.  Dr. Aaron Beck is known as the father of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). Broken down into terms simple enough so I can use them, CBT focuses on the idea that thoughts influence feelings, feelings influence beliefs, and beliefs influence behavior.  The way we perceive or think about something influences how we feel about it.  A simple way of using CBT is to be aware of negative or distressing thoughts and examine how accurate or realistic they are.  Identify and evaluate the thought “distortion,” or, if you like, the validity of the thought, in order to think more realistically, which can positively influence the emotion attached to that thought or perception.  There is a lot of great, easy to use information on CBT and Dr. Beck on the internet, if you’re interested.

Resilience.  I’ve been blessed with the gift of longevity, considering the path I’ve travelled. I’ve been given many years and many opportunities to finally arrive at a point where I’ve developed and practiced my own battle plan, and I’m grateful that I get to work on it each day.  Lots of people with similar mental health and addiction issues aren’t given the chances I have been given, and I never forget that. Bouncing back from some adversity or a setback becomes a little easier when I look through that lens. Good day, bad day, whatever.  I’ll be back, and I’ll get to work.

Defiance.  Wait a minute, defiance is a bad thing, right?  Remember the four critics we met at the beginning of this post?  Their goal is to win. Mine has to be, too. I understand what the stakes are in my walk through life with these guys, and I will use any weapon at my disposal.  Mr. Webster defines defiance as “open resistance; bold disobedience,” and I can’t think of a better stance to take against them.  For years, I “struggled with” or “suffered from,” and in some circles, I was even considered to be some sort of “victim of” addiction and mental health issues. 

Defiance has helped to usher in a new perspective, and with that, a change in the way I approach the same old, chronic issues in my life.  I do not struggle with them today.  Likewise, I respect what they can do, but I do not fear them. I do not suffer from anything, and I’m not a victim.  I don’t sit around waiting to defend the castle, wondering what or who will appear on the horizon or attack under the cover of darkness.  I used to.  Today, I go looking for them, and I let them know they should pack a lunch.  I don’t accept their demands, and I do not bow down to them.  Besides, as a depressive, anxiety-prone, recovering addict with rampant ADD, resistance and disobedience have always kind of been second nature, anyway.  With a different perspective, I am able to use familiar weapons in different ways.  Always go with your best pitch.

Gratitude.  It’s probably not what you were expecting after defiance, I suppose.  The funny thing about gratitude is, it’s so easy to carry.  Entitlement gets to be so heavy, and there really isn’t a good way to carry it.  It’s just not a good look.  I kept hearing about gratitude through treatments and rehabs and counseling and all that.  Can’t you just be grateful? 

I always thought that gratitude was somehow for other people, people who didn’t have to carry the stuff  I was carrying.  I often felt empty inside, aside from the never-ending, always loud, everyone-yapping-at-the-same-time, critical, negative, destructive messages in my head.  I didn’t think I had room for gratitude.  I didn’t know where to put it, and I didn’t know how to start, until one day, I just tried it.  I think it went something like this: This is bullshit, but it’s not completely bullshit.  Okay, it’s mostly bullshit.  But, within the piles of bullshit, there is undoubtedly some good stuff.  One teeny, tiny little thing. That one thing is what I will be grateful for today. 

Even in dark times, there is something to be grateful for.  For me, the key has always been that I need to be in the position to be willing, and on days where I’m not willing, I am at least in the position to be willing to be willing.  I am a work in progress. There are still days like that, days where I think I am owed something or I should be further along than I am, or where I get hung up on comparing myself or parts of me to other parts of other things (one of the many places CBT comes in handy).

It’s still the same old crap I’ve been fighting for ages, but I am more in tune with the gratitude side of life today. I don’t have to fight this crap, I get to fight this crap, and I’m grateful for another day to be able to do it. 

Some days I even get out of bed excited about it, right from the start, like a kid staring through the window of a candy store.  I have so many things to be grateful for that it’s kind of embarrassing that I didn’t come around sooner.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, as they say.

“What are you so excited about on a Tuesday morning?”  I’m going to chase down my demons and rub their noses in it today!  Honey, should I wear my plaid shirt or would the striped one be more awesome for demon terrorizing?

Hope.  In my experience, hope is where it all starts.  It has to. All I needed was a spark, and that’s all I got.  There were no angels singing while the gates of heaven opened up.  There was no choir, no cheering from spectators, nothing. It was one spark, and it saved my life.

At one point in my life, I was within roughly 30 minutes, give or take, of completing an action that would have been irreversible.  It would have been final, and at the time, it seemed completely logical.  All the evidence at that moment, distorted as it may have been, clearly showed that it would have been a reasonable, rational thing to do. 

For me, hope came in the form of a “What If?” in the face of all the evidence against it. And that was that.  Quick.  Quiet.  I almost didn’t even notice it.  I’m forever grateful that I noticed hope that day.  Since then, I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes that I wouldn’t have had otherwise, and I’m grateful that I get the opportunity to do it again each day.  With that one little spark, some nineteen years later, hope has become the foundation of whatever it is that I am today. 

If you’re kind of iffy on whether or not Hope is beneficial, Google something like, “What does science say about the power of hope?”  You may just be surprised.

I’m no expert on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.  I’m no self-improvement guru.  I’m not a mental health expert.  I’m not even an expert on myself, but I keep learning.  Maybe some of this stuff isn’t for you.  Maybe none of it is.  But, if you, or someone you know deals with mental health issues or addiction, my hope is that you find that spark today. If you’re struggling, reach out. If you’re able, be the person others reach out to. You’re worth it, you’re loved, and you matter. We need you. We’re all in this together.

A Sunny Thing Happened on the Way to My Demise

Many Second Chances Addiction, Depression, mental health , , , , ,

The July sun glared through the living room window and onto the wood floor. I sat in a puffy old chair, leaned forward, elbows on my knees.  I counted the floor boards that were bright in the sunlight.  Twenty-four.  Right to left.  Twenty-four.  Left to right. Twenty-four. Over and over.

On the outside it may have looked as if I were daydreaming, peacefully enjoying travels in my head to some far away place as I stared blankly at the floor. But on the inside churned chaos.  My mind was a mess.  My body was a wreck.  Emotionally, physically, mentally and spiritually, I was a disaster. 

While I counted, every department in my brain was assessing damage and calculating my next move.  Each department was giving information at the same time, with no organization or priority.   Critical thinking and linear thought were abandoned in favor of  haphazardly throwing information onto a growing pile in the center of my brain.  The overall message amidst all of the chatter was that my current state could not, and would not, continue.  I was battered.  I was tired. Twenty. Four.  I stopped counting.

I stood up and continued to look mostly at the floor as I walked back and forth on the boards I had just spent the better part of an hour counting.  The frenzy of information whirling in my head had finally ground to a halt.  Chaotic and disorderly as it was, the information was in.  It was time to make a decision.

This day was the end result of a three day drinking spree after a year of dry time.  Dry, in that I didn’t drink or drug during that year, but I didn’t do anything else, either.  There were no meetings, there was no self care, no counseling-  no recovery plan of any kind.  I just stopped using.  I was hard to be around.  I hated everything.  I was frustrated, angry, and miserable.  I was so miserable after that year that I returned to what I knew. I knew how to drink.  I went back to it just as I had left it the year before, fully understanding the probable consequences.

That three days led me to sit in a chair, to count floor boards, and to arrive at an undeniable conclusion:  Not only could I not live clean and sober in recovery, but I also couldn’t live anymore as a practicing addict.

As I paced the living room, in and out of the sunlight, the idea that I had failed so miserably at both addiction and recovery weighed heavily on me.  I no longer felt the euphoria that chemicals once provided.  I could no longer use to feel, or not to feel, and it was clear I couldn’t abstain from using in a consistent or predictable manner. 

I could no longer even temporarily escape the mundane, painful, or scary.  Earlier relapses had often lasted months, but not this time.  In the past I would drink, use, and dig deeper holes, but there was always some relief.  There had always been a trade off, in a completely irrational way that only an addict can truly understand.  Of course, my using or drinking would almost certainly hurt people, especially those who cared about me. But it was all written off as collateral damage in the master plan of textbook insanity that is addiction. 

For me, using was a self-medicating, self-absorbed break from anxiety, insecurity and the constant, consuming emptiness of depression.  Even the partying portion of my using was smoke and mirrors; what was genuine was the disconnect it afforded.  Substances provided a diversion from reality, and I was willing to pay an often considerable price for chasing a distorted, chemically enhanced version of peace.  But even that was gone now, and it took only three days to arrive at the deepest, darkest place I’d ever been, and this time I couldn’t find a way out.  I didn’t want to do it anymore.  I’d had enough.  I sat down and leaned back into the old chair.  It was over, and I knew it.

It was then that two familiar inner voices stepped out from the shadows of my mind and joined me in the living room.

****************

The easiest way to explain it, I guess, is perhaps you’ve seen a movie or a cartoon where a little devil pops up on a character’s one shoulder, and a little angel appears on the other. The appearance of those additional characters signals the back and forth battle between good and evil, hope and despair, and so on. These two sides of struggle and conflict are as old as life itself. For the sake of simplicity, and with apologies for sounding silly, I’ll just call them Sunny and Rainy.

In my head, Sunny is the quiet, patient, empathetic one, with the emphasis on quiet. Sunny never yelled.  Sunny had never argued with Rainy, and never forced his views or acted in haste.  It was because of these traits that I came to believe Sunny was weak.  In fact, I blamed Sunny for not speaking up during some of the most crucial events in my life to that point.  Sunny was more abstract.  Parables and feelings, dreams and memories, rainbows and sunshine, all in the hushed tones of a whispering librarian.

On the other hand, Rainy had a tendency to be impulsive and easy to provoke.  Rainy was the bull in the China shop.  Where Sunny was a fine-tipped brush used to put the final touches on a beautiful oil painting, Rainy was the guy throwing gallons of paint at a huge canvas, buckets and all.  Rainy possessed little patience, was quick to judge, and rarely used diplomacy during times of conflict.  In a crisis, Rainy was the one who showed up first, and I could always hear him coming.  But to be fair, and for all his faults, Rainy had served me well at times, and actually saved my life during a few dangerous situations I had walked into over the years.  But on this day, Rainy was different.

“No,” Sunny said firmly.  “This isn’t the way.  Think about what you’re proposing.”

“Well, well, you finally left the circus.  The other clowns must be heartbroken,” Rainy said, sarcasm on full display.

“This is absurd, you can’t be serious about this,” Sunny said, looking at me, and then to Rainy.  “There is so much left to do.  There is so much left to see.  You have a lot of life to live.  I won’t be a part of this.”

“You’ve been filling his head with this garbage for years,” Rainy began.  “Sobriety and relief from depression and the beauty of life and all that other crap.  When does that finally happen, Sunny?  Never, that’s when.”

I sat quiet in the chair.  Sunny stood quiet in the corner.  Rainy stood in the middle of the living room like a speaker at center stage.  The debate was on.

Rainy continued, “What would you know about anything, Sunny?  What would you know about life?  Haven’t you seen the suffering, the mistakes, the failure?  When you finally say something, it’s always the same old nonsense.  It’s over.  This will never, EVER get better, and you have only yourself to blame.  Leave.  We have a job to finish.”

Rainy then turned to me while Sunny stood, still quiet, in the corner.  “There is no shame in admitting defeat.  This has gone on far too long.  You’ve hurt everyone you know.  You’ve tried this addiction stuff for fifteen years only to get your ass kicked.  You’ve been depressed your whole life.  You have been thinking about this for a long time and it’s not coincidence that we are in the same goddamn spot today that we’ve been countless times before,” Rainy went on, his voice becoming more stern and his body language more aggressive.  “What you’re doing is not living.  You, my friend, have been dead for years, you’re just too stubborn, or too dumb, to admit it.  Today is the day.”

“That’s just not true,” Sunny said.

Rainy spun around and stomped toward Sunny in the corner.  “Sure it is, and you know it as well as he does,” he said, now almost nose to nose with Sunny while pointing back at me. “How many times have we followed him to treatment?  How many times have we gone to detox?  Psych wards?  How many tickets?  How many nights in jail? How many times have we gone days without knowing what the hell was going on? How many times have we been talked to by cops, priests, counselors, doctors, neighbors, friends and people we don’t even know?  Do-gooders, well-wishers and the like?  Sob stories, calls to arms, pep talks, threats and a boat load of other advice and care, and here we sit.  It’s time to get this over with.”

As Rainy finished with Sunny, he maintained eye contact as he backed away.

Turning again to me, he said, “Too damn many.”

“What?” I asked.

“You heard me.  Too damn many.  That’s how many times you’ve been to treatment,” he replied.  “That’s how many times you’ve been to detox.  That’s how many times people from all walks of life have tried to help you.  And for what?  It makes me sick.  Doctors and lawyers and counselors and hurt friends and family.  Bad relationships and dead end jobs because you can’t get your head right.  We could be living the good life, but you insist on messing things up.  You’ve taken beds at treatment centers that others could’ve used.  You’ve been in detox so many times they know your name.  You know every cop in the area because of the crazy things you’ve done during your career in the lunatic business.  You aren’t even trying anymore.  This is over, and if you don’t follow through with this, so help me, I’ll do it myself.”

Rainy sat down on the arm of the couch on the other side of the room.  He took a deep breath and paused, trying without success to calm himself.

Leaning toward me, he said, “I think you’re making the right decision.  Life is hard.  It’s unfair.  You’ve done your best.  All that pain?  The depression?  The disappointment?  It will end today.  It’s time.”

Rainy wasn’t wrong about a lot of what he said.  His delivery was harsh and crude, but he was quite accurate about it all.  We had been at this crossroads together before.

It was hard not to admit what I at least half-believed most of my life.  It was time.

For what it’s worth, I never really used the word “suicide” in my head. For me, suicidal ideation had never been a constant cycle of thought, but more of a nosey neighbor that occasionally stopped by unannounced.  I always used words like “escape” or “relief” or something more comforting and less… final. But the idea, complete with planning and attempting to project the resulting fallout for those left to deal with the aftermath, was a subject that was visited more often than I’d ever felt comfortable admitting to anyone.

It’s not a smooth subject to talk about, ending one’s own life.  There’s just no easy way to make it comfortable or attractive, because it isn’t.  In fact, I struggled a lot with not only the idea of writing this, but during the writing itself.  Not because I’m afraid of my own demons, but because it is such a heavy subject, and due to concern over how it may impact those who read it.  It is always final.  It is always tragic.  It’s more common than anyone wants to recognize or admit. And no matter what, those left behind are always, always, always, left with questions that will never be answered during our time on Earth.  There are some things we just don’t talk about, yet each of us knows someone…

I walked over to the secretary and shuffled through the drawers to find a suitable paper and pen, and went back to sit down on the old chair.  Rainy stood up to come closer, while Sunny remained in the corner.

As I looked down at the paper, Sunny asked, “What if?”

It was a quiet, almost unnoticeable question, as if he had mumbled it to himself.  Rainy looked up from the paper to turn and smirk at Sunny, rolled his eyes, then turned back to focus on the paper.

“What if?” again Sunny asked, a little louder.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sunny, don’t complicate this with your silly, hypothetical bullshit,” Rainy snapped.  “You’ve had your chance.  For years you’ve had your chance.  Today’s the day this ends.  Sit down and shut up.”

Again, “What if?” Sunny asked, calmly.

“Stop it, Sunny,” Rainy said.  “All you’ve ever done is delay the inevitable, trying to sell hope like there’s a market for it here.  Hope is for fools.  Hope is for those with nothing left, and we are beyond nothing now.  You are grasping at straws and you sound like an idiot.”

I looked up from the still blank paper to Rainy.  “Hold on.  What did you say?”

“Inevitable?  Fools?  Grasping at straws?  Idiot?” Rainy recited the bullet points from his rant.

“Hope,” Sunny said, stepping out of the corner.  “You said hope.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, this is a joke, right?  Are you serious?”  Rainy was beside himself.

“Do you mean to tell me that this is your solution?  That somehow all of this can be solved with something so intangible?” he continued.  “What in the hell is hope against the fact that much of your life has been a miserable, lonely, messed up experience? A miserable, lonely, messed up experience, may I remind you, that will continue until you’re a miserable, lonely, messed up old man?  This craziness needs to stop. Don’t screw this up.”

“The least we can do is hear him out,” I said. “It’s not like we have any place to be.”

“This should be good. Sunny the motivational village idiot.  Perhaps we should print up posters and sell tickets for this,” Rainy said, dripping with disdain.  “Two minutes.  Do you hear me, Sunny? You’ve got two minutes, then we get on with what we should have done years ago.”

“What if,” Sunny repeated, “What if you could learn to ride a bike, or to swim?”

“This is just embarrassing,” Rainy cried dramatically.  “He rode a bike when he was five! He swam across the lake in middle school!  Big deal.  Since then it’s been pretty much downhill.  What’s next?  First tooth?  First pee on the big  potty?  Hell of a pep talk, genius.  Can we just finish this now?”

Sunny ignored Rainy and continued, “What if you could memorize multiplication tables or learn how to high jump?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Rainy yelled at Sunny.

“What if you had to get your driver’s license,” Sunny said, “or climb the tallest tree in the neighborhood with the older kids?  What if there is a reason you have lived long enough to become a father?  What if you’re supposed to stay around to help people who need you?”

“This dreadfully random trip down memory lane has been brought to you by the letter S, as in SSSSSTUPID,” Rainy snapped.  “This is so dumb, it’s painful.  Are you done?”

“Please let him talk,” I said, feeling more now like a referee than someone in the middle of trying to make life’s biggest decision.

“What if there is a reason you survived long enough to make it to detox?  What if you needed each and every treatment, each and every talk, from each and every person, to get you to this point,” Sunny asked.  “What if these are not failures, but lessons or cornerstones?  What if every other time we’ve been at this point, you’ve chosen to go on?”

The items Sunny mentioned were all things that at one point in my life I never believed I’d be able to do, or get through.  I never thought I’d be able to ride a bike.  At one point, I stood on the shore of the lake or the side of the swimming pool believing that I’d never be able to do the things others were doing.  Living through addiction as long as I had was against the odds by almost any measure.  The tallest tree may as well have been a never ending tower to the heavens, at least before I climbed it.  And there was a time in my life where I believed I would never live long enough to become a father.  Hope surely must have played at least some part in it all.

I began to believe that when I listened to Sunny, there was hope.  Hope, at least in part, made some of the good things in my life possible.  Hope also made some of the not so good things bearable.

“What if,” I sighed, shrugging my shoulders. 

“Maybe it’s just that simple,” Sunny replied.

“So that’s it?  Hope is the magic plan and the cure to all our trials and tribulations for the infinite future,” Rainy exclaimed in disbelief.  “We just hang our hats on hope and all will be okay?  Where is the resolve?  Where is the defiance and the declaration that life, and all of its baggage and wreckage, is just not worth it anymore?”

“It’s not infinite, Rainy,” Sunny replied.  “In fact, maybe it’s just this moment.  Maybe it’s this hour or this day, one little piece of time connected to the next.  What if we miss something great?  What if this can turn around?  What if?”

“I give up on you guys.  Next thing you know,” Rainy said, “you two will be singing praise songs, selling all our stuff and leaving to join some cult.  It is my hope that when you do, they shave your heads and make you sell beads at a mall.”

Rainy then stormed off, back to the corner of my mind from where he came. I listened to Sunny talk about the plan of continuing the journey that is life.  We discussed the role hope could play in another attempt at recovery from addiction and in surviving depression.  I came to realize that Sunny was always there, and that he wasn’t weak.  Sunny just wasn’t as loud as anger, despair or frustration.  Sunny was more subtle, but not any less present.  I just had to be willing to listen and patient enough to hear what was being said.  Sometimes it really is that simple.

That July day was almost 19 years ago.  I talk to Sunny a lot more now than I did before that day.  We meet first thing in the morning, and agree that we will see this day through to the end, come what may.  We make that commitment daily, even if we don’t talk about much else.

That’s not to say that Rainy doesn’t still show up now and then.  He has to, he is a part of me.  But if he’s around too long, there’s always some kind of trouble.  Admittedly, some days I seem to spend as much time with Rainy as I do with Sunny.  It’s not a perfect system, and I don’t fool myself into believing it ever will be, but I work at it.

Hope is a powerful thing, if sometimes more quiet or less visible than anger, frustration or despair.  For me, hope has been an invaluable tool in my recovery from addiction, an irreplaceable weapon in my war against depression, and a consistent companion in the now almost two decades of life I wouldn’t have had without it.

In memory of warriors at rest, In honor of those who still fight.

The File Cabinets and Chalkboards in my Head

Many Second Chances mental health, Mental Wellness , , , , , ,

Imagine walking into a room of file cabinets. Upon crossing the threshold, you notice an order and cleanliness about the place. There is no door, only a doorway to this room. The file cabinets are all the same color, size and shape. Even the little labels on each drawer match, with bold printing in a simple font. There are just as many cabinets on one wall as there are on another. The lighting appears to be more than sufficient to remove, replace or read files without causing eye strain or headache. The paint is a neutral color, not boring and not brash. The carpet looks and feels new, and it compliments the paint, cabinets and furniture. There is a soundtrack playing from an unseen speaker that you find neither too loud nor too soft, and it seems to be noticeable only when you want it to be. There is a solid table and padded chairs for reviewing the files that wait to be placed into or pulled out of the cabinets. On the table sits a small stack of writing paper and an old coffee mug full of sharpened pencils, quality pens and yellow highlighters. On one wall hangs a large whiteboard or chalkboard for big ideas or collaborations for times when a mere pen and paper just won’t do. There is some communication equipment neatly arranged and accessible in one corner. While the room is neither perfect nor imperfect, it appears to be fully functional and organized enough to complete whatever tasks the room is set up for. It seems like a pleasant place to spend some time.

Let’s say purely for point of reference, that the file room I just described is a typical human mind and what I’d like to do, completely against better judgment, is to invite you to my file room.

Since you’re a guest, let’s take the direct route today, a route that not many people get to travel. The public route to my room is like an obstacle course without a finish line. Picture the people at the mall who use the “You Are Here” maps. But in this case the maps don’t make any sense and are designed to take whoever on a complicated trip that ultimately leads them back to the same map. Truth to tell, some people never make it farther than the lobby.

It hasn’t always been like this; over the years I have worked on it quite a bit, little by little. There is usually so much confusion and distraction that by the time anyone gets anywhere close to my file room, they are so exhausted and frustrated or confused that sooner or later they stop trying to find it. That is the point, after all……

There is a lot at play here, and I’ve always been on guard about letting people see my files, for lots of reasons. I realize, too, that what I do isn’t what you would call “typical.” There are a lot of people I know who consider hindering anyone’s access to their rooms a huge mistake. They want people to see their room, to sit at their table, to take notes, and to even go through some of the cabinets. Some people actually welcome people in. Nonsense.

As we walk, I’ll share some of the how’s and why’s of keeping people out of, and away from, my file room. You’re going to know once we get there, anyway.

First, and probably easiest to explain, I am an introvert. No, no, no, not just an “introvert.” I am an IN-TRO-VERT. I’m just built that way. The fact that we are talking about it now, or to write or share any of this stuff usually carves chasms in the very room I try to protect. I religiously dislike attention, and a quick “aww shucks” deflection is usually the first sign of that. If it continues, I’ll usually change the subject. I’m not trying to be rude, I’ve just never been comfortable telling people I’m uncomfortable. On the flip side, I am completely comfortable telling others what a great job they did at something, and to be sincere about it… It’s a one-way street. The guy must be weird in the head, right? And that’s just one of the symptoms of introvertitis. Introvertism? Anyway…

I’ve tried, over and over (by all kinds of unhealthy means) to make myself an extrovert, or at least a little less of an introvert. For years I left a wake of confused and hurting people in my past because my inner conflicts seeped out past the walls of my file room, and I never really knew how to deal with it. However, after years of disastrous trial and error, I have made one discovery and that is: I really hate crowds. I would rather spend a month in our storage shed in the backyard than go to a social event. Ten times out of ten. I just can’t have tons of people in my room because there isn’t enough space for everyone at one time. I think you’ll understand better when we get there.

A second barrier to my room is a bit more complicated and has sometimes been messy. This barrier is almost impenetrable. It’s barbed wire and land mines and lazers and all the gadgets one would expect to see in an action movie, it just isn’t anywhere near as glamorous. Really, it’s this meat grinder-mix of shyness, introversion, depression, anxiety, ADD and the remnants of addiction, all glued together by shame. My addiction story is for a visit on another day. And shame is a destructive, toxic, evil force that kills. For the record, shame is not guilt. Guilt can be useful and constructive. Shame has no redeeming qualities.

I’ll give you a quick thumbnail since we don’t have all day… the opposite of depression is vitality. The opposite of anxiety is serenity. The opposite of order is Attention Deficit Disorder. And, holy crap, the ADD….. Let’s just say that a typical grocery list looks like this: bread, milk, butter, eggs. My grocery list tends to look something like this: Bread, car keys, you are my sunshine, ants are so cool, where the f*** did I put the grocery list?

I know what you’re thinking. Medications, right? Therapy. You’re paying attention and I know where you’re going with this. But, I can’t do medications. I’d very likely abuse the benzodiazapines and stimulants because, well….. because they are benzodiazapines and stimulants. I am an addict after all, whether I’m using or have been clean for a week or a hundred years. Just can’t do it. But, therapy is good. Support groups are good. I have no problem with either and I’ve been that route more than once in years passed.

Careful, we’re getting close now………Watch your step.

The final roadblock to my file room is actually fairly subtle. It is the societal norms, taboos and subjects that simply just aren’t fun to talk about. Not only are they not fun, often they are quite painful and come to the forefront only out of necessity or emergency. Stigma…… Misinformation…….. Ignorance……… We don’t talk about depression at the dinner table. We don’t talk about suicide on a night out. We don’t talk about anxiety while at a game. We don’t talk about addiction when family visits………….Unless we have to.

Extroverts are often seen as confident, successful and even preferred, while introverts appear to be less than or different from the “norm.” Men don’t cry, and they shouldn’t show feelings. That’s been a long-held standard. We still live in a world where depression and anxiety are widely viewed as weaknesses and addiction is seen as a lack of will power. An ADD diagnosis is brushed off as a lack of discipline and laziness, “If you would just concentrate!” These types of issues are usually other people’s problems…… until they hit home. When and IF people do concede that these conditions exist, often they are given tags to lessen or separate them from other, more “Valid” conditions. One of my favorite labels is “invisible illness.” Because there isn’t a bone sticking through the skin or surgical scars, that means that somehow it must be qualified another way. Marginalized. Set aside. Stigma and bias are still alive and well regarding mental health issues and addiction, regardless of the progress that has been made. Both sadly and conveniently, it serves as steadfast justification for keeping people out of my files….. But don’t kid yourself. There isn’t much about any of these conditions that is “invisible.”

That’s it…….just ahead. After all I’ve told you, you can’t possibly be surprised by the door. And you can’t possibly be surprised by what you see, now that we are here.

First of all, I apologize for any distraction caused by the speaker. It goes on and off, sometimes just random clips of things, sometimes it’ll play the same damn thing over and over and over. Sometimes it’s just static. It’s weird, but I’ve gotten used to it.

I tried to tell you about the grocery list. Papers all over the place. Drawers open, chalkboard filled with scribbles and gibberish, folders on the floor, the table piled with stacks upon stacks of files. Posters and maps on the walls. Pictures of people no longer with us. Framed photos of teams I was lucky enough to be a part of. Articles cut out and strewn everywhere. Paper clips sparkle here and there. Post It notes throughout the room in a pattern that may suggest that one of my grand daughters may have walked through and stuck them on whatever she wanted to, and that’s quite possible.

HOW CAN YOU FIND ANYTHING IN HERE???

You should maybe sit down, once I find a chair for you. Look, I tried to keep everything in here organized. I tried all the way through school, into adulthood and for a long time after that. I would clean my locker, only for it to be a disaster again in a few days. I would attempt to organize my thoughts to try to explain why my thought process was so jumbled and fragmented. But when I tried to speak, it often fell apart on the way out of my mouth.

To many, my room looks like a disaster. It may look like someone ransacked the place, and sometimes that is what I do to find stuff. In my own little office at home, for instance, I actually have an old chalkboard that I scribble on. I have files and piles of dead trees that make sense to only me. I have an old wooden bowl that holds notes I have scribbled on whatever paper I could find. Grocery items on the same piece as ideas and goals. It’s a controlled chaos, more than anything, I just don’t fight it anymore.

After years of trying to be “typical,” I’ve come to accept that I am whatever it is that I am. I don’t think it’s a matter of better or worse. Maybe it’s more of a style, a unique style, like handwriting. And we adapt. We just do.

Please bear with me while I continue to rummage through my file room and attempt to sort through the mess in my head so I can try to get my thoughts out in print……..my original intent was to tell my story the best I could, in hopes to help someone else……….but I am starting to notice that just maybe the person I might be helping the most is…me. I’m no writer, for sure. But writing has become a neat way to take scattered thoughts and fragments of ideas from the wood chipper my mind can sometimes be and cut and paste them into something fairly coherent.

This has been a different kind of post, and I appreciate the fact that you stayed through to the end. Thank you for reading, liking and/or sharing my posts. It means a lot to me, and I hope something in them can be of help to you or someone you know. Thank you.

What do you do? Is your file room similar to the one in the beginning, neat and orderly? Is it more like mine, some sort of paper bomb epicenter? Have you had to do things to adapt the way your mind works due to circumstances in your life? Do you let people in? Do you keep people out? Introvert or extrovert?

Whatever you are, be you. The longer you’re not, the harder it will be for you, or anyone else, to find their way to your room.