Category Archives: recovery from addiction

Sep8

you make the choice of how it goes…

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Sound asleep, my sister would rock back and forth on her hands and knees and bang her forehead against the wall. It would wake me, and I would get up and go into her room and softly coax her back to laying down, tuck her in again, and go back to bed. My brother would regularly sleep walk while talking out loud. He would pace through the entire second floor where all of us five kids slept. It would wake me, and I would get up and gently walk him back to his bed and tuck him in. I was scared he would fall down the long staircase some night without my hearing him, but fortunately that never happened.

My parents bedroom was on the first floor at the opposite end of the house. They were either at a party, the bar, or passed out drunk. They never heard a thing. None of my four siblings ever remembered any of these instances that so terrified me. Did they think I made it up?

My brother died two years ago of an apparent heart attack in his sleep, at the age of 62. He had overcome alcoholism, drug addiction, and quit smoking – all cold turkey with no support. He was a remarkable person, but he was never able to quit a gambling addiction. And so he lived in abject poverty, working right up to his death and living in a rented room in the home of a coworker.

My sister knows for certain that his heart attack was caused by the Covid vaccine. She blames those good-for-nothing evil Democrats. Thank god we have RFK now to save us all, and a president who knows what is truly going on here – the spiritual war we are fighting for the redemption of mankind’s soul. In case you don’t know me, yes – I am being irreverently facetious. Also believe me when I say I really don’t get it.

I have three siblings still living. We barely keep in touch; we’re about down to reporting the obituaries of our mutual friends and relatives. We exchange emojis on holidays…you know, Happy 4th of July and all. As if we didn’t share the first 20 years of our daily lives. Suffice it to say we have nothing in common. Oh, we all five grew up in the same house. We all five had the same two parents. We went to the same schools, had many of the same teachers. We shared every holiday, the same music, all the vacations, the same four grandparents, we ate the same food. But we had very different childhoods. How does this happen?

Seriously, can someone please explain this to me?! Gabor Mate can theorize about it and I understand what he is saying, but my own experience just doesn’t jive. Hard as I try, I cannot reconcile our continued disparate realities.

I miss my family. I still miss us. I have no one to share the stories and the memories with. Meanwhile, my cells don’t seem to run dry of the endless tears. I’m old enough now to know they will come forever. And just wise enough to welcome them. Some days my grief will not be consoled, and still I am nothing but grateful for it all.

From their point of view, this separation in our worlds is entirely down to me. I’m the different one; the one who questions everything. The one who needs answers when obviously, there is no problem except my mental illness. This is on me; they do not suffer these imaginary indulgences. They figured it out long ago. They found Jesus. They are healed. How I envy them their conviction.

On the rare occasion when we do talk, I am guarded. If I slip and say the wrong thing I will be corrected, maybe even ghosted for a time. I am too much for them. Given time to reflect on the error of my ways, I realize I am wrong. To them. They love me, but they do not like me. They have no desire to connect, to understand me, to know me. And I have finally given up the need to be understood and accepted by them; I’m sure they’d say the same. That only took way too long.

Of us five children I am the eldest by 3 years. The four of them were born in close succession, four within six years. I was the first child, the first grandchild on both sides, and for over 3 years I enjoyed being the center of their attention and the apple of their eye. My siblings, like my father before them, will tell you that is why I am a narcissist.

Not in any effort to defend myself here (it’s my platform, after all…) I would aver that I prefer an evidence based model of reality. Or as I say to them, I choose my crazy. I value science and therefore neuroscience and psychology; I see no discrepancy between science and religion. My God is a quantum physicist and still, miraculously, maintains a sense of humor. My siblings refer to this rebellious misguidance as my “Jesus is just alright with me” spirituality, referring to the days when we all enjoyed a good spliff and some Doobie Brothers on Dad’s dime.

Here’s the thing, I guess…the evidence says to me that they live in vapid denial. There is no worse thief on the earth plane than denial. It has stolen our lives. It has taken everything from us. Everything except my hard-earned sanity.

Of the 7 of us in my family of origin, I am the only one who has not suffered the ravages of chemical addiction. Since my early 20’s I have not drank or smoked or used drugs. I tried them. You were a square and no fun and a snob in my family if you wouldn’t partake. I’d resist, hence my nickname, Little Goody Two Shoes. I remember a Sunday night during high school when my father ordered me to do a line and fill in at the Euchre table as they were down a player. I protested, explaining that I had a History final the next day, and he gave me his I’ll-knock-you-into-next-week look. “You can make it up!” Yes, sir.

Pardon me if I call that evidence. There are more stories like that than I will ever have time to tell. None of them were living their best life, but not for me to say. They all six struggled with homelessness, depression, addiction, all of their lives. A couple of them were grifters, committing fraud, and somehow narrowly dodging the law. I was called to provide bail and an alibi more than once. I learned to hide my valuable possessions. I wish I’d learned sooner to hide my heart.

The other side of this insane equation is that I also got so so so much from them. Each and every one of them were extraordinary people. They all were born with high IQ’s, enormous creative talent. Funny! Wow, I wish I had the quick wit of my mom, my brother, and my son. How does anyone think that fast?! They’d have gotten on well with Robin Williams! Had they been any less intelligent and charming they might have ended up in prison, but in fact they all had so much going for them. Yet they lived in poverty and pain. Denial does that, theirs or yours. Makes you a refugee in your own life.

My physician asked me to take the A.C.E. test a few years ago. You can take it here and compile your own evidence. I scored an 8.

Sep2

I don’t clean up for less.

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Okay, I admit, I am easily entertained. Although I’ve become increasingly pickier with age. Want my money, my time, my attention? That bar is high these days; it will remain so. My standards have been raised. Some people have the gall to tell me that my standards are too high. Others might say they had nowhere to go but up. However, I don’t much care what some might say anymore…

My criteria for acceptable entertainment (as well as information) has been refined, taste aside. I expect high quality in everything I take in, whether that be news, movies, television, music…or our relationship. And by quality, I mean on every level. My senses are going to be bombarded with the culture of sensationalism every day, so bring it. If I am going to watch, I want high quality cinematography. Listening? Crisp high quality sound while I’m weeding out the crap. No more perfumey candles to smell or scratchy fabrics against my skin. I’ve had to improve the quality of the food I eat if I want to be healthy – and isn’t that work these days?! Read the labels, research – and then pay more to have them leave the chemicals and the seed oils out. Even my cat deserves nothing less than the best quality food I can possibly afford.

Now in my 70’s, I’ve survived more than most people can imagine. A lifetime of narcissistic abuse and neglect, sexual abuse, physical abuse, financial abuse. I have walked through hell. I’ve watched – and felt – almost every person I’ve ever loved suffer through cancer and addiction. Now I watch my beloved child struggle from decades of absent adults, never present enough to protect him from the same ravages. My gorgeous, brilliant nieces and nephews – and their children now; living out the 4th generation of trauma. To say I have paid my dues is an understatement. The only thing I’m sorry for are all the years I wasted making compromises. Repeat after me: “All my debts are paid, seen and unseen.” And be absolutely certain of it.

Now – just now!, am I really getting to the good stuff of life. Droppin’ off the shame. I’m not made for that. Neither are you. So, no more apologies. No more begging to belong. We are everything we are meant to be.

“Be kind to me, or treat me mean. I’ll make the most of it; I’m an extraordinary machine.” – Fiona Apple

Aug6

a new religion called NOPE

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“STOP letting your mental health be damaged by systems that were never designed to protect it!” – Sheila Hammond

If someone asks you if you’ve heard the latest news, and you think, “Dear God, please let it be aliens,” you are not broken. Sheila Hammond has made the YouTube channel I wish I’d thought of. She is funny, and she is tellin’ it like it is! She’s done offering her sanity to systems that profit off her exhaustion. Amen, sister. Amen.

You can care about the world and you can set boundaries. You can opt out of chaos without opting out of your values. You can disengage without being in denial. You can scream into the void…and log off for a nap. Personally, I am done with risking participation in anything likely to jerk me around emotionally. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

In recent posts I have written about losing friends and family members because I won’t attend the protest march (what you resist persists) or join the group or contribute to the cause or watch the news. Don’t get me wrong, I respect them immeasurably. Their heart is in the right place. If I feel compelled to do so, I do know how. As far as I know I still have an FBI record from being arrested in the protests in Detroit during the 60’s and 70’s. Meanwhile that isn’t how I’m most effective. That does not mean I am sitting here doing nothing – but it is amazing the changes you can implement silently from your sofa once you get focused.

It’s scary at first to realize your personal power. However, you have to pull your spirit back into your body and listen. In order to overcome the addiction of culture you have learn to stop the performance art you called life for the past decades, otherwise you won’t know your authentic voice when it speaks. And it does. I hope you’ll join the me in the religion of NOPE. Because as Sheila says, sanity is trying to stage a comeback.

“I command my spirit into my body in full at this time.” – Carolyn Myss, Anatomy of the Spirit

May I suggest we nurture a song worm today:

Jul1

NO is a complete sentence.

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“I am not knowing,” my southern grandmother Mimi used to respond when she didn’t know the answer to our constant inquiries. You or I would say, “I don’t know.” Or more likely, “dunno.” Mimi was effortlessly – even accidentally, elegant. So she was not knowing.

Needing to know is a scam. Needing to know what’s next, what to be when we grow up, what to do with our life…our “purpose”……ONE BIG SCAM. It’s the invisible CULT mentality of BELONGING scam. It is the insidious, evil programming of the hustle culture; meant to keep us enslaved. It’s grooming us to identify ourselves with a job, a career, a political party, or even a marriage. To whittle ourselves down to fit. To value ourselves for what we do. If, in your infinite failure to be enough, you become an alcoholic or an addict, well…bonus for the cult.

Drop your beliefs. They’re chains. Find your true value within yourself. Value yourself as a verb, and trust your becoming. YOUR true value is in being you, right here, right now. You LITERALLY ARE a work in progress. That is your purpose, P E R I O D. Breathe. God does not make mistakes. You were born. You have every right to be you. End of story. Figure yourself out, don’t figure yourself out…all within your right. I’ve been saying this all my adult life – but not living the truth of it. Still trying to fit in. Still trying to figure out what to do with myself. Still trying.

And until I feel like I want to whisper “YES!” to something, I will practice saying NO to what I don’t want. “No” is a complete sentence. I am so over explaining myself. Find your own why; I am not knowing. I am, however, infinitely curious. Aren’t you? I’ve gone from the immaturity of wondering why I am here to asking better questions, like, what do I really want? I’m trusting God knows why I’m here and therefore I don’t need to know. I don’t owe anyone a version of myself that makes them comfortable. The only person I owe anything is myself. All my debts are paid, seen and unseen.

My darling, sweet Mother used to say to me, “Do something, Susan, even if it’s wrong.” She meant help with the housework, of course! That was her conditioning speaking. In truth, she would never feel like she was enough. She would busy herself to death. What I wouldn’t give for one more conversation, but how would I ever manage to convince her that she was so much more than enough?

Also when I was a bratty teenager, same said darling Mother used to say, “Learn how to spell GURU and you’ll never need one.” G-U-R-U.

Oct6

when push comes to shove

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The year was 1980. We stood in front of the Oakland County Court Judge and my husband looked incredulous. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Susan, I never hit you.” And the Judge asked me to respond, to which I had to tell the truth, so I turned and faced him, standing with his attorney at the other table, and shaking, said, “No. But you pushed me into the wall and I fell down. And you kept coming after me when I was on the floor.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the Judge stated, “motion granted. You will have 24 hours to vacate the home, and you will not come within 50 feet of your wife. Do you understand?” The neighbors had called the police three days before. They were tired of being awakened between two and three a.m. after he had returned from the bar and begun to attack me. The young officer asked me if I had somewhere to go. I had called my friend and business partner, woke she and her husband and their children. I would hastily pack the baby, two overnight bags, and the officer would escort me to the edge of town, the border of his jurisdiction. We would live on their family room sofa for the next three nights, and I would show up for this hearing at 8 a.m. Monday morning.

That was husband number two. Number one I had snuck out on while he was passed out high, and never looked back. It would be 14 years before I married again, husband number three. I was 40; he was 57. He was not a drug addict. He was not physically abusive. He was, however, an alcoholic and a gambler. I would divorce him and remarry him, believing he had grown and changed; he had not. He had learned some new language and become more manipulative. They all had addiction in common. They were all narcissistic.

The counselor drew three stick figures stacked vertically, and connected each of them via lines between their hands. Marionettes. He labeled them from the top down: father, husband, me. Apparently he felt a visual aid was needed. He literally drew me a picture.

However, it would yet be decades before a different counselor would finally convince me that codependence IS, indeed, an addiction. There is no ingestion of substances. The body’s physiology produces the substances to create the addiction. It’s an invisible dis-ease. I suspect the problem with overcoming substance abuse is that the substance serves as a symptom of the underlying mental health imbalance – that being codependence. No one is going to successfully get off substances if they don’t face the demon of codependence head on.

Industries have thrived upon the medical knowledge based on addiction recovery research. You can’t stop drinking; you have to substitute something that tastes like the alcohol of choice without the alcohol content. Hence sparkling wine and non-alcoholic beer. You can’t stop the brain’s addiction to smoking without replacing the action; hence the vaping industry.

There is no demonstrable action to replace people pleasing. That is the causal level of addiction. Fixing the gigantic hole in the soul. Fixing the original wound. And most of us don’t remember it like Robyn here. But we see the evidence, the symptoms of our dumpster fire lives as they float past us in the flood. So where do we start? Take the Adverse Childhood Experiences test (ACE) and find yourself a counselor. If you are old enough to read this you need – and deserve – a counselor. Carolyn Myss said it decades ago: therapists are the tribal shaman of the Western culture. Find yourself a shaman. And then a streaming service with British, South African, and Australian murder mysteries. They do it best. I will highlight some this coming week here, but only the really funny ones…

I am immeasurably grateful that I have never had a substance abuse addiction (well, okay, coffee.) But I am no less of an addict. I am a people pleaser, what Melonie Beatty (Codependent No More) refers to as a Master Enabler. I will forever be in recovery. I will never quit quitting. I will practice setting healthy boundaries as if my life depends on it. Because it does. So does yours.

And people wonder why I’m obsessed with murder mysteries…

Sep18

I hear the band playin’…

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Please remember, always click on the blog heading for the updated version as I often edit after hitting publish…

The cat woke me around six a.m. His bowl was empty. This is my favorite time of day, just as the sun is coming up. But I hadn’t slept well and I really didn’t want to get up. My son was already in the kitchen getting ready for his work day. He’s been staying here since his relationship broke up. Feeling he had no other choice, he left her with the house they bought together, her teenagers, the dogs they adopted, his dreams, and oh yeah, much of his self worth stayed behind, too. He has continued to be as supportive of them as he possibly can be, physically, emotionally, and financially. This has required considerable patience on my part (let alone my friends and therapist) – but then, I don’t want to be the mother-in-law who thinks her son can do no wrong. I’ve had one of those.

The day he called and asked if he could come here I felt a huge sense of relief. Finally. Watching the abuse he seemed determined to cope with was nothing short of painful. He was mimicking the scapegoat role I had so effectively demonstrated for him my entire life. Everything about us must be wrong because God knows we never did anything right. But perhaps some healing could finally happen. We are a multi-generational family of survivors – survivors of alcoholism, physical and verbal abuse, and blatant narcissism. Our awareness continues to grow as our healing unfolds.

He’s been here longer than either of us expected; the better part of two years now. It has not been easy. But most days I am grateful for this time to get to know him as an adult, to spend time together investigating family history, to address our mental and emotional dysfunction, to have the opportunity to do the healing work we both need and deserve. I’m in my seventies, he’s in his forties, and for the first time in our lives we are safe. We have a safe place. I wonder where that will lead us.

Most mornings I am up hours before him or any hint of daylight. I feed the cat first (the boss of me), make coffee and head back to my cosy room with a book. If I haven’t fallen back to sleep, I hear him in the kitchen but leave him in peace. Well, I leave me in peace, because let’s be honest – I am far too easily irritated when my thoughts are disrupted before I’m ready to talk. But this morning I wandered out and made us both coffee. Here’s why he is one of the few people (okay, maybe the only person so far in this life) I’ve ever been able to live with: he is funny. He is blessed with my mother’s sense of humor. My brother had it, too. I was not so blessed. He is funny right from the get go when his feet hit the floor. Wow that is impressive!

My auDHD does not allow me to think that fast. So when I caught myself scowling this morning, I circumvented my crabbiness by saying, “Help me out here, please. My face is stuck,” revealing my frown. I had just sat down at my laptop. He simply replied with a directive: “Hello, Dolly by Louis Armstrong.”

Little did he know it would bring tears. I was ten years old the year my mother took me to see the musical at the Fisher Theatre. It starred Angela Lansbury. God, growing up in Detroit in the 1960’s was magical. As a privileged white child, of course. But back then what did I know…

Jul28

Don’t beam me up, Scotty

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Yesterday’s post seemed a bit preachy about what I don’t want. I beg your patience. What I DO want, and have always wanted, is freedom. Peace of mind. That’s my measurement from here on out for the rest of this incarnation, which I hope will be many more years. As Mimi would say, “good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise.” Do I need more exercise to pull that off? I certainly do. So thank you to my dear, dear friends and family who do continue to entice me out to share in activities. I have to pick and choose wisely right now as I am still recovering from a debilitating, albeit invisible, disease. Thank you for not giving up on me.

This delicate balance I seek to find this summer includes what feels like a huge psychological shift. Now in my 7th decade I seem to be just discovering what freedom means – specifically, to think freely. To dig down into the depths of my true being and find out what it is that I really want. Who I truly am. To stop using life energy to flail against what I don’t want. To stop protesting, to stop feeling put upon and pulled at by those around me.

Two or three nights ago now I woke, as I always do, between 3 and 4 a.m. I “heard” the voice in my head, seemingly out of nowhere, stating very clearly: “THERE IS NOTHING AGAINST YOU HERE.” Intuitively I knew that by HERE it meant, in life, on earth, for all time. There is nothing against me. There never has been. And as my old mentor Jack Boland would have said, “therefore, as night follows day…” that means that everything is FOR me.

This concept may take a minute or lifetime for me to grok. I’ll have to get back to you on this…this is what I mean when I say, “on the road to enlightenment, I’m taking the local.” I mean to get it with every cell of my being. Don’t rush me.

Please indulge this idea with me: what if everything is for you? Another long time mentor is Rob Bell. Young as he is, he is onto something. Several years ago I went to listen to him speak in his home town of Grand Rapids, Michigan. He left the evangelical mega church he was pastor of because they wouldn’t let him teach enlightenment. There’s something I might do if you asked – I’d go to hear him speak again. He leads you out – out of the restriction of your personality into your natural state of freedom. He gets it, or as he says, there is no exit strategy here. “This is not an evacuation theology…”

It’s true that I don’t want to go anywhere with you. Because I want to be nowhere with you, as in nowhere = now here.

Jul14

burn, baby, burn

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Freedom is our promised birthright. Freedom. What does that even mean? I can’t speak for you. For me it means enlightenment – a lofty, etherial sounding concept – which is exactly the same thing as mental health.

My entire 70+ years I have been in a personal battle for my mental well being. Against the insanity, the slavery, of trying to live up to so many expectations. Yours. My own. My father’s, my mother’s, my loved ones, my teachers, the adults I looked to for guidance. Religious leaders, spiritual counselors, co-workers, employers, the creditors and people I owe money (phew!)…the list goes on. And on.

When will I be enough? When will my debts be paid? Well, I’m here to tell you. This oppression stops today. Say it with me: “All my debts are paid, both seen and unseen.” ALL MY DEBTS ARE PAID. I have an eternal flame in my soul and from today forward, I am throwing anything on the fire that tugs at holding me back from absolute freedom and well-being. If you feel that I owe you anything at all, monetarily or physically or emotionally, write it off now. Stop looking for me to come through for you. It’s not going to happen. I’m spent. And I am forgiving myself TODAY.

Does this mean I won’t be paying my bills? Of course not. It isn’t a negation of any responsibility. If anything, it’s stepping up for it. Does this mean you can’t count on me to keep our agreements? Of course you can; our agreements are just that. But I will behave with integrity because I can, not because I should. No more shoulding on myself. As Liz Gilbert says here, she’s done being the orderly in her family’s mental institution. I am announcing my retirement. Consider this my two minute notice.

For church today, let’s listen to Liz Gilbert. She’s figured it out ahead of us, and it might save your life. It’s an hour long video and I highly recommend you find the time any way you can. Especially if you are tired, owe money, have a stack of paperwork or emails waiting in your inbox, feel the least bit obligated anywhere. I am telling you truly – you cannot afford to wait. You can thank me later, but you don’t owe me a thing. I free you to show up in my life any way you choose.

“In my defenselessness my safety lies.” – ACIM