Philip Seymour Hoffman: How COULD he?

I was scrolling mindlessly through my Facebook feed, the day the news broke, and I saw someone post "RIP Philip Seymour Hoffman. So sad."

My response was visceral and possessive:  WHAT? I thought.  MY Philip Seymour Hoffman?

I have no claim to him, of course. I never met him or even caught a glimpse of him in person.  It is a testimony to his strength as an actor that I felt such a connection with him.  His achingly beautiful performances, where he so often portrayed the dichotomies that lie within us all - sinner and saint, courageous and vulnerable - touched us all.

It is no surprise that he was such a talented character actor.  A hallmark of all addicts is that we're great chameleons.

His death effects me on another level, as someone who had recovery - good recovery - and then relapsed. It is hard to respond to the question how could he? because it is a question I ask myself, too.  How could I? With everything I know about addiction, with all the blessings in my life:  how could I? 

Let's start by talking about you for a moment.

Think back on resolutions you have made to yourself.  Perhaps to lose weight? Eat healthier?  Exercise three times a week?  All of the above?

You know, intellectually, that your life will improve if you stick to your plan. You come out of the gate going gangbusters.  It isn't hard to stick to your plan, because the benefits are immediate - hey! I have more energy! I'm sleeping better!  I can button these jeans!  My cholesterol went down! 

You are a disciplined, intelligent person, and you don't like to be bested by anything, so you stick with this plan.  For months.  You do this until the point where getting up in the morning and going to the gym is second nature. You reach for the carrot sticks instead of the cake without even thinking.   Friends compliment you on how good you look/feel.  The rewards for this healthier lifestyle make it easy to stick with it.

Over time, this healthier you is just, well, you.

One day you have an early morning meeting and you can't go to the gym. You haven't been scheduling early morning meetings, because it's your gym time, but hey, just this once won't matter. Things are nuts at work. The next day you decide you'll work out in the evenings because you got so much done at work early in the morning.  Except when you get home that night you're tired and don't go.  The next night there is a traffic jam and you get home too late to work out.

A few days, or maybe even weeks, later you skip your healthy home-brought salad and go out to lunch with co-workers.  While you're out at lunch, nibbling french fries, you think:  I should do this more often. It's important to socialize with work people. 

After a while, you're only bringing your healthy lunch once or twice a week, and you're only working out occasionally.  But you still feel good. Your clothes still fit.  You tell yourself you will amp up the workouts if your pants get tight.

One day you can't fit comfortably into your suit, so you head out and buy one - just one! - work outfit.  Just until you can take off the few extra pounds.

Weeks later you are mindlessly digging through your closet for your old two-sizes-bigger clothes.  It's just that you have been so busy.  You know what you need to do, and you've done it before, so you'll get back into shape when things calm down.  It's not like you're going to stay this weight.

Eventually you're not only back to your former weight, you're heavier.  How did this happen? Things were going so well!  You feel ashamed.  You feel like a failure. You feel so despondent.  Dieting doesn't work for me, you think.

Does any of this sound familiar?

What is so hard to see, in these situations, is that you didn't just end up heavy.  It all started the day you skipped your morning workout for what seemed like a perfectly good reason: work needed you.

It's death by a thousand paper cuts. It's a slow, almost invisible slide into old behaviors.

Recovering addicts need constant vigilance to stay sober. It's hard at first - everything (and I mean everything) feels different. Putting recovery before everything else is hard, counter-intuitive, because you are accustomed to letting the hectic pace of life to put the healthier, non-drinking you, last.

Eventually, though, with daily discipline, structure and support, being sober becomes second nature. You feel so good that you don't ever, ever want to go back to that dark, shameful, secretive place.

Someone who has worked hard to get fit doesn't want to go back to being heavy, either. But still it happens to almost all of us who try to lose weight. Very few of us do it once and keep fit for a lifetime.

With recovery it isn't a matter of what we want, either.  We all want to stay sober, but addiction is a brain disease, and what we want doesn't hold all the cards.

Put very simply - back when we (meaning addicts/alcoholics) first used alcohol or drugs, we triggered something in the primitive part of our brain - the part that governs survival instincts like shelter, reproduction, food, thirst.  Our addiction takes root in this primitive part of our brain, snuggled up next to the things we need to survive.  With time, as the addiction grows, our brain puts drinking first.  It moves up the ladder of needs - starting as an emotional addiction and ending as a physical one - and eventually it trumps everything. Active alcoholics will choose alcohol over food and hydration.

Their brain is literally telling them:  you need this to survive.

Additionally, the neocortex, the part of the brain responsible for rational thought, and the amygdala, which controls emotional processing, get hijacked.  The site youthcomm.org, which targets teens, explains it simply:

"...drugs and alcohol also affect a part of your brain called the neocortex that keeps you from doing dangerous things. Ira Moses, Ph.D., who used to run a drug abuse program, calls the neocortex “the brain’s brakes—it controls most of the brain’s functions.” The neocortex helps us think through consequences of our behavior, consider risks, and stop us from doing things that might feel good in the short run, but harm us or the ones we love in the long run. This part of the brain basically gets turned off by drugs and alcohol."

Once activated by drugs or alcohol, in an addict's brain the neocortex hands the reins over to the lizard/primitive brain, which is thinking:  alcohol first. drugs first.  The symptoms of addiction are behavioral, because the rational part of the brain isn't functioning.  This is why people around active alcoholics are astounded by the insane behavior we do when we're drinking. Because it is, quite literally, insane.  Our neocortex is out of the picture.

So, back to the original question:  how COULD Philip Seymour Hoffman relapse?  With all he had going for him?  With all that sobriety?

The same way I did.

There is no cure for addiction, but it can be treated; it can go into remission.  Treatment involves a daily regimented program of recovery of rigorous honesty, communicating with fellow addicts/alcoholics in recovery, self-care and - for many of us in recovery - spirituality.  It involves a daily surrender to the fact that we are powerless over our disease and all its manifestations.

Here's what I mean by that:  my relapse didn't start when I drank. It started about a year and a half before when, coming out of cancer treatments, I had drifted away from active recovery.  I stopped engaging in the daily self-care regime that treated my alcoholism on a daily basis:  meetings, yoga, exercise, asking for help, prayer.

I substituted my recovery for what looked and felt like healthy behavior -particularly in the crazy pace of today's world - workaholism.

Just like the ill-fated dieter in the example above, it was a long slow slide towards a drink.  Without my knowledge or permission, my disease was ramping up, because I wasn't tending to it on a daily basis.

I don't remember actually drinking.  I was in an emotional blackout, I guess.  I was so far away from the healthy behaviors that kept my recovery alive that my disease took over, and I was without a single tool to resist it.

So where does personal responsibility factor in?  Especially as it pertains to relapse?

This is a dicey subject, so I offer here only my personal thoughts on the matter.

I view my alcoholism like I do my cancer:  a chronic, life-long and potentially fatal condition.  I didn't choose to have either one.

Neither one is my fault, but my recovery in both is my responsibility.

In my mind, my relapse is as if I found something troubling- perhaps a lump in my neck (where I had cancer before) - and I decided (consciously or unconsciously) that it was probably nothing and didn't see a doctor. Then, months later, I find out my cancer is back and it has spread.

The moment of responsibility lies with my knowledge that I am a cancer patient in remission and I can't afford not to have something checked out.

But, particularly when dealing with hard or scary things - it's human nature to dumb it down, file it away somewhere convenient or easy, or simply procrastinate.  Like our dieter.

With addiction, just like with cancer, we can't afford to file it away, though.  Once we have surrendered and know we are an alcoholic/addict, it is our responsibility to maintain that recovery.

BUT. Relapse happens. It happens with cancer. It happens with diets. It happens with addiction.  For all the reasons I described, alcoholics find themselves with a drink in their hand and no tools to resist.  Knowing alcohol is bad for you, that it could kill you in the end, doesn't factor in.  That bus left the station ages ago, when the first of the thousand paper cuts slid across your skin, seemingly without much impact.

When I am not active in a program of recovery, my addiction is untreated.

It is my responsibility to stay active in recovery.  I drifted away from it. I relapsed.

It is not a moral failing. It is my disease coming out of remission.  But, unlike cancer, I can choose to treat it on a daily basis and stay in recovery.  Cancer treatments cannot promise such a hopeful outcome. Hopefully I will be able to treat my addiction, daily, for the rest of my life.  I know this is confusing to people not in the world of addiction:  if you can choose it every day .. why don't you DO that every day?  I will politely refer back to the dieter.

Because we're also human.  And brains - all brains - are adept at side-stepping scary or unpleasant things.

So let's not wring our hands and ask why. Or how could he?  Philip Seymour Hoffman died because of his disease, not because he was weak, or willfully self-destructive or morally unfit. The argument "well, one doesn't just find oneself with a needle in one's arm" infuriates me. Because addicts do. Addicts who are not working a program of recovery find themselves with a needle in their arm and are just as baffled and saddened about it as those who love them. And once the drug is in their system, the sober person is just gone. And they can't get back without help.

And far too many addicts/alcoholics don't ask for help, because of the damn stigma.  Far too many addicts/alcoholics don't reach for a chance at recovery because they are too afraid of society's reaction to what they, too, perceive as a personal weakness or failing.

Lets band together to beat down the stigma of addiction that keeps alcoholics and addicts stuck in their fear of being judged.

I long for the day when addiction is viewed like cancer - without stigma and with the urgency of all potentially fatal conditions.

RIP, Philip.  May your tragic death in the spotlight help to bring more understanding to the disease of addiction.

Just Because

My eleven year old daughter leans into me, out of the blue, and sighs happily.

I rest my chin on the top of her head (the top of her head? when did she get so tall?) and inhale her musky-strawberry scent.

"What's up?" I ask.

"Nothing, Momma," she mumbles.  "I just wanted you."

She wants me. 

Two months ago I lay face down on a rumpled, cramped twin bed at the treatment facility and sobbed until my eyes ran dry.  In my mind's eye I could only see the smoldering wreckage of my life.  I drank again, I thought, and the worst part is I don't even know why.

I rub her back, and we sway back and forth.  I love you, she says, simply.  Not in response to a gift she's been begging for, or as an apology for one of her mood swings.  Just because.

Love you too, I reply, afraid to say more, to overdo it, scare her off.

My mind pings back to her first visit to the treatment center; how she stayed at arm's length and only flicked her eyes in my direction twice.

With each visit she moved a little closer.  On the second visit she sat next to me while we ate lunch. The third?  She gave me a hug before she left.  By the final visit she chattered away about her life, and even smiled at me.

The card from her that greeted me as I walked in the door after a month away said:  I love you, and I am so proud of you Momma, but it will take time to build back trust. Just don't drink.  I know you can do it.

One thing about tossing a bomb into the middle of your life?  You get to pick through the ruins, hoping to find the things that truly matter to you, praying you can get them back.

Like the musky-strawberry scent of a pre-teen girl who hugs me, just because.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

This post is part of Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary's free-writing link-up, Just Write.  Click HERE to join in!

The Other Side of Fear

I want to say a heartfelt thank you to all the support, love and encouragement I have received since my last post about my relapse.

I'm pleased to report that the saying "feelings aren't facts" is totally true.  My fear of being judged or alienated proved to be ill founded.  If there are people judging me out there they are remaining blissfully silent. 

I am overwhelmed (in the good way) by all the comments, messages and emails. 

When we are suffering, it is easy to feel like we're the only people on the planet. It seems like the bad feelings are never going to get better.  No matter how many times I have said to other struggling people "hang in there, it gets better", it is still very difficult to believe that when it's me who is in pain.

When I wrote about my alcoholism before - from the start of this blog - it was from the relatively safe perch of time and distance.  It wasn't as hard to write about the stigma, shame, regret and guilt of alcoholism with over a year sober tucked under my belt.  For someone who writes extensively about the power of truth and vulnerability, when it came time to share my own without the buffer of time I felt more frightened than I have in a long time. 

I had to wait to hit "publish" on my last post until I felt in my gut I was putting my words out there for my own healing, not because I wanted to dispel rumors or try to project some image of okay-ness that wasn't true.  I had to be sure I wasn't writing for anyone but myself and was able to let go of the outcome.  

I forgot about the power of truth and vulnerability.  Not everyone understands addiction or recovery, but everyone understands suffering and courage.

Because it takes courage to be vulnerable.  When someone speaks or writes their truth - unvarnished and straight from the heart - I feel awe and admiration, and no small measure of respect.  When it's my turn, however, the urge to varnish. minimize or maximize the truth is overwhelming.  

And why do I want to polish up the truth?  Why do I feel this urge to minimize my accomplishments?  

Fear.

Fear of being judged, of course, but also fear of the "who do you think you are's".  

I have learned that fear is at the root of so many deflecting emotions like anger or resentment. Fear is also at the root of pride, envy, perfectionism and shame.  At the heart of it all, for me, is self-centered fear of rejection and abandonment.  

Social media can amplify and exaggerate this fear.  People don't post about their vulnerabilities often.  We aren't practiced in expressing our fears.  When perusing Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, etc. we can find ourselves comparing our insides to everyone else's highlight reels.  

What I felt from the responses I received from my last post was relief and identification.  Even people who aren't alcoholics, who aren't in recovery, wrote to me about their own struggles, fears and experiences with falling down and getting back up.

Many, many people expressed that they wish they could be more open about their fears, doubts and insecurities but that they couldn't because of fear of peoples' reactions, of not fitting in and being perceived as weak or inferior.  

There is a chasm between how we feel on the inside and what the world sees, and at the bottom of this chasm is a river of suffering.

Every time we open up and share our truth, our vulnerability, we are building a bridge across this chasm.  In recovery we do this all the time; we open our mouths to save our lives so the chasm doesn't swallow us whole.

I will never be rid of fear, but I am learning to embrace it as a great teacher.  The antidotes to fear are self-love, faith and truth.  When I can face my mistakes, regrets and truths with compassion and love, I can find the strength to build that bridge. The only way fear wins is if I stop trying; if I avoid what is really going on inside and keep polishing up the outside instead.  The shiniest castle built on sand will eventually fall.

My relapse happened, in large part, because I didn't want to face some hard truths about what was going on underneath it all; how my foundation was crumbling as I madly kept on building. 

I can't get well on my own; when I try to fix myself I inevitably make things worse.  Thank you - everyone - for your words of hope and encouragement, but mostly importantly for sharing the vulnerable, beautiful parts of yourselves. When we raise our voices together, fear doesn't stand a chance. 

If you're struggling and have been afraid to reach out for help because of fear, take a deep breath, and speak your truth to a trusted friend or loved one. Or even start by speaking your truth out loud in front of a mirror. Tell yourself what you're afraid of.  Truth shines a light on the things that make us suffer and sends fear scuttling into the shadows.

Let go.  It's worth it.  You're worth it.

And so am I.

On Motherhood and Alcohol

This week has been nothing short of miraculous.

Here's how that past five days have gone down:

• My husband is away on his annual fishing trip
• My son threw up all night on Sunday
• I got a bad chest cold with a hacking cough that robbed me of what little sleep I could have gotten.
• My daughter threw up all night on Tuesday night.
• The Sox won the ACLS, and played the first game of the World Series.

So why is this miraculous?  It sounds like a tough go of it, doesn't it?

Because any ONE of these things would have been something I drank over, in the past.  The biggie would have been my husband going away.  When he was gone, I could drink more than one or two glasses of wine without being sneaky about it, or making up excuses.  And heck, when he was gone life felt harder ... I deserved it.

Sick kids was another reason to drink.  Long nights, exhausted days. Having a child home all day for four consecutive days on little or no sleep.  Falling behind on work.  Also reasons to reward myself with a few glasses at night.

Even being sick myself was a reason to drink.  Wine is a great cough suppressant (or, at least it made me care less that I didn't feel well). 

And I used to love it when Boston teams made playoffs, not as a sports enthusiast but because then everyone pretty much drank like me.  It normalized my drinking. 

It is nothing short of a miracle that all these things happened in the span of five days and not once did it occur to me to drink. 

I thought wine made me more patient, more loving in the face of long days and hard nights.  I thought drinking both dulled down the tough stuff while enhancing the fun stuff, like playoff games.

I was wrong.

Caring for sick kids totally sober and present is so much better. I'm not itching to duck away and take a sip of wine. I'm not cranky and short, nursing a headache the next day.  My patience is - surprisingly - infinite.  I am calm, grounded, and collected.  

Instead of feeling sorry for myself that I have to go through all this without the help of my husband, I am totally focused on them and their care.

And who knew that watching playoff games was more fun sober? 

Sometimes I forget to remember that recovery is a miracle.  I forget to shout from the rooftops that recovery HAPPENS.  We do heal, and we can handle so much more sober than we ever could drinking, and it's better.  So, so much better.  

We live in a culture that tells women, and especially mothers, that drinking is their right, dammit, for all they do, all they juggle.  Moms talk all the time about deserving their wine at the end of a long day - whether they work outside of the home or not.  You don't have to look further than Facebook to see women talking up their hard earned glass of wine.

I am not saying that everyone is an alcoholic.  Indeed, for normal drinkers who actually can have a glass or two now and then, why not?

But with all the marketing and publicity about women and their wine, it has become almost the norm for women to use alcohol as a coping mechanism.

Before you shoot off that email to me saying you enjoy your wine and don't use it to cope, or leave a flaming comment that many people drink normally and I'm generalizing, think about how often you hear women talking about alcohol as a reward.  I know, I know - men have been doing this for years, so it's unfair to pin this on women just because they are also mothers.

But here is the reality: most women still have primary care giving responsibility for kids, even if they work outside the home.  The pressures and expectations put on women are different than men.  The marketing messages are different, too: you are supposed to do it all, and do it with a smile on your face. You deserve this.  Alcohol will help.  We live in a culture where alcohol is marketed to women as a way to cope and/or enhance.

Take the wine "Mommy Juice".  Here is their label:

A woman managing all her responsibilities: work, housework, cooking and kids, with a serene smile on her face.

Here is the first paragraph on the splash page of their website:

"Being a mom is a constant juggling act. Whether it’s play dates and homework, diapers and burp cloths, or finding that perfect balance between work and home, Moms everywhere deserve a break. So tuck your kids into bed, sit down and have a glass of MommyJuice — because you deserve it!"

The bold print is not mine; it's theirs.

And there is Girls' Night Out wines:

"When women get together, curious things happen. There are unwritten rules that we all follow. It’s a club that you can only be part of as a woman. And all are welcome. We talk, we laugh, we eat and we drink, but we also support, encourage, applaud and share. It is for this inclusive club for women that we created Girls’ Night Out wines.
 

Whether you’re going out to meet with your book club, having a pot luck dinner, getting ready for a night out on the town, or staying in to watch a DVD, Girls' Night Out goes with anything."

 

Hey - at least they are being up front about a phenomenon that is everywhere.

 

I am not naïve enough to believe this is going to change, even in the face of really alarming statistics about women and drinking, and the sharp increase in binge drinking among girls.  Whether we realize it or not, the message that wine is a coping mechanism -something to help us tolerate them - is reaching our children. 

 

I understand why women prickle when it is implied that their drinking may impair their parenting. After all, we don't hear that said about men, do we?  

Men have been marketed to all along that they deserve their cocktail for all their hard work.  It's just that parenting isn't thrown into the mix.  And certainly no company ever marketed to Dads that alcohol actually enhanced their parenting experience.

So why is this so dangerous for women?

 

The scary truth is that alcohol effects women's health far more than men's. We weigh less and have more body fat, which means we metabolize alcohol differently.  Hormones also impact how alcohol effects our bodies.  Simply put, we can't drink like men without suffering dire health consequences.  Alcohol is a carcinogen.  It is linked to breast cancer and heart disease (despite the campaign that moderate drinking of red wine is good for your heart .. that is only if you drink one glass every other day). 

Saddest of all, I think, is that alcohol disappears us.  Instead of making us more present for our children, or more patient, or more loving, it is doing the opposite. You don't have to be an alcoholic to have this happen.  The message by marketers tells us that it's making us better Moms, when in fact it's doing the opposite. 

And our kids are watching.  You don't have to be an alcoholic, or even close to it, to be less present for your kids through drinking.

Mainly I just want to add my voice as a counter-balancing point to all the marketing about how alcohol makes our lives better. 

As a woman and mother in recovery, I am here to say it doesn't.  It temporarily alters our reality, which isn't inherently a bad thing.  But the message that somehow our lives are better with a glass of wine is just wrong.

~~~~

 

Most of these thoughts are sparked by Ann Dowsett Johnston's new book, Drink: The Intimate Relationship Between Women and Alcohol..   She is an incredible writer, and her book is a terrific combination of story-telling and facts.  She writes about The MommyJuice and Girls' Night Out marketing campaigns in her book - I would never have known about these (because I don't buy wine anymore) otherwise.  I highly recommend her book - whether you are in recovery or not.  Every woman, every Mom, needs to hear what Ann has to say.  I was not compensated in any way to say this - she did send me a copy of her book to read but this is not a sponsored post.  And the prologue to this book is, quite simply, the best description of addiction I have ever read. 

I am excited and honored that Ann will be a guest on The Bubble Hour on November 10th, so please tune in!

Still Behind The Veil

Two years ago I found the lump in my neck.

As with all life changing events, it seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago.

I still struggle. I still struggle with anxiety and depression about my cancer. Sometimes in the most ordinary moments I'm hit with the gut punch of oh my God, I had cancer.  

Anniversaries like these send me into mini tailspins. I start feeling twinges and aches, obsessively feeling my throat: is that spot harder than it was before?

Very rarely am I at a loss for what to write, but these days I am.  I am not sleeping well - a lovely combination of anxiety and the over-the-top menopausal symptoms that chemo and radiation caused.   I am seeing doctors.  I am taking safe and monitored medication.  I am putting one foot in front of the other, and some days it's all I can do.

There are still many, many more good days than bad. But like it or not, anxiety has her hands wrapped around my throat again, making my world go a little grey.

So instead of writing, I will share what I read at BlogHer's Voice of the Year.  Because I have to look back, but not stare. I have to remember the hope that is all around, even when the days are feeling hard.  And I have to remember that no matter what, I'm here today and I have so, so many things to be grateful for:

Pride Is Not A Dirty Word

shame (SHām) noun

1.

  a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.

~~~~

Probably the number one topic that comes up when I'm talking with my recovery friends is shame.

We all know what shame feels like; I feel it physically, in my gut, like a stone in my belly.

I carried that stone with me for years, both while I was drinking and after.   Even years into my recovery journey, I feel its weight sometimes, dragging me down.

Who do you think you are, is the most common theme shame whispers to me, now.  

I looked up synonyms for shame, and this is what I found:  abashment, dishonor, self-disgust, disrepute, self-reproach. 

It's easy, when I think about my drinking self, to feel these emotions.  How could you, I ask myself when my disease is speaking to me. 

In early recovery I learned that I needed to reconcile the things that made me feel shame in order to heal.  Memories, feelings, actions, behaviors that made me feel shameful led me right back to a drink as I struggled to get sober.  Lean into them, I was taught.  Feelings aren't facts. 

I learned about the difference between shame and guilt.  Guilt is feeling badly about something you did, shame is feeling badly about who you are.  I did a bad thing versus I am a bad person.  

The antonyms to shame are these:  esteem, honor, respect, pride.

That last one hits me hard.  Isn't pride bad?  Doesn't it smack of ego? 

Back to Google, The Oracle of all Things, and it tells me these are synonyms for pride:  self-confidence, self-respect, dignity, delight, joy, satisfaction. 

I feel all of those things today, and I felt exactly none of them when I was drinking.   

For years I wrote in excruciating detail about my addiction; I painted a colorful picture of what it felt like to be an active alcoholic.  But I didn't write much about what it is like to be a recovering person, because that felt prideful, and I assumed that was inherently bad.

Lately I have felt frozen when it comes to writing about addiction, and it took me a while to figure out why.... and the answer makes me twitch a little.  I don't want to write about alcoholism anymore.  I want to write about recovery.  It makes me twitch because I am afraid of pride.  I was taught pride = ego, and ego will lead me back to a drink.

I have learned that pride and ego are not synonymous, and feeling proud of my recovery is a better antidote to wanting to drink than anything else I have found. 

My life today surpasses my wildest dreams, but I don't know how to write about that.

So let me show you a picture instead:

 

This is me, with my best friend of 35 years, Amanda.  Drinking was all fun and games back then, but seeing this picture makes me want to scream at them to STOP.   But we didn't stop.  We kept right on going until alcohol brought us both to our knees, twenty plus years later.

I found this picture recently, as I was clearing out my digital photo file. Immediately, I felt that stone in my belly.  Oh God, I thought.  We could have avoided so much pain, if only we knew then what we know now.

But, of course, life doesn't work that way.  We rarely learn the hard life lessons the easy way.  Every moment - every shameful moment, every regrettable decision, every bit of denial and secrecy, led me to where I am today.  

I stared at this picture and told those girls that I loved them.  My shame voice lost confidence, and another voice took its place:  who would have thought, it said, that you are looking at women who would grow up to be sober women of dignity and honor (both synonyms for pride).  Who would have thought we'd run a non-profit together, and make it our life's mission to break the stigma of addiction and celebrate recovery from the rooftops. 

I am proud of my recovery. Not in the I'm-better-than-you sense, but in the I-overcame sense.  I don't feel shame about being in recovery from cancer.  And I don't feel shame for being in recovery from alcoholism, either. 

For years, when I said I was an alcoholic in recovery, the subtitles in my head thought: I'm admitting to a weakness, I'm revealing that I used to drink a shameful amount.   But recovery is all about moving forward. Now, when I say I'm in recovery, there are no subtitles.  There is no shame.  

Here we are today; this picture was taken at Amanda's three year recovery anniversary:

The antidote to shame is pride. It is action, involvement in your recovery.  We found honor, self-confidence, joy and delight in being women in recovery.

And we aren't going to keep it to ourselves.

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Shining Strong is proud to announce the opening of our new Shopify store!   Amanda and I have both been wearing our "I Am Not An Anonymous Person" T-shirts, and have been asked again and again, "how can I get one?"   We are so proud to be part of recovery advocacy with The Anonymous People and are excited to offer the official Anonymous People T-shirt in our new store!  All proceeds go to help Shining Strong and our advocacy and outreach in the recovery community, including our websites The Bubble Hour and Crying Out Now.  If you want to join us in breaking down the stigma of recovery and proudly wear one of these T-shirts, head on over and purchase one for $15!  Click HERE to go directly to the listing in our shop.

You can find other Shining Strong goodies there, too - a tote bag and coffee mug for starters (more to come), and you can purchase a copy of my book Let Me Get This Straight there, too. Again, all proceeds go directly to Shining Strong.

We appreciate your help, your advocacy and your support.  Thank you.

  

Introverted Extrovert

Whenever I make a new friend, somewhere innocuous like the soccer sidelines, or a new neighbor, (as opposed to through a recovery, business or internet connection where someone already knows me, or knows of me) there is inevitably that moment.   The one where they say, "and what do you do"?

One of my first-ever blog posts ranted about the awkwardness of this seemingly innocent interrogative.  Back in my single working days this question never gave me pause.  "I'm a Blahbity Blah" I'd rattle off without thinking, my identify safely wrapped up in my Job Title Du Jour.

Becoming a full time Mom added a layer of puzzlement on how to answer this.  I hated how often I felt the question mark at the end of my reply, when I'd mumble out "I'm a Mom?"  Sometimes I'd even say, "I'm just a Mom", as if the merits of raising a child were lacking in some key way.

After I started my jewelry business, the question mark still loomed:  I make jewelry? 

When a person expressed an interest in learning more about this, I struggled.  I didn't own my creativity, refusing to believe I was an artist of any kind.  "Oh, it's no big deal," I'd say.  "It's just a little Etsy shop.  Something to keep me from getting too bored."

Blogging added another layer of complexity, especially five years ago when more than half the people would say, "You're a what?? What's a blogger?"

Again the question mark reared its ugly head. "Um, I write about my life on the internet?"

This was almost always met with a puzzled expression and a "Why?"

Back then I didn't know why.  It was just something I couldn't not do, but that answer seemed ridiculous.  And blogging carried for me more than a whiff of narcissism, of navel gazing.  I couldn't understand why I blogged any more than I could understand why on earth anyone would read it.

The awkwardness factor ratcheted up a notch when, left unsatisfied from my self-deprecating mumbling response to why I blog, the person would inquire, understandably, "well, what do you blog about?"

"Well, er, I'm an alcoholic in recovery, and I write about that," I'd sputter, bracing for the person's head to jerk back, for them to stare into the middle distance and concoct an excuse to walk away.

Most people had this response, because the of the uncomfortable vibe radiating from my pores; if I felt embarrassed about it, they felt embarrassed for me.

Little by little, my jewelry business and blog grew, but my self-deprecating manner did not keep pace with the public response.  I'd frame my answer to the what-do-you-do question with "Well, I'm a Mom and kind of a writer. Oh, and I make jewelry."

I wouldn't hand over the business cards I carried in my purse, feeling that was to pushy. If they asked for a card, I'd give them one with a tentative smile.  "You totally don't need to buy anything," I would say, as if that person possessed no free will.

I cringe just thinking about it.

Then I founded my non-profit, Shining Strong, encompassing all my internet outreach projects that were growing by the day:  The Bubble Hour podcast, Crying Out Now, and my advocacy work with other organizations working in recovery advocacy.  And I started my Arbonne business.

Still - STILL - I stumbled over how to answer the what-do-you-do question.  It all came tumbling out in one vomitous reply: I-run-a-non-profit-and-make-jewelry-and-blog-and-am-an-Arbonne-consultant?  And a Mom of two kids?

The middle-distance stare. The shuffling feet. The poor person wouldn't have the first clue how to respond to my rapid fire and apologetic answer that landed at their feet like a stone.

About a year ago, I wrote about this phenomenon in my post Killing The Question Mark. I was preparing to meet Brene Brown, of Daring Greatly fame, and I was trying to own my successes without apology. I sound all put together-n-shit in that post, but the only reason I gave a copy of my book to Brene Brown was that my Mom brought one. I left mine at home, feeling too sheepish about self-promotion.  To Brene Brown, for crying out loud, the QUEEN of overcoming shame and embracing vulnerability.  The question mark came lurching back like a zombie from a bad B movie.

Now Shining Strong is really growing.  I incorporated as a non-profit. I have a fantastic board of directors, and a gorgeous and informative website, thanks to the talents of my friend Amanda.

Suddenly I find myself standing in front of rooms of people, or being interviewed online, or advocating for The Anonymous People,  a movement all about owning your recovery and speaking unabashedly about your recovery to help others.

The critics are loud in my head, but only I can give them power over me.  Only I can allow them to fuel my Question Mark Syndrome.  They are a minority. Most people are a combination of curious and supportive about Shining Strong's mission.  The question mark is weighing me down, and starting to smack of false modesty.


I have always been an introverted extrovert.  Talking to me you would likely never know that I am cringing inside a lot of the time: do I sound like an egomaniac? Am I making sense? Are you bored? Did you just look at your watch? Do you like me? 

I don't know that the introverted extrovert will ever go away. I am learning to love her, to embrace her and tell her: "It's going to be okay. You're not an egomaniac, and the mission is worthwhile".   Now and again someone in person, or through the grapevine, or on the internet, will criticize my efforts to raise money for Shining Strong. Or even my jewelry business, implying that I'm hawking my recovery to make money.

That hurts, and the question mark gains power.

But in my heart, I know that's not true. I named my non-profit in memory of my Dad (my maiden name is Strong) who gave back to the communities he served his whole life.  My Dad doesn't want me to cringe. My Mom is my biggest cheerleader, carrying the flag for me at every opportunity.  My best friend is now in recovery with me and is as essential to me as oxygen.

It's time to kill the question mark for good.

I will advocate now and again on this blog. I will talk about the mission I believe so strongly in.  I will even, on occasion, ask for financial help if you can spare it. I will often ask for help spreading the word.

And, just recently, when I met my brand-new neighbor at the end of our driveway as we waited for the bus with our kids, and she asked me, "what do you do?"

I smiled and said "I'm a Recovery Advocate and an Entrepreneur, when I'm not Mom-ing, which is most of the time".

She smiled back, and said, "Tell me, what is Recovery Advocacy?"

And so I did.

I even gave her my business card.