I think I won’t drink today, I thought to myself as I stared at the empty bottle of cheap bourbon that sloppily sat exactly where I dropped it at some point the previous night on my bedroom floor. As the fog started to clear from the night before, as it did every single morning of my life, my heart froze in a panic. My phone! I reached for my phone in a frenzy, saying some nonsensical prayer as I unlocked it to scan my notifications rapidly.
Had I messaged someone I had no business talking to? No.
Did I make any wild phone calls? No.
Did I post anything on social media that I would later regret? No, not last night.
It was my lucky day. Other mornings were not so fortunate, and I would have answered “yes” to one of the above-listed questions. On mornings like those, I would find myself wishing I could skip the functional part of my addiction where I was a successful teacher, disappear under the covers, and dive right back into my bottle.
Teaching in 2019 in the midst of alcohol use disorder.
My greatest professional failure was never taking advantage of the resources available to me as an employee to get help because I was scared of being my own advocate. It was my failure to address my worsening problems with alcohol, which the more shame I felt about, the harder I worked at my job, and the more powerful my silence became about my growing addiction.
It was as if I would tell myself, I can’t be a terrible person if I do a great job teaching, right?! I had a teaching career for thirteen years. Each of these years, I had health benefits that I did NOT touch. See a therapist? NO way. I even had access to things like short-term disability and the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) if I needed to seek treatment for my alcohol use disorder. But me, go to treatment? Nah, I’m good. So I thought, but I wasn’t good. I was dying.
I developed alcoholic liver disease and decided to stop drinking in September 2019, but getting sober is no small feat, and I didn’t successfully stop drinking until November 28, 2020. Side note, my liver has fully healed, and the only treatment necessary was to stop drinking.
But here are a few things I learned:
USE YOUR HEALTH BENEFITS AND GO TO THERAPY. I had to place this in all caps because, yes, I am screaming this to you. My long-term recovery has benefitted from opportunities to dig into my WHY and work on addressing and healing my WHY. If you have health benefits, you already give your employer so much, take a little and get yourself an in-network provider! Some workplaces even offer free counseling up to a certain number of visits. USE IT.
If you need to, use your benefits and go to treatment! Talk to HR about it. According to the US Department of Labor, “FMLA leave may only be taken for substance abuse treatment provided by a health care provider or by a provider of health care services on referral by a health care provider.The employer may not take action against the employee because the employee has exercised his or her right to take FMLA leave for substance abuse treatment.” See the full text here.
The stigma of addiction is a killer. Connect with someone, anyone, about what you’re going through!
Hi, my name is Jessica Dueñas. I’m a recovering alcoholic/person with alcohol use disorder/you can insert any other label in there. I care little about the title and more about my story, especially if you, as the reader, can relate and find some hope in it. I decided to answer a few questions I get asked a lot with the hopes that this is helpful for you or someone you love.
I was a teacher and was such a successful teacher that I was named Kentucky’s State Teacher of the Year in 2019. At the same time that I won that award for all of my work at the school and community level, I struggled profoundly with alcohol use. I drank a fifth of alcohol a day in secret to the point where I was diagnosed with alcoholic liver disease. At 34, I was told I would develop cirrhosis if I didn’t stop. I quit drinking for a brief time until the tragic death by overdose of my then-boyfriend Ian on April 28th, 2020.
After seeing his body for the last time as it was carried away from his apartment by the coroner, I set off on a months-long bender that almost killed me. My heart had been shattered into a million pieces that I believed never would have found their way back to each other. Between April and November, I was in a dangerous car wreck, almost bought a gun to kill myself with, blew nearly a .5 blood alcohol level a few times, and stayed in rehab facilities and hospitals eight times before I finally stopped drinking on November 28th, 2020.
By November, I had gotten so tired of fighting. I felt like I was dying but could not die, and I knew I could no longer continue living how I was living, so I gave up fighting and accepted help. I’ve been alcohol-free since November 28th, 2020, which at the time of writing this, is a full two years.
Why did it take me so long to accept help from others?
As a first-generation American and first-generation college student, it was instilled in me to push through all difficulties because the generations before me over came their challenges, too. To admit to having a problem with alcohol or having mental health needs was equated with being weak, and that was a part of the stigma I did not want to be associated with. Throughout my life, I had, in fact, been successful at anything I tried to achieve (school, college, professional success) so I assumed that getting sober would be just as easy. I was wrong. I knew early on that there was something disordered about how I drank, but I was ashamed and thought if I ignored my problems that they would go away. They didn’t.
How could I keep my drinking a secret when I drank so much?
I didn’t drink a fifth of liquor overnight. My drinking started with wine. Then when one bottle of wine wasn’t enough, I began to drink smaller liquor bottles. As my tolerance went up, I drank more. To someone without the tolerance that I had developed, a whole fifth would likely be incredibly dangerous, if not deadly, I was used to it, and my body had adapted to allow me to function. I didn’t drink until I had taken care of all of my responsibilities, and since I lived alone, once I finished checking in over the phone with my loved ones, I drank myself into a nightly blackout. Heavy alcohol consumption disrupts sleep, so I would wake up by 2 or 3 AM which gave me time to recover and get myself ready for the next day and repeat the vicious cycle.
How did you actually stop after so much back and forth?
I believe it was a combination of factors that aligned perfectly for me. I will share them in no particular order of importance. First, I will say that I used psychiatric medication after years of being totally resistant to them. Though I no longer take medication and have not for some time, I used the medicine for the first 1.5 years of my recovery to help stabilize me because my body chemistry had been drastically affected by alcohol consumption. Now that I am two years in and have been doing a lot of healing work on myself, I feel more comfortable fully facing the sensations I used to need to escape. Second, as much as I loved teaching, I quit. Teaching was incredibly stressful, and I knew I could not both dedicate time to healing myself and teaching children well. Third, I decided to rip the band-aid off and come out openly to the public about the struggles I had been having. I decided to recover out loud because so many struggling individuals need folks like me to speak up. Hell, I needed me to speak up and be my own self-advocate for all the years I silently suffered. Fourth, I built a support group of people both in and out of recovery who either knew exactly what I was dealing with or could empathize and be supportive even if they didn’t get it. Fifth, I moved cities to get a fresh start. Oh, and sixth, I go to therapy, workout, watch my nutrition, and generally try to practice an overall healthy lifestyle.
Do you participate in a program?
I don’t. In the beginning, I was a part of a twelve-step program, but by about the six-month point, I became more active in connecting with others online and being a part of online communities and working closely with a therapist and coach. Everyone has to really examine what works for them. If it brings you joy and peace, stick with it. If you aren’t growing, go where you’ll grow.
What do you do now?
After I quit teaching, I started working for a private tutoring company. Earlier this year, I became a certified coach and have been working with people on their own life goals and facilitating support group meetings for alcohol reduction and alcohol abstinence. It’s been great!
What happened to your liver?
The human body’s ability to heal is phenomenal, and I’m grateful to share that my liver is perfectly healthy again.
Last thoughts?
“If you’re brave enough to say goodbye, life will reward you with a new hello.” – Paulo Coelho
I love this quote because it’s a reminder that giving up drinking can be terrifying. It can set off its own grieving process, but if you can say goodbye to alcohol, the new hellos waiting for you, personally, professionally, romantically, mentally, and health-wise, are unimaginable.
This is for you if you are anything how I used to be.
Maybe you said you would stop drinking after September 30th for “Sober October,” except that it’s only October 2nd, and you are already drinking.
Maybe you woke up yesterday morning and eagerly wrote a note in an app or on your calendar marking October 1st as your “day one” because you got tired of saying, “one day I’ll stop drinking,” except that now you’re at day zero.
Maybe you’re looking at all the fun posts with the hashtag #SoberOctober, wishing you could post something just as festive and equally as inspiring. Still, you feel like you can’t because you’re the farthest thing from sober on this October day, and the most spooky thing you’re doing right now is feeling anxiety sink your stomach because you said you were going to stop drinking and haven’t. You lied to yourself, saying, “It’s just a month, right? Anyone can do that,” and now, you’re drunk on the internet.
I know because that was me.
I can’t tell you how often I would look at myself in the mirror, promising that I would stop, only to drink hours later. Alcohol was more than something I liked to do. By the end of my drinking career, it was something that I needed to do. It was the only way to avoid becoming violently ill with withdrawal symptoms such as shakes, seizures, vomiting, and so on.
Suppose you have genuinely tried your best to stop drinking these past few days, and you have this unbelievable compulsion to do so, to the point that you regret it and hate yourself just a little bit more with every gulp. You complicate your life, day in and out, just to drink even after you firmly promised yourself or others that you wouldn’t. You might have more than a problematic relationship with alcohol. If you are like me, you are fully addicted, and something as simple as putting the bottle down because everyone else is doing it on social media is not enough and, frankly, probably not safe for you to do on your own.
Everyone’s journey is different, and what worked for me may not work for you, but when I could not physically pull myself away from the bottle, going to treatment helped. It did not resolve all my problems, as my own story includes many relapses, though now I have been continuously sober since November 2020. However, treatment gave me a space to stop safely, which was impossible for me to do on my own in the privacy of my home. Medications that doctors administered allowed me to safely go through what can be a deadly withdrawal process.
If you’re where I was, and you’re already struggling with “Sober October,” seek medical advice. If you do not have a physician who can assist you, SAMHSA, the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, has a treatment referral line open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Call them at 1-800-662-HELP (4357).
I recently read the poet Rumi’s words, “The wound is the place where the light enters you.” If your “Sober October” is turning out to be incredibly painful, then this is the opportunity for the breakthrough you need to make space for the life you deserve.
“Can I have the uh, turkey bacon, egg whites…I mean that sandwich right there?” I slowly pointed at the sandwich I was eyeing. I couldn’t even clearly state what I wanted to eat at the Starbucks inside the airport. The woman behind the counter looked at me, smiled and nodded as she probably does to all the tired folks waiting on their flights, and grabbed my breakfast item. I shook my head and smiled. “Sorry, I guess I’m not fully awake yet this morning,” I said to her.
I have been up since 2:45 AM and went to sleep shortly after midnight. Not because I was drunk, but because I packed at the last minute and then stayed on the phone for hours. So yes, I am exhausted. But this type of tired is the good kind.
Airport selfie. TPA. 8.25.22. Sober on 2 hours of sleep.
Before quitting drinking, mornings on the day of travel often looked drastically different from how my morning today looks.
How many mornings have I stumbled into an airport still smelling like the liquor I was guzzling the night before, barely packed and praying I didn’t forget anything important? How many times have I anxiously gone through airport security, my hands shaking with early signs of withdrawal as I held my ID and boarding pass, searching the terminal for its airport bars? I wanted to see how many places there were to drink. I moved around and went to each one separately in an attempt to not make it blatantly obvious that I was trying to drink at least four before my flight that was departing in two hours. How often did I go to these bars as early as 7 AM, rapidly scanning the other patrons’ glasses to ensure that I was not the only one consuming alcohol first thing in the morning? To feel a sense of belonging? To feel a little less shameful?
I’ll be twenty-one months sober on the 28th of August, and I’m grateful that the fatigue I am experiencing at the airport is simply from lack of sleep and nothing else. I won’t arrive at my final destination, relieved and shocked that I successfully flew internationally during a black out. I won’t be throwing up on my flight. I won’t be spending over a hundred dollars on expensive drinks that will barely keep me satiated until I reach my destination. I won’t be holding the little plastic airline cup with two hands to avoid shaking and spilling the little airplane bottle of vodka I bought.
Before getting sober, no matter how far I would travel, I had no vacation from my drinking. I was trapped. This morning I’m tired, but more importantly, I’m grateful to be free from alcohol’s hold on me today.
“I don’t get how I actually got hired.” “I don’t know that I’m ready to get my kids back. It’ll just be a matter of time before I mess up.” “This relationship is drama free, and I don’t know how long that will last.” Thoughts like these disrupt many people’s sense of security when they experience imposter syndrome. The term, which has grown in popularity, basically means that when one experiences imposter syndrome, that individual doubts their worth, and they feel like a phony. Though they might be seeing positive outcomes for what they do, this person doesn’t truly accept that they are deserving of such results.
In sobriety, imposter syndrome goes to another level, which I call sober imposter syndrome. Sober imposter syndrome is when a person in recovery doubts their worth in receiving the gifts of their new alcohol and drug-free life. For some, it can be as big as questioning why a company hired them for a job they know they qualify for and can show up for. For others, it might be finding themselves in a healthy relationship and constantly expecting something to go wrong. In other cases, it might be someone who successfully removed themselves from an unsafe living situation and then questioning if they did the right thing.
Here’s the thing, we do deserve all the good things that happen to us in sobriety, from the greatest of favorable outcomes to the smallest ones, like waking up without a hangover or feeling sick. These things result from consistently making good choices after deciding to live one’s life for the better.
Sober imposter syndrome, however, is a force to be reckoned with, and these are three thoughts for fighting it off.
1. Your Addiction Doesn’t Negate Your Spirit
You have to believe that your addiction doesn’t define your spirit. Many have internalized that we are morally bankrupt because of our previous habits. According to the popular narrative, we must be “bad” people if we depend on any substance. However, the face of addiction that society paints is false. You don’t have to be a dangerous threat to be an addict or identify as an alcoholic. I was a successful educator who did a great job every day when I walked into my classroom. I was nurturing, caring, and encouraging, so much so that I was recognized as a state teacher of the year in Kentucky in 2019. I was all those great things and STILL drank a fifth of alcohol a day. You might be the mother who gets everything done in the home, and your kids feel loved and safe, and as soon as they fall asleep, you attach yourself to the bottle and drown yourself every night. These two things, being a person who contributes positively to this world and living with substance use disorder, are not mutually exclusive.
Does being in recovery negate our poor decisions while in active addiction? No. For many of us, we are still living with the consequences of our actions in the past. These might be ongoing court battles, debt, health problems, etc. That is the natural ebb and flow of life. All actions have consequences. Those past decisions we have already been dealt the consequences for don’t define our worth. We must accept the results of our previous choices, AND we also need to separate ourselves from those decisions. The only way forward is to cut that rope we have created in our minds that ties our sense of worth to our past.
2. What Is Possible For Others Is Possible For You
If other people have received blessings after changing their lives for the better, now that you’re in recovery, what makes you so different that you can’t accomplish the goals you have set for yourself?
Step outside of yourself for a moment and visualize the entire Earth’s population, which is 8 billion people. What do you think is so uniquely terrible about YOU that the other 7,999,999,999 people on this planet deserve more than you do? That type of thinking doesn’t make sense.
When anyone gains something in this world as a result of working towards an achievement, their gain is hard evidence for you to see that you too can get to where you want to be. If someone else’s past consists of hurtful or harmful decisions, but now they are living in alignment with higher living and attracting good things, it’s because they worked for those things and are deserving. Their past isn’t stopping their progress. Your past shouldn’t stop your progress, either.
Think about it this way, so many people with addictions do not survive their battles. They never live to be sober. So if you are reading this, you are ahead first because you’re alive. And if you are sober and alive, you’re winning because attaining your goals is actually possible.
Do you think that your being alive and sober is by accident? Your sobriety is NOT a mistake.
3. The Only Thing Stopping You From Your Desires, Is You
If you have decided to stay sober today, you already chose to level up. There is much power that lies in words. What you say carries a force. If you tell yourself you don’t deserve that new job, that you don’t deserve this new healthy relationship, that you don’t deserve your quiet and safe new apartment, then you know what, you eventually won’t.
Negative self-talk becomes a reality. We must shift to positive, higher-level language when good things happen because we’re sober. First, practice gratitude for anything positive so that you can attract more things to be grateful for. I’m not saying you have to do a whole song and dance routine to express gratitude, though you are welcome to it if you like, but acknowledging that something is there and that it is good goes a long way.
Second, accept that you have earned that blessing and deserve all of it. Remind yourself that it did not come out of nowhere because you worked for it. Look in the mirror and tell yourself that, write it in your journal, or say it to yourself while you’re in the shower. Do this for the big things, but even for the little ones. Suppose you decided not to drink or use drugs today. In that case, any detail about your day is worth being grateful for, like drinking your coffee in the morning without your hands shaking or waking up without feeling sick. Those are all natural consequences of not giving into your addiction that are well earned.
Your sobriety is not a mistake. Take advantage of the gifts of recovery and enjoy them because not everyone gets the same opportunity we have today.
Jessica Dueñas is the founder and certified life coach at Bottomless to Sober. For more information about life coaching services, click here.
If you’re a teacher, you are working in a climate that has gotten exponentially more challenging with time. Summer was likely a great relief for many, but the lack of structure can lead to more unhealthy behaviors. If you already had a questionable relationship with alcohol, you might have been using your time off drinking even more than you did before. Now that it is time for many of you to start getting ready to return to your school buildings, you may be worrying if your drinking is a problem. Is your alcohol consumption at the point where you may need help but are scared that it’s too late to do anything about it because you can’t miss work?
“But, I’m a professional. I do well at work and take care of all my responsibilities (finances, kids, family, pets, etc.).” None of that is relevant. When it comes to alcohol abuse, what you accomplish despite your drinking does not negate the fact that your relationship with alcohol is a problem.
The National Institutes of Health (NIH) uses guidelines to determine if a person falls on the spectrum of alcohol use disorder. It is essential to highlight the word spectrum because one person’s problems with alcohol may look drastically different from another. Identifying alcohol abuse is not about comparing your drinking to someone else’s and being tempted to say, “Well, I am not as bad as her, so I must not have a problem.” This analysis is about your health and your life. This reflection needs to be about you solely. Examine what your thought process is and what your behavior is when it comes to drinking. Is it an issue?
Here are some questions the NIH provides to ask regarding drinking.
In the past year, have you:
Had times when you ended up drinking more, or longer, than you intended? More than once wanted to cut down or stop drinking, or tried to, but couldn’t?
Spent a lot of time drinking? Or being sick or getting over other aftereffects?
Wanted a drink so badly you couldn’t think of anything else?
Found that drinking—or being sick from drinking—often interfered with taking care of your home or family? Or caused job troubles? Or school problems?
Continued to drink even though it was causing trouble with your family or friends?
Given up or cut back on activities that were important or interesting to you, or gave you pleasure, in order to drink?
More than once gotten into situations while or after drinking that increased your chances of getting hurt (such as driving, swimming, using machinery, walking in a dangerous area, or having unprotected sex)?
Continued to drink even though it was making you feel depressed or anxious or adding to another health problem? Or after having had a memory blackout?
Had to drink much more than you once did to get the effect you want? Or found that your usual number of drinks had much less effect than before?
Found that when the effects of alcohol were wearing off, you had withdrawal symptoms, such as trouble sleeping, shakiness, restlessness, nausea, sweating, a racing heart, or a seizure? Or sensed things that were not there?
If, after reading this list, you are uncomfortable with the fact that you may have a problem with alcohol, I first want to say that you’re not alone. I taught successfully for thirteen years and won numerous awards, and at the end of my drinking career, I drank a fifth of bourbon a night and excelled the next day at work. I’ve been sober since November 28, 2020, so I promise you that it gets better and that knowing you have an issue can only serve your higher good.
Maybe you have tried to stop drinking only to find that, for different reasons, you really could not control it on your own. You’ve heard of people going to treatment facilities, but now that school is around the corner, you feel like your opportunity to get assistance is gone. You think that you might have to wait for another break in the school year to come.
“Who is going to cover my classes?” “I don’t want to/don’t have the mental capacity to write these sub plans.” “I worry about my classroom.” “Will this go on file against me?” “I’ve never been to rehab. I’m scared to go.” “I don’t want to leave my kids at home.” “What if I lose my job?” “What if no one watches my children/pets at home?”
I, too, have said most of the above, but it is important to note that eventually if you don’t stop drinking, many of the fears listed will materialize anyway. You will decrease the likelihood of experiencing significant losses and consequences by going to treatment for a week or several weeks.
There are many resources and avenues for getting help outside of a treatment facility, and you can find those here. However, for those considering going into a facility, please be aware that if you have worked in the same district for over a year, you may be eligible to take advantage of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) program with the U.S. Department of Labor. This program also applies to employees at agencies at the local, state, and federal levels. The specific line of the act that would apply to entering a treatment facility is “a serious health condition that makes the employee unable to perform the essential functions of his or her job.” Mental health IS health, so a problem with addiction IS a serious health issue. In my personal experience, I used FMLA as a public school teacher when I needed treatment.
So what is FMLA? It is a federal program that, upon approval, allows individuals to take up to twelve weeks (or twenty-six, it depends on the circumstances) off of work to take care of different medical needs. This time off is usually NOT paid time off (not ideal, I know). However, the employee keeps all their benefits, and their job is guaranteed for them when they return. You are also protected by confidentiality, so your employer cannot disclose the nature of your absence to others.
When I used it, my employer was only allowed to say that I was “on leave,” my accounts, such as my school email (your district may do something different), were put on pause until I returned. Also, when I say employer, I mean your human resources department. If you disclose your situation to your school principal, that is your choice, but the HR department cannot tell your principal why you are on leave. In my case, I did not write any lesson plans, either.
I share this information about FMLA because I was unaware I could use it when struggling with alcohol. I learned about it when I ended up in a hospital and the doctor on call recommended that I enter into treatment. My first reaction was, “No. I can’t. I’m a teacher.” He proceeded to explain FMLA to me, and when my family contacted my district’s human resources department, the HR staff confirmed that with the proper documentation, I was eligible for it.
Many teachers have lost their jobs due to drinking, and if they haven’t lost their jobs, they have suffered other consequences, too. When I taught, I built my schedule around alcohol so that I could teach, lesson plan, grade, drink, pass out and get up only to repeat the same cycle every day for years. Alcohol dictated everything for me, and it made me physically very sick, yet I still successfully put up appearances of doing well. I was quietly letting it kill me. You don’t have to spend another school year suffering if you are still teaching. I let my problem spiral to the point where I had to leave, but you don’t have to.
“Rehab is like a fortress. When you come in, we protect you from your demons, but when you leave, those demons are right where you left them, waiting. So how are you going to be different when you walk out those doors?” We were in a women’s session and the counselor, Kathryn, stopped to ask us that question.
Jessica today. Despite the ending of the story, today, Jessica has been sober since November 28th, 2020.
Shit. I didn’t know. Was I different? My eyes shifted from side to side to see if anyone showed signs of having morphed.
Then, as I processed more of what she said, I also realized that this so-called fortress didn’t do that good of a job protecting us from our demons or even ourselves while inside. The counselors always sat around in meetings each morning before coming in to work with us. Kathryn was always in the know about all the patient gossip and drama. But how could she ignore that the day before one of my friends found a twenty-something slumped over in the bathroom stall? He had snuck pain pills in and nodded off after using them in the restroom. He had to go to the ER.
Did she not get filled in by management on how the week before Melissa, a mom in treatment on a judge’s order, was caught high on meth? This was her last chance to get her kids back from foster care and she ended up high after almost twenty days sober. “I just didn’t expect to see it, right in my face. When Connor snuck meth in and showed it to me, I didn’t think about anything but that feeling. I just want to apologize to the group for using drugs here. Now I don’t know what the judge will do with my kids.” I remember her holding back tears as she apologized.
I wish I could go back to that moment and hold Melissa, then shake her and yell at her, “Don’t apologize to us! You thought you were safe and some idiot used what he knew would be a weakness against you. Don’t be ashamed because you relapsed. You are not a bad mom. You are not a bad person. Be proud that you’re still here and willing to continue. Be proud that you accepted another chance. Be proud that you’re getting help!”
Really, these were all things I wish people would have said to me each time I relapsed last year. I say these things now to others when they relapse. I can’t help but wonder how Melissa is today and where her kids are. She always carried these slightly crinkled pictures of them in her folder and liked to pull them out in meetings and sessions. Big smiles, glowing skin, big messy curls that looked like they just got tousled while they had a blast playing. I hope they’re all together. I left before she did and lost touch quickly after. Did she become that “different” person that Kathryn said she had to be? Was she able to ward off the dragons laying wait outside of rehab after the five weeks were up? What a long time for her … for anyone.
Thirty-five days.
I had thirty-five days of peace, away from everything. These five weeks in rehab were meant for me to cocoon myself before I emerged and flew away like some beautiful butterfly. My days in rehab were coming to an end as I felt my discharge day getting closer every morning. I saw the new date on the board. June 27 … June 28 … and finally June 29, the night before my departure.
“Alright Ms. Jessica, let’s review and sign off on your aftercare plan. We are confirming that you are in fact going back to your house where you live by yourself, and you will be attending IOP (intensive outpatient program) for nine weeks,” said Nancy. Nancy was the social worker in charge of our transitional plans. “Are you sure you don’t want to go into sober living?” she asked. I shook my head. Hell no, I thought. There was absolutely no way that I was going to move into sober living. I was ready to be in my own space by myself and back with my puppy Cruz.
I’ll be honest, I had the fleeting thought that maybe going straight home wasn’t the best idea. Then I had another thought that if I wanted to drink, my location wasn’t going to stop me from doing so, so I might as well go home. These back and forth conversations in my head were draining me of any morale I had left.
After weeks of classes and group sessions, I could teach someone else the ins and outs of treatment. I could tell you exactly what triggers are and the science behind addiction and why we were all after dopamine whether you drank cheap liquor or shot heroin. I could tell you all about twelve-step and other recovery programs that we were introduced to.
I was the valedictorian of rehab, a perfect mirror. Anything that I was taught I reflected back to everyone well enough to make them think, “Jessica’s got it,” when in fact, I did not. My last night in our group meeting, we went around the room and everyone had something nice to say about their time knowing me and their confidence in my ability to do well. I smiled at everyone and gave big hugs and promises of staying friends and keeping in touch. Internally, I cringed as each kind word made my stomach sink further.
I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself.
I remember going to bed, bags packed, outfit selected to go home in. In my head, I planned to go back to normal and just not drink. But deep down there was that damn sinking feeling. I felt it every time I tried to convince myself that I was going back to “normal.” I tried to replay everyone’s kind words, but I couldn’t find ease or comfort in them. I pulled my hidden sleep meds from my bra and swallowed them quickly so I could fall fast asleep and escape the sense of impending doom I hated so much.
The morning came and my friend who had been taking care of Cruz since the day I went into treatment was waiting there to pick me up. I walked out into the sun and into her arms. It was so good to hug a friend from the outside world. We went straight to the grocery store where the smell of cilantro in the produce aisle made my mouth water. I remember filling my basket full of bright fruits and other healthy snacks. I was planning to keep up the balanced eating habits I picked up in treatment.
Though I was dead sober, I don’t remember the ride back to my house. It was a blur. She came into the house with me, did a quick safety check to make sure there weren’t any bottles remaining, embraced me, and asked, “Alright girl, you gonna be good?” Uhhhhh, I thought, but I said, “Yeah, it’ll be tough, but I’ll be good.” As I shut the door behind her, I turned around and looked into my house. It was an empty, painful sight to take in.
So, it’s just you and me, I thought. Just me and this house of broken dreams. I went to turn the TV on, but nothing happened. I forgot that I had fallen onto it while drunk at some point and broke some cables. I opened my laptop to get online, but there was a picture of my dead boyfriend, handsome and joyful, so I slammed the computer shut. I sat at the table, but the seat felt too hard. I went to the couch, but the seat was covered in dog hair. I moved to another chair, but it felt empty.
The house I lived in in Louisville. Picture is from a realtor site.
Then, like a small drop of water that will eventually overflow a bucket, the thought of having a drink made its way into my head. From this one thought, the desire immediately rushed throughout my body. I was overcome by the fiendish sensation.
I know I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, I told myself. This thought was immediately followed by rationalizations.
Well, I can order a bottle and I don’t have to drink it, I said to myself as I got on my phone to get on the alcohol delivery app.
Yeah, I can pour it down the drain after a few drinks, I told myself when I closed out my cart and completed my purchase.
I repeated these same thoughts over the next hour as I waited for the delivery. I reawakened my old routine of pretending everything was fine. I called my sister, “Hey! Just letting you know I’m finally home … Yeah, it’s definitely weird … Yeah, I promise I’ll call if anything … Yeah, I’m so sleepy I’m going to go to bed early…” I also sent a few texts to let people know that all was “good” and I was going to “bed” because I was “tired.”
This was around 7:30 PM. I was not going to bed.
It was in my hands and then my mouth. It burned in my throat. I gagged at first because I had forgotten what it was like and had chugged it straight from the bottle like I had been in a desert and hit an oasis.
I was finally out of this protective space that treatment was intended to be for me, this so-called fortress, this cocoon. I was in fact, a beautiful butterfly, but my wings were crumpled. I couldn’t fly, so I crashed hard. As I lay there flat on my back on the floor, a song played on repeat that I fell in love with while I was gone, Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues.
Never reaching the end
Letters I’ve written
Never meaning to send
Beauty I’d always missed
With these eyes before
Just what the truth is
I can’t say anymore…
I took one last breath, closed my eyes, and everything faded to black as I went back under the water of my addiction.
Originally written by Jessica for Love and Literature magazine.
To read the previous chapter, chapter 3 click here.
“Well, the funny thing is I didn’t tell him that I have the Holy Trinity.” Natalie cackled while talking to some of the twenty-somethings in the courtyard.
Off to the side of everyone chatting, I was sitting in a beat-up camping chair trying to mind my business and enjoy the sun and its warmth on my skin. Natalie’s voice carried over to my ears and I could feel them perk up. Holy Trinity? I wondered. Even though I initially wasn’t listening, her gleeful energy in between cigarette pulls caught everyone’s attention, including mine.
Photo from Unsplash.
“You know,” she said as the smoke slowly floated up from the side of her mouth, “Hep A, B, and C!”
Immediately my jaw dropped with a slight gasp and laugh. What? Then I had a flashback to the night before when I saw some of the “young ones,” as I like to call them, scurrying around the facility. They were trying to distract the techs from supervising so Natalie and some other kid could run off to have sex. What was another conquest for Natalie to brag about was about to become a really uncomfortable situation for that kid. Days later, he came back to us saying that he tested “positive.” Originally I thought it would be for hepatitis given Mother Teresa and her “Holy Trinity,” but it turned out to be some other STI. So maybe the joke was on Natalie? I don’t know. There were no condoms around because, of course, no one was supposed to have sex. Except they did, and clearly it was not safe.
I remember one morning coming back to my room after brushing my teeth. As I approached, I noticed that the lights were off. Hmm, did I do that? Our doors didn’t lock, so as I leaned on the door with my arms full of toiletries, I heard heavy breathing from the other side of the room and saw shuffling under the covers. It was my roommate with a particularly creepy man who made my skin crawl. I cringed when I heard him moan then loudly whisper in her ear. He definitely was not a twenty-something.
Do I interrupt? Do I tell a tech what’s happening? I knew the rules, but I didn’t know what was considered right and what was wrong. I was quickly learning during my stay that it wasn’t about the rules, it was about what I needed to get through those 35 days in peace. It hit me that my five weeks would quickly feel like ten if I had a conflict with anyone, so in that moment, I decided that I hadn’t seen or heard anything.
Before they noticed that I had walked in, I stepped out and took a seat in the common area. I exhaled, putting my face in the palm of my hand to wait. It only took a few minutes for him to come out of the room. I was not surprised.
While the techs occasionally played Whack-A-Mole trying to control the twenty-somethings, I found myself entertained in my own way thanks to another patient. No, I did not have sex with this man. I didn’t even touch him. But I still found myself distracted in his company. Our connection brought me comfort at a moment in my life when I was grieving the man I knew was permanently gone. He was no replacement, but he took me away from my pain. If I couldn’t have alcohol while in treatment, at least I could have some male attention. He was exactly what I needed for those five weeks.
I always looked forward to early evening when we could work on crossword puzzles by the tech desk. We chatted with each other and the techs, who, like Danielle, were all in recovery and helped remind us that getting better was possible.
Photo from Unsplash.
As it got close to 9 PM, I began to dread my nightly trip to the nurse’s station. As soon as I took my night meds, the clock started counting down. Slowly my eyelids got heavier and my head started to nod off, which annoyed me. It was a nice change, for once, to actually want to be awake, but those meds sapped my energy. I was finally laughing with others after not having done so in over a month, and even more surprising, I was smiling again. I didn’t want the meds to take that little bit of joy away from me early every evening.
As we worked on the crossword one time, I looked at him and wondered, why isn’t HE sleepy? It was then that I learned from the others how to “cheek” my meds. So that night I went into the nurse’s station, took the little paper cup with my medications, emptied it into my mouth and said “ahhh” like a little kid as I stuck my tongue out so the nurse could take a look. All the while, I tasted the bitterness of the pills hidden between my gums and cheek as they started to break down. I rushed to the bathroom to spit them out before they disintegrated, wrapped them up in tissue, stuffed them into my bra, and saved them for when I wanted to go to bed. Back to the crosswords!
I rapidly fell into the daily routine. I was so wrapped up with therapy, groups, and classes that I started to forget about the world outside, the world that treatment was shielding me from.
I was vaguely aware that it was a world that seemed to have fallen apart. Every now and then, someone would flip past a news channel while looking for another episode of Botched. I remember hearing snippets of COVID’s numbers going up as the TV abruptly switched to Naked and Afraid or some other reality show. I remember being allowed to watch TV briefly while the protests broke out around the country and just miles away from where we were. Then, as soon as gunshots rang out live on TV, it suddenly became silent. TV off. A part of me was relieved to be away from it all. Away from one unprecedented event after the other as well as the alcohol that waited patiently for me.
Every week I got thirty minutes to speak to someone from the outside on video chat. I always chose my sister, Sophie. It had hurt her so much to see me struggling that I wanted to show her how good I looked the longer I was in treatment.
“You have no idea how much at peace I feel knowing you’re safe. I’ve been taking the family support classes, and I’m learning a lot,” she’d say. The facility provided classes for both families and patients on addiction and how it is a disease and not a failure of character.
I still felt like a failure, but I didn’t have to think about that in treatment. Instead, I could just relax, like I was at a summer camp for dysfunctional adults. I knew what was waiting for me on the other side of the fence. It was the people outside, those people and their opinions, that ran chills down my spine.
“Mami doesn’t know where I am, right?” I asked.
Photo from Unsplash.
Each time I spoke to my sister, I asked if people had figured out where I was, fearful that my secret would be revealed. I just wanted people to think I was taking time for myself and “unplugging” after the loss. I didn’t want a soul to know that I was locked away in a treatment facility, that I was institutionalized.
The very idea of anyone knowing where I was made my heart race and my stomach sink fast, like a free fall with no end. I’d seen people get ripped apart publicly because of their secrets and I didn’t want that to be me. As I watched my sister chat on the screen about her days and what things have been like for her, my mind wandered to thoughts of how I would rather die than have others know where I was. I mean, how could I, this teacher loved by the community, be an alcoholic? How could I be such an extreme case that I couldn’t be trusted with my own life and had to be locked away? How could I be a good person but be hooked so badly?
It. Just. Didn’t. Make. Sense.
I didn’t tell my sister that those thoughts raced through my mind while we spoke. I didn’t tell my therapist when I looked her in her eyes across her desk. I didn’t tell anyone in my group sessions during those heavy pauses when I could have said something. I did not tell a single soul how torn I felt inside.
Even in those moments, surrounded by people just like me, I was alone.
Originally written by Jessica for Love & Literature Magazine.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said, narrowly opening my eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening while hanging upside down. It was the morning of May 25, 2020, and I had just gained consciousness after wrecking my car on Bardstown Rd in Louisville, Kentucky. I vaguely remembered that my dog Cruz and I were on our way to meet a friend for a walk. Instead, I found myself suspended in the air by my seatbelt, realizing that everything was upside down and feeling the pressure of blood rushing to my head. Awake and still alive, unfortunately.
Stock image of a flipped car. Mine was flipped in the same manner.
“Wait, my dog….” I started to mumble when I looked out, and there he was, tail still as if he was holding his breath waiting for me. Relief.
Then the waves hit my body one after the other. Not pain, but first fear. “What is happening to me?” Next, anger. “I shouldn’t be okay…I don’t want this!” Lastly, shame. “I’m awful. How could I want to die with my dog in the car? What kind of sick person am I? I deserve to die. I’m fucking hopeless.”
I wanted to walk away from the scene to escape the best way I knew how, racing to the bottom of a bottle of cheap bourbon. Still, first things first, these damn first responders weren’t letting me go if it wasn’t in an ambulance. I hadn’t even realized that I lacerated my elbow and had pieces of glass embedded throughout my skin like some sort of glittery decor.
“I don’t want any Goddamn help,” I muttered under my breath as I got into the ambulance. I had to answer the same rote questions I’ve responded to many times in ambulance rides. “Wait, how do you spell your last name?” “D for David, u, e for Edward…” until getting to the hospital.
Though I was furious and incredibly resentful at going to the hospital, there was one positive: Pain pills! My favorite mind-altering drug has always been alcohol, as I never had the “oomph” in me to work as hard as people do to get illicit drugs. However, I certainly wasn’t going to reject a nice prescription, either. I could already feel the euphoria just before blacking out with burning splashes of Evan Williams. I couldn’t wait to escape my misery and get away for a day or two.
“Here’s your prescription for Ibuprofen 800s.”
“Excuse me, IBUPROFEN?!” I felt myself clutching my nonexistent pearls.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But, I just flipped my car over. I just got out of a terrible wreck.”
“Sorry, you aren’t experiencing enough pain for anything stronger.”
Wow. Immediately I wondered what the fuck someone would have to do to get a pain pill around here; I mean, lose a limb? Welp, there went any slight, “on the bright side,” feeling I was starting to have. My stomach started sinking again. I rolled my eyes and groaned.
Getting home from the hospital, I knew I would have to tell my sister what happened. I had already been hospitalized several times since April 28, when I found my then-boyfriend dead from a drug overdose. Ever since, I was trapped in what felt like a never-ending bender from Hell. In less than a month, I had already gone twice to detox. I had several emergency room visits with dangerously high blood alcohol levels. So to prepare myself for this call, I got a few liquor bottles dropped off thanks to alcohol delivery and opened one of the bottles. No need to pour it in a glass, I drank it like water.
“Jess, you’re dying. You need help. Please, go somewhere. I can’t handle this. Every time the phone rings, I’m terrified,” Sophie cried. I sighed and thought to myself, Damn, I don’t want to be hurting her like this. So I picked up the phone and called a local treatment facility inquiring about their five-week program. Deep down, I was hoping they wouldn’t have a bed open. Deep down, I wanted to just keep drinking and shut down. I was already dreading the feeling of detoxing and withdrawals. The woman on the phone said, “Yes! We can take you. How about we pick you up later today?” I went to clutch my imaginary pearls again.
“TODAY?! but I’m not packed.”
“That’s okay. Someone can drop clothes off for you.”
I tried to deflect. “I can’t come tomorrow?”
“Well, sweetheart, you CAN come tomorrow, but WILL you make it ’til then?” I sighed.
“FINE. But can you come in the evening?”
“Yes.”
Rubbing my hands together, I realized I had a few hours so that I could give myself one last hurrah before I went into this place. I couldn’t imagine five weeks without drinking. I dreaded the idea of having to feel everything, of only being unconscious to sleep. So I swallowed hard, I drank fast. I threw the Ibuprofen 800s in the trash. I vaguely remember a friend coming to get Cruz, and then everything went dark and silent. I couldn’t feel a thing. Things were exactly how I wanted them to be always and forever.
Intake picture from treatment. May 2020.
I came-to on a couch in an unfamiliar space. I looked around. There were people watching TV, others were playing games at a table, someone was writing in a notebook while reading out of what appeared to be a Bible. I could tell I needed a drink; my head was starting to throb, my hands were beginning to shake. I looked down. As I examined the dried blood on my clothes, I suddenly felt like my elbow was being stabbed. There were some rough stitches in there. The thick, black surgical thread stuck out of my elbow like a porcupine’s needles. I got up only to feel the room start spinning, and a woman, to this day I don’t remember who it was, grabbed my good arm and walked me to a room. She pointed me to a plainly dressed bed. Immediately I got in. Back to black. Relief.
I finally woke up with a clearer head in that same bed and walked out of the room. It looked like I was in a college dorm setup of some kind. I saw people sitting in a courtyard, cigarettes and vape pens in hand surrounded by a cloud of smoke to the left of me. In front of me, standing at the desk, a young woman looked at me and smiled, “Hi Jessica! How are you, love? I’m Danielle.” Danielle was a tech, so she was introducing herself to let me know that she, alongside the other techs, supervised the area to make sure that all was in order. She was also a few years in recovery from all kinds of drugs, and she just glowed.
Medical Bracelet while in treatment in Louisville, KY where I was hospitalized May-June of 2020.
As she walked me around the facility to give me a sense of where I was, she ran down basic things like the schedule, rules, and our responsibilities. Yes, we as the patients, had chores. Some people eagerly waved “hello” as we passed them. Others looked like they had just gotten there, too, and moved about like zombies.
“You know, my boyfriend died two years ago from a drug overdose, too.” I was immediately caught off guard. First, I wondered how she knew, then second, I felt a surge of relief. It had basically been a month since Ian died, and I had yet to hear that there was another soul on this earth who also had a boyfriend who died from a drug overdose. She sat me down and shared her story with me. There was so much I related to. I had to ask, “But, how did you live through it? How are you still here?”
In my mind, I thought this life experience was supposed to come with some sort of death sentence. That I would just bide my time until I killed myself or died of alcohol poisoning. But Danielle, here she was, joyful, glowing, and with some solid continuous sober time under her belt and proving me wrong.
“Oh, trust me, it was the worst experience of my life to date, and my heart is still broken. Eventually, you start to find your way in this world with grief. I promise you it gets better. I’m a testament to that.”
Immediately I felt a tiny shift in me, a butterfly in my stomach. Maybe it does, in fact, get better. I mean, if Danielle did it, perhaps I can, too. She gave me a hug, which also surprised me, and went off to finish her shift. Before leaving for the day, Danielle came back to find me and handed me a sheet she pulled from the tech desk printer. The paper read:
Page from my journal where I pasted the printout. June 2020.
People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.
A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.
A soul mate’s purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master…
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love
I knew then that although it was going to be a long five weeks, that maybe this was exactly what I needed.
Originally written by Jessica for Love & Literature Magazine.
Oxford defines recovery as “a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.” It also offers a second meaning, “the action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost.” For me, my recovery consists of moving to a functional state of good health and regaining control of myself. This has required complete abstinence from both drinking and teaching.
I’m Jessica. I was Kentucky’s State Teacher of the Year in 2019, and I’m also a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober since November 28th, 2020, and free from teaching since December 4th, 2020. I couldn’t tell you exactly when I lost myself. However, I can tell you my habit of avoiding feelings began when I was fat-shamed as a child. I learned to steal and hide the food I wanted to eat to avoid embarrassment. I ate like this for many years and dedicated myself to excelling as a student to feel better about being an overweight child and later a teen.
Eventually, my escapism transferred to alcohol and my career. After being called out at a happy hour for drinking too much, I decided to hide my alcohol consumption from others. “Whoa, you’re moving a little fast there, aren’t you?” I remember a fellow teacher said to me. My face was hot with shame, and from that day forward, unless I accidentally over-drank in front of others, I tried my best to not be caught drunker than the group I was with. I did well at work, so when I did slip and drink too much, no one could say I had a problem with alcohol because “look at how great Jessica is as an educator.”
Teacher of the Year Head Shot, 2019.
I hid my love for alcohol in many ways. A classic example is that I monitored how others drank at events to make sure that I matched everyone else drink for drink. If others had one glass, I had one. If they had four, I had four. I always knew something was wrong with me, but I gaslit myself. I convinced myself that there couldn’t be anything wrong with me because I went to college and then graduate school, twice. Alcoholics don’t get graduate degrees. They don’t successfully build relationships with kids and win awards for their work. There is no way that you can be named the top teacher in a state and be an alcoholic. But I was.
I lived a painful double life where every day I suffered and every day I chose to not tell anyone and drank instead. I eventually was physically dependent on alcohol, so I felt even worse about myself. How did I cope? I threw myself into teaching. I couldn’t be a bad person if I was a good educator, right?
My days were a non-stop Groundhog Day. I came home from whichever school I worked at and breathed a sigh of relief because I could be unbothered. I could drink without fear of judgment. Over the years, the amount of liquor I needed to escape and avoid withdrawal symptoms increased. I consumed a bit more than a fifth of liquor a day at the end of my drinking career. I ignored a diagnosis of alcoholic liver disease in 2019 and continued to drink. I allowed my health to decline as I drank more. I always had to lie as to why I felt sick. My students asked, “Why are you always going to the bathroom? Why are you always going to throw up?” I told them my stomach was just sensitive. However, no matter what, Ms. Dueñas was always doing her best.
My persona had two sides, and neither one was truly me. My teacher self took turns with my addicted self for years until April 28th of 2020, when my then-boyfriend relapsed and died from an overdose. That day between alcohol and teaching, the alcohol took over and controlled me fully until my current sobriety date.
Rehab, 2020.
For months, I barely worked as I was in and out of hospitals, staying in treatment facilities, and putting together a few weeks of fragile sobriety at a time before violently crashing. The day I left a five-week-long treatment program, I ordered alcohol delivery and faded away by myself. I wrecked my car, blew nearly a .5 blood alcohol level, and tried to purchase a gun to shoot myself with. I was hospitalized for the last time in November of 2020, which is when this recovery process truly started.
A psychiatrist at the hospital asked to evaluate me, and upon digging into my history, he diagnosed me with bipolar 2. The Mayo Clinic defines bipolar disorder as “a mental health condition that causes extreme mood swings that include emotional highs and lows.” With bipolar 2, “you’ve had at least one major depressive episode and at least one hypomanic (somewhat energized/euphoric) episode, but you’ve never had a manic episode (which is more severe).” So, for individuals with bipolar 2, there is never a psychotic episode, for example.
The doctor informed me of how frequently substance abuse went hand in hand with mental health conditions. He recommended that I try medication with a recovery program and therapy as part of my wellness plan. I accepted the recommendation. By then, things had gone too far. I wanted to die, but I was not dying, and my everyday existence had become unbearable. Something had to change. I needed to gain control of myself. I needed to get healthy. I needed to recover.
When I decided to accept help, I also realized that alcohol was not the only external factor controlling my life. It was not the only thing keeping me from being healthy. I allowed my teaching career to be just as much of an escape from myself as alcohol. No matter what chaos happened in my personal life, I was an excellent actor, and the classroom was my stage. I could only feel better about who I was if I helped others, but I never once helped myself. The teaching had to go as much as the alcohol needed to. I was reborn.
16 Months Sober, 2022.
Since November 2020, I’ve embarked on this lifelong journey of becoming authentically me. My medications allow me to feel enough stability to use my recovery program and therapy to address my mental and spiritual needs. I now can face past traumas that I avoided. I journal daily, pray, meditate, and lean on my support group. I don’t isolate myself. I connect with others both in person and through social media. I try new things. I care less about other people’s opinions of me, and when I do care, because I’m a human, I have ways to check myself and my fears. I don’t worry about constantly meeting others’ needs. I have identified MY needs, and I ask myself if people and situations meet them, and when they don’t, I remove myself.
Today, my success is not measured by academic standards, standardized test results, or a score on an administrator’s observation rubric. My success is measured by the intangible, my ability to create a life I no longer need to escape. Not everyone is allowed to do so and I am incredibly grateful for my daily gifts. Happy Resurrection Day.
