“We’re miracles. I mean, we’re the walking dead. None of us in this room should be alive, but here we are. So we’ve gotta show some gratitude,” Jennifer laughed. My eyebrows went up as I nodded slowly, side to side, in careful consideration of what I had just heard.
Jennifer is this woman in New York who gets on some Zoom meetings. I admire her. She’s blunt and always adds a perspective that I hadn’t considered before. She has this gift of sharing her gratitude in what some may consider a rough manner, but she always delivers her message with a smile. Grim as it sounds, she’s right. For people in recovery, just one day away from their poison of choice is a miracle.
So, all things considered, after 365 days of abstaining from MY vice, I definitely am a miracle.
Different photos from active drinking compared to me sober for a year.
Also, I am among the walking dead.
I am a year away from eight hospitalizations in treatment facilities after blurry ambulance rides or drop-offs I don’t remember. From having flipped my car over in a violent wreck. From lethal levels of poison that coursed through my veins (I blew nearly a .5 blood alcohol level a few times.) From almost having bought a gun to end what felt like a never-ending downward spiral of relapses. From living in shame, thinking I was an awful person because I was an alcoholic. From working SO hard to hide that all these frightening things were happening.
What can I say? I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I could not juggle my perfectionism, my career, and the secret of my addiction. I got tired of waiting to die and not dying. I was tired of holding everything in.
My sobriety date is November 28, 2020. My Op-Ed was released on December 3, 2020.
Something had to change, and I had a moment of inspired action. I thought, “F*ck it, I’m going to write an article, publish it somewhere and tell everybody. I don’t care anymore.”
So with only a few days sober, I published an Op-Ed in Louisville’s Courier-Journal and told everyone that I was an alcoholic. It was as if out from deep within, I summoned the courage to shatter the padlock that my alcoholism was to my recovery toolbox. Once I pulled that toolbox open, everything else came forth that I needed.
Was I nervous?
I was terrified.
That decision to step off a ledge of familiarity and dive into a world where I had to trust that I would not drown filled my stomach with knots even the deepest of breathing exercises was not loosening up. But I was determined to be done.
I can’t tell you how many times in the last twelve months I have stopped and thought, “oh, I was at a rehab facility this time last year.” Or, “I was laying in a puddle of my blood this time last year.” When I say that I never believed I could stop drinking, I mean it. I was waiting to die from alcohol poisoning or some other tragedy. Never did I envision myself being a sober woman writing this today.
This past year has been like walking on a tightrope coming out of a dark cave towards light. I’ve used faith and trust in my higher power and others to help me balance along the way. So far, so good. Sometimes hesitantly, sometimes excitedly, I’ve put one foot ahead of the other a day at a time for 365 days. I know there is no getting off this tightrope without severe consequences, so I’m grateful that I get to walk the line for another day.
Jacqueline’s first words that I ever read were, “I never thought of myself as an alcoholic. I never lost a job because of it, had no DUIs, my relationships were alright. I always had other excuses for why I would end up in the emergency department. It wasn’t until last year, when I spent 46 days in the hospital and almost died, that I was diagnosed with alcoholic liver disease. A few months later, I ended up on the liver transplant list. I am now sober, but I’m living my life waiting for a miracle recovery or for my MELD score to skyrocket and get a liver transplant.” Jacqueline wrote to me when she read the NPR article about the increase of alcoholic liver disease in women. Immediately, I had to connect with her. When we chatted, Jacqueline had recently had surgery, so she wasn’t ready at the moment to share, but it was enough to make an impact on me. I made sure to save her number.
Today, a text notification went off, and when I went to swipe up on my screen, the miracle had happened, Jacqueline reached out. She is feeling better and is off the transplant list! Now that we finally had the opportunity to talk, the question was, how did she get here?
Jacqueline was born in a suburb of Boulder, Colorado, and spent her childhood between Colorado and a college town in Minnesota. We didn’t chat too much about her early childhood. Still, like many other people with alcohol abuse disorder, Jacqueline started drinking and smoking cigarettes in middle school. Early on, Jacqueline was successful at managing both drinking and life’s responsibilities. Through middle school and high school, she went to school, worked as a nanny and part-time in restaurants, and practiced all kinds of dance at an art academy, and of course, partied.
Like many of the women I get the honor of speaking to, Jacqueline is a trauma survivor. Her voice shook as she recalled the experience of getting raped when she was 16. Her parents were out of town, and there were friends over for a party. The guy she had a crush on ripped peace from her that night.
In her own home.
In her own bed.
Her friends turned their backs on her, victim-blaming her because she happened to have a crush on him. So, what about her family? Jacqueline wanted to clarify that her mother always has had the best of intentions for her. Still, Jacqueline mentioned that her mother struggled to get Jacqueline the support for her mental health needs at that turning point in her life. Trapped by the stigma of mental health problems, Jacqueline’s mother allowed her to get therapy. However, a thorough diagnosis of the effects of the trauma on Jacqueline and difficulties she had with learning were never fully addressed at that time. In turn, Jacqueline’s coping mechanisms while becoming a young woman were anything but healthy.
After high school, Jacqueline’s parents sent her to Colorado on her own to escape an abusive boyfriend in Minnesota. He constantly tried to control her, kept her in spaces against her will, and threatened to injure her. Jacqueline suffered this ordeal in secret until she confided in her sister-in-law, who alerted her parents. It was a significant change to be in a different state suddenly, but it was incredibly liberating to be on her own. She had a car, followed her own schedule, and did what she wanted. She was independent. “I finally wasn’t grounded anymore!” She exclaimed. Jacqueline provided for herself, working multiple jobs, including medical secretary, emergency room registration, teaching dance, and bartending. Despite her many positions, she managed to party, drink, and do well.
Relationships typically didn’t help make Jacqueline’s life better. She was drawn to unavailable individuals who already in relationships, married, or simply emotionally unavailable. She was a hopeless romantic that never wanted to fall in love. Once, there was a doctor she was seeing who had seen her wit and intelligence. He encouraged her to enroll in college. She did well in her first year, but suddenly things “hit a wall” for her that summer and her drinking started to take a turn for the worse. Though Jacqueline did well in school, she accepted a job she was passionate about starting. Suddenly, the position was dissolved, and she felt lost. Lost, with student debt, and alone again.
Eventually, circumstances led Jacqueline to the live music scene. She met her current partner of five and a half years when she saw him at a concert. Ever since they connected, they’ve been inseparable. They have supported each other through all of life’s challenges, including Jacqueline needing to turn her life around.
The couple drank together, being often around musicians. They had a lot of fun, and though they sometimes had drunken arguments, they enjoyed each other, too. Despite their heavy drinking, the two were able to buy a home, keep employment. They functioned successfully, so though Jacqueline deep down inside she knew something was probably wrong, it was easy to ignore. “I wasn’t what you consider a typical alcoholic.”
Another incident struck Jacqueline’s life that brought her drinking to another level of escalation. She was injured at work and had to take time off. She also had to fight her then employer in court to get compensated. Suddenly being trapped at home, being in pain, and being stressed about her finances, Jacqueline needed to numb herself to escape the pain of everyday living in these circumstances. Alcohol relieved her stress and her anxiety. Between her and her partner, they drank about two-thirds to three-fourths of a handle of liquor a night. They drank like this from 2018 onward.
Jacqueline eventually started noticing that she was eating less. She wasn’t thirsty anymore, either. It would be like this for days. She was getting dizzy more regularly. She was run down and just felt sick. Her dizzy spells were so powerful that she went to the emergency room repeatedly in 2019 to address “low potassium levels” or “dehydration.” I asked, “Did your family notice?” She responded, “They were in Minnesota, so they had no clue. If they ever did discover she was in urgent care or the emergency department it was just ‘dehydration,’ or a ‘migraine.’ The only one who knew was my partner (because he drank, too),” she replied. “He admits now, that he was lying to himself, but he didn’t know the full truth. A lot of the times I ended up in the ED (emergency department) and told the medical staff how much I was struggling, and he would be frustrated because I had never voiced those complaints to him.”
Meanwhile, I thought the doctors MUST have noticed something was going on with her. I asked, “I mean, didn’t they run labs on you? You had to have liver disease already, and they didn’t check your liver enzymes? They never diagnosed you with ALD?” I was shocked at the fact that no one had pointed out the simple fact to Jacqueline that alcohol was killing her. Jacqueline, I could almost envision her shaking her head, stated, “No, just nausea, dehydration, and tell me to follow up with my doctor. So I’d quit for a few weeks to seem better, but then I would start to drink again. I avoided doing blood work. I was still functioning, so I didn’t think I needed to stop. I acted like I was fine. My bills were paid, no DUI, no trouble with the law, no relationship problems at the time, my relationship with my family was fine, my relationships with friends were good, too.” “So you never thought there was something wrong?” I asked. She replied, “Well, I always knew something was wrong with me, I knew it the whole time.” I understood exactly what she meant.
Finally, Jacqueline had her life-changing hospital visit. First, she had had an emergency room visit, and though she still felt sick after getting fluids, they released her to go home. She and her partner stopped to get groceries when suddenly everything started going black for Jacqueline. “I saw a tunnel closing in around me, I was going to faint. He grabbed me and took me right back to the hospital.”
At the hospital, things took a turn for the worse.
“I became yellow, my MELD score was 29, my bilirubin level was 30 (normal is under 1.2). I looked like I was eight months pregnant from ascites. I was dying. I had to stay in for 46 days.” For reference, a MELD (Model for End Stage Liver Disease) score is a number that qualifies a person for a liver transplant, so the higher the number, the worse shape the person’s liver is in. The highest MELD number is 40, so Jacqueline’s liver was in bad shape. Jacqueline needed to get on the liver transplant list, but she would not qualify without abstinence given her alcohol consumption history.
So what did that look like? Jacqueline had to take a PETH test every two weeks for six months to prove she could stay away from alcohol. Unlike a breathalyzer that only checks for a present blood-alcohol level, a PETH test can detect any alcohol consumption from up to two weeks before the exam. Jacqueline was able to stay sober and get on the list, and once she got on the list, she just had to take the PETH test once a month.
But Jacqueline’s NOT on the transplant list now, right? She’s not.
During our conversation, Jacqueline informed me that her numbers, though not ideal, have stabilized. Her bilirubin levels dropped from 30 to a 4, and her MELD has consistently been a 12, down from 29. Today, Jacqueline is healthy enough not to require a liver transplant. She’s back to looking normal; she happily said, “I’m not yellow anymore!”
“So you’re safe to live a full adult life now, right?” I asked. Jacqueline is only 33 years old, just three years younger than me. Jacqueline paused, “Well, because I’m so young, the chances of me still needing a transplant when I’m older is doubled because I’m so young. So I’m really not off the hook yet.”
Though she has stabilized, Jacqueline does have mild cirrhosis of the liver. The liver can sustain damage up until the point of cirrhosis. At that point, the scar tissue doesn’t go away, it’s irreversible. That means Jacqueline has to do a lot of work to protect her liver from any further damage. Work that she will have to do until the day she draws her last breath.
This new life with permanent alcoholic liver disease is not an easy one for Jacqueline. For the rest of her life, Jacqueline has to be on a low sodium diet, consuming fewer than 2000 mg a day. Her liver doesn’t filter her blood properly, so fluids that a healthier person may be able to pass through urine will accumulate in her body. These fluids could press on her abdomen and potentially fill her lungs with fluid, so Jacqueline has to monitor her fluid intake and take diuretics.
She has a stomach ulcer and varices on her esophagus. According to Mayo Clinic, “Esophageal varices are abnormal, enlarged veins in the tube that connects the throat and stomach (esophagus). This condition occurs most often in people with serious liver diseases.
The vessels can leak blood or even rupture, causing life-threatening bleeding.”
I had to ask, “ And most importantly, you can’t drink. How do you stay away from alcohol?” Jacqueline explained that she uses cannabis for physical and emotional ailments. She takes microdoses of cannabis in candy form in the morning. It helps to keep her anxiety down and bring her appetite up. She has tried psych meds but didn’t respond well to them. “I don’t smoke the actual cannabis flowers, just the oil concentrate or eat the candies. It helps me get through. My biggest thing to not drink is focusing on how much it would hurt my partner, family, and team of doctors. They worked so hard to help get me here. It’d be a kick in the face for me just to go back out and drink. I had a relapse a year ago, and it landed me in the hospital. It was stupid, I thought I would have one, but course it wasn’t just one. It almost killed me.”
“Do you participate in any support groups?” Jacqueline’s support is her partner, her therapist, and her garden. She explained her coping by saying, “I believe in Mother Nature. Gardening really helps me. My plants really help me. For me, drinking wasn’t so much about the physical addiction, and it was always emotional. I coped every day. It was for my anxiety, for social anxiety. Today, my garden helps me.”
“Every day is excruciatingly grueling, especially those days when nothing goes right and you just want to shut out the world. That is why I continue to surround myself with plants and my garden. They remind me that they work so hard to become their most wonderful selves. Most people only appreciate them when they bloom, but I love them from the second I plant them until I mourn them dying and use them as compost to grow the next generation.”
(Just for some added detail, medical problems Jacqueline was treated for in during her 46 day stay because of her alcohol consumption was severe sepsis, acute respiratory failure with hypoxia, ascites, alcoholic hepatitis, liver failure, multiple hernias due to the ascites, IBS, severe diarrhea, C Diff Infection, anemia, jaundice, potassium deficiency, vitamin D deficiency. Jacqueline had a paracentesis to remove fluid from the abdominal cavity and had to have a PICC line placed to receive medications and have labs drawn as all of her IV’s started to blow out and the lab couldn’t get a proper stick.)
Gary’s mother, Cathy, reflects on her journey supporting Gary through his active alcoholism and addiction. She shares what it’s like seeing him in recovery today. Gary’s story is below.
“This is the longest I’ve been sober since when I was a baby until I was 12.” Gary laughed back in early March, chatting with me about his sobriety date in July.
“I get to share my life today in treatment facilities that I used to do everything to avoid, I love to share the solution. Life today is pretty amazing, I have a great job that I’m sure grateful for. I know I’m growing because if I miss a day of work, I actually feel bad about it. I used to love being off. The first 6 months of my recovery felt like a pink cloud, but depression has definitely been creeping up in the past two months. It’s crazy, people actually ask me for advice now because they see me doing well. It’s humbling. Of course, I do the work for myself but I love the motivation of others. Today is great. I have a safe living environment, I live with my former sponsor. It’s amazing that you don’t worry about anything when you try to do the next right thing. Sure I wish I could make a little more money, but there is a lot of peace at the end of the day. The best part is that my mom doesn’t worry, I actually answer the phone when she calls, and we have a great relationship today because I don’t terrorize her.”
Born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, Gary had a great upbringing because of his mother, Cathy. When he was eight months old, Cathy divorced Gary’s father. He struggled with his own demons, and Gary’s mom didn’t want Gary in a toxic environment.As a single mother, Cathy worked hard to provide him opportunities to go to good schools, and any time he had a problem, Cathy was always there for him, without a doubt. Eventually, she married his stepfather, who was another positive addition to Gary’s life as a child. His stepfather supported Cathy in raising him as a single mother. “I’m really grateful for my step-dad. He did a lot in helping my mom with me. I know I was spoiled but he helped make sure I wasn’t too spoiled. My mom and I, we’ve always been so close.
Gary as a child with Cathy. Provided by Gary.
As a kid, Gary remembers having had all the “isms,” what some people in recovery groups refer to as childhood signs of future addiction. He felt he never had enough. There wasn’t anything that Gary was satisfied with where he didn’t want more. Though he did well in school, Gary was rebellious outside of it. He recalled being a young teen trying beer for the first time, “I didn’t even like the taste of it, it was more the excitement that I was doing something wrong. I should have noticed I had a problem from way early on, but it didn’t seem weird because everyone else was doing it, too. It wasn’t til I was alone years later shooting up heroin and I looked around and realized that I’m alone, then it hit me.”
When he was 18, Gary was hit head-on in a car wreck, and despite having severe injuries that required intense recovery, Gary still was able to start college with a roaring start to his academic career. With days consisting of cocaine and alcohol, he remembered one of his most embarrassing moments when his grandmother visited his dorm. She opened his closet door only to have bottles of Southern Comfort crash down on her. Did he acknowledge that he maybe had a problem then? No.
“I mean,” Gary reflected, “I should have realized when I was kicked out of school and had to go back to Louisville that I had fucked up. But alcoholic, addict that I was, I didn’t.” At the time Gary’s behaviors blended in well among his college peers. It wasn’t until after graduation that everything started to escalate in all areas of his life.
For example, Gary had a beautiful girlfriend who later turned into his wife. Though they were happy for a while, it wasn’t your traditional love story either.
“What was getting married like?” I asked. “ Well, when I got engaged, it was thrown together. I hadn’t gotten her a ring, I was jacked off coke, and I went down into the basement. So when she came down and turned the lights on, I was there on my knee. I originally imagined asking her to marry me on Mt. Fuji, but no. I did it in the basement. But she was happy. She had always wanted a wedding, and I adored her. She used (drugs) with me, and in the beginning, we were both functional, but eventually, things got bad with us.”
“So earlier you said you said alcohol, coke, and pills were your thing. How did you get into heroin?”
Gary responded, “I used to be the type who said, I’ll never do meth, I’ll never do heroin. If you say that today, just give it time.” He went on to explain his first exposure to heroin at his dealer’s house. “I got to his house and I walked in. There’s kids running around, drugs everywhere. I’m not even phased by seeing kids around drugs at that point. It’s kind of embarrassing. Anyway, I’ll never forget, I saw a brown line of stuff on his dresser. It caught my eye. ‘What’s that?’ ‘That’s H, that’s boy.’ Ya know, heroin. Then of course, my dealer joked and said, ‘Bet you can’t take that line and make it home.’’ So Gary did, he continued, “I hate romanticizing drugs and I try not to, but I’m not gonna lie, I never felt better. I spent the rest of my active addiction chasing that feeling,” he concluded.
So if you do the math, that means that for the next 6 years of his life, Gary had heroin almost every day. He estimates that he spent over $200,000 over the years.
Though his drug use escalated, Gary was functional. He did well at a successful company. Gary shook his head, reflecting on how he would crush pills in the middle of the workday. He would use, then suddenly his productivity would shoot up. His boss would always remark, “damn Gary how did you get all of that done?” Gary smiled at me mischievously through the Facetime screen and shrugged his shoulders.
Between him and his then-wife’s combined work income, they bought a lake house near Bowling Green, Kentucky. Things were okay for a while. They worked, used, worked, a pattern that is familiar for many functioning alcoholics and addicts.
At one point Gary was moved to finally meet his father. I asked, “So you randomly wanted to meet your dad?” Gary confirmed, “Yep, it was a genius idea I had while high on coke.”
All these years later, Gary’s dad was still in active addiction, while on the other hand, Cathy, Gary’s mom, feared for Gary’s life as she heard about his drug use from others who witnessed it. At the lakehouse, Gary started to lose control. He would drink over a handle of liquor in a day. His tolerance had gotten so high he was using fentanyl, too. Everything seemed manageable to him until it suddenly wasn’t. One of the most giant red flags Gary experienced was when he and his then-wife hosted a dinner party for some childhood friends. Though he didn’t overdose, Gary snuck out mid-meal to get high and nodded out at the dinner table upon his return. His friends, sure, they drank, but seeing Gary’s chin drop down to his chest and his eyelids droop was enough to confirm to his friends what they had been suspecting, Gary was definitely an alcoholic and addicted to drugs. He was in danger. Upon returning to Louisville, those same friends made sure to let Cathy know, who felt on a heart wrenching level how close she was to losing her son.
Gary in active addiction. Provided by Gary.
“It was out there. I had a problem. I lost my job because of a slip-up. I would ask drug dealers to ‘hold the heroin’ and just give me fentanyl, so I went to rehab in 2019.” Gary, however, explained that he really hadn’t suffered enough to want to truly get sober. He only went because he wanted people to get off his back, especially his mom at the time who was worried sick about him. So when Gary left the facility this first time, he got high in the parking lot on the way out, got drunk, and ended up back at that isolated lake house south of Louisville. Now he started using drugs intravenously. His mother, if she was lucky, maybe heard from him once a week, even when she tried calling him every day. “I just wanted to disappear,” Gary explained, “I wanted to be able to hide, get high and not have anyone who cared, know.”
When Gary did choose to reach out to his mom, it was usually in a drunken stupor after drinking 1-2 handles of liquor. “I’d call my mom bawling my eyes out, then I’d end up in rehab, and suddenly I’d be like, ‘How did I end up here?’ I was in a really dark place. I was trying to get sober and I was failing.”
As Gary continued to struggle, his mother Cathy also needed to find guidance of her own. After leaving rehab, Gary’s tolerance dropped significantly, so what he used to use and drink without a problem was now enough to kill him. He overdosed well over 10 times until he got sober, the number may have been as high as 15 times or more. His mother herself had found him blue and possibly dead a few times.
How were you supposed to love your only son who could at any moment kill himself? Cathy found a support group for herself and resolved to love and support Gary, but not financially. Gary laughed as he shared how he was resentful when his mom was encouraged to not enable him with money. “I mean, I get it now, I didn’t then,” he chuckled.
As Gary’s life got more complex, his hopes vanished, too. He and his wife’s relationship had gotten so toxic that they separated. He had limited access to money. He was losing his house. He couldn’t stop drinking, and his thinking was incredibly distorted. He believed he had no way out, and knowing that his body could no longer handle drugs how it used to, he resolved within himself to get high one final time. He knew it would kill him and he was ready. “I had had enough. The fun was gone. The partying was over. I was killing my mom. In my mind I was like, ‘I’m doing this to make sure I NEVER ever wake up.’ So I took it. Then, I started to feel a warm, weighted blanket coming over me instantly. I knew then that I would die, and something in me panicked, ‘Oh my God I’m killing myself!’ So the last thing I remember is texting my friends and my mom. I sent my location from my phone. Later, I woke up in an ambulance.”
I asked, “So, who got you?” He responded, “My mom. Usually, if she had been at home or at work, she would have been 30 minutes away from where I was, but she was eating lunch two minutes away. She knew what was up, called an ambulance, and she came and found me. I was in the car. I was blue.”
Gary and Cathy Today. Provided by Gary.
Gary said a friend of his in recovery often says, “I hope you reach a level of desperation you never want to go back to.” After Cathy saved him from his suicide attempt, something changed in Gary. He can’t quite explain it, but the change led him to completely let go. He was ready for his stay in a psychiatric hospital after he was revived. He was ready to engage in rehab and take all the suggestions. He was prepared to participate in his twelve-step program and become a contributing member of his recovery community.
Today, Gary’s relationship is restored with Cathy. The greatest gift a son could give his mother is the gift of peace of mind. Today, Cathy has that.
Gary has been sober since July 16, 2020.
If interested in contacting Gary or Cathy, please send a contact request to Jessica.
I’ve been doing the “right” things, engaging in support groups, therapy, exercise, eating healthier, using medication, and yet I’ve still been waking up this week with the sensation of a weight on my diaphragm. I spoke to my therapist about it, crying as I pleaded for an answer, for some guidance.
“What’s still wrong with me? Shouldn’t I be feeling better by now?”
He said, “Well, Jessica, you’re someone who has always lived in a state of chaos. Even when you were incredibly successful in your career and looked good to others, something was always happening in secret that was bringing you down. Now that you’ve been sober for almost seven months and things are calm, you’re feeling everything you never felt before because you were numb. You’re doubting things. Maybe you feel you don’t deserve the good in your life, so you’re waiting for it to disappear. Trauma has been the norm for your mind, and now that it is peaceful, your brain is going to look for other ways to stir the pot.”
My therapist was precisely right. Everything IS going well in my life. I’m living in a safe space with my family, I have been able to stay sober, I have healthy relationships with people who love and support me, I have solid employment, I’m healthy, and I have no drama in my life. I have everything to be grateful for, and my mind still finds things to worry about. My irrational thoughts become real to me. They feel valid. They make me feel a sick, sinking feeling at the bottom of my rib cage that I used to try to escape.
A few days ago, someone who took the time to travel for hundreds of miles to see me accidentally said something that was triggering. I didn’t need to, but I brought so much pain onto myself with my reaction because I jumped to interpreting it as a personal attack on me; I assumed that this person had an agenda when they had none. My brain literally created a whole scenario in my head where I was suddenly a victim again, except today, I’m NOT a victim. I don’t have to fear this relationship; this connection is not my past.
I hyper-focused on this trigger and blinded myself to the bigger picture. I didn’t stop to consider facts, to look at reality. I didn’t try to clear any assumptions I was making by asking questions. I took the whole statement personally. The truth was that there was no ill intention, only a word in a conversation.
Had I stopped to consider the facts, I would have stressed myself a lot less.
The fears that rise up don’t limit themselves just to relationships. For instance, a recent thing is when my mind takes stock of my appearance and tells me what I don’t have, it tells me what others have better than me.
I looked in the mirror today, and it hit me that I have become ungrateful for the temple I have. I lost sight of facts about my body. This is the same body that has sustained deadly alcohol levels, car wrecks, and assaults. These are the same bones that have never broken, the legs that carry me, and work hard despite multiple surgeries. My face still radiates my father’s smile. I could have completely destroyed it in numerous accidents and falls that I don’t remember, but instead, it carries only fading scars. In seven months of sobriety, this is the same body with a healed liver that no longer has alcoholic liver disease. My body is an amazing one. These are the actual facts.
This body carries the resilient spirit I have, and yet I still turn around and can be ungrateful for it. I can still falsely trick myself into thinking that others don’t appreciate me either. I can continue to believe one irrational thought after another until everything spirals down to eventually me drinking.
But. I. Can’t. Drink.
So what AM I doing about this to not stay stuck in these recent fears that are coming at me full force?
I know healing isn’t a “me” project, so I spoke to my therapist and to my mentor. My therapist suggested that every time I write about my painful thoughts that may be irrational, I need to write down the facts. For example, if I made a mistake at work and believe that I’m going to get fired, sure I can write that, “I have fear that I’ll get fired,” but I ALSO need to acknowledge, “I regularly do well, so I won’t actually get fired.” Is it an extra step in journaling? Yes, is it worth it to pause and “zoom-out” to see the facts? Also, yes.
I asked my mentor (sober 14 years) about her experience, and she let me know that even at HER length of sobriety, she still gets fears and has to work daily to not succumb to the negative voices in her head. Understanding that reminds me why I need to speak with her more often and share the fears that come up in my head. She’s been where I am at, makes me feel less isolated, and if she’s been sober for 14 years, I can get long-term sobriety, too. If I can get it, anyone reading this can get it, too.
So I don’t feel “good” right now, but I know that there are solutions to my mental health concerns. I know that these painful feelings I have are temporary. I don’t have to go through these feelings alone, and I can do things to process them. I’m not going to let my mental health get the best of me and get me to drink today, but I’m learning this really is a daily fight. Daily.
So I veered away from sharing another person’s story for this entry simply because I feel that it’s essential to highlight the hard times. I believe that when we share stories, we connect, and as I’ve heard many say before, connection is the opposite of addiction.
Alissa is a mother, a professional, a practicing attorney, and a wife. Alissa is also a recovering alcoholic who was in and out of facilities throughout New Jersey. Alissa could tell you anything about any facility in Jersey, “I could’ve written a ton of Yelp reviews,” she laughed.
Alissa, the oldest of four children, moved to New Jersey when she was six. She was raised in a middle-income home by parents who made sure to keep up appearances. Alissa attended a Catholic grade school, a Catholic High School, had good grades, volunteered, church, sports, and even got a college scholarship. Law school. Like many, Alissa’s successful outward appearance did not reflect how Alissa spent her life feeling unaccepted, stifled, and controlled by her parents.
“My parents had an innate need to control me and everything that was going on. Especially through money. In college, I saw that the less they provided for me financially, the more control I had over my life.” For Alissa, attending school was a typical experience. Parties from Thursday through Sunday, then recovering during the week to get work done. Then, come Thursday, it was time to fade to black again. After graduating, Alissa’s peers were able to stop, and that’s where Alissa’s relationship with drinking began to spiral.
Rather than moving back in with her parents, she got an apartment. Although it wasn’t easy, she worked three jobs to make ends meet. “I knew that if I could be financially independent, I wouldn’t have to listen to what they say. So even to attend law school, I took out loans, and I didn’t accept their help.”
I’ve come to learn that the more I speak with women with addictions, no matter how different our lives can be, the more our stories remain the same. I had to stop and ask, “Did you ever have anything traumatic happen while in school?” Unfortunately, the answer was yes.
Alissa went on to describe a common nightmare that sadly comes true for many women. “Yea, so I once went out with my professor and some classmates to see a show. Afterward, I went back with one of the guys in my class to have a drink and decide what we would do for the rest of the night. We were having drinks…and he put something in mine. He sexually assaulted me…I woke up at his house the next morning. Rule follower that I am, I reported the incident. I thought that I would get justice and went through this entire legal process, even had a jury trial over it. And he was found not guilty. I had to wait three years for the jury trial to happen just for him to walk free.” The lack of justice, the isolation, and the lack of support all left Alissa diving, turning more to alcohol to provide comfort.
“So, how did your drinking change once you were practicing law full time?” I asked. “Oh, that was an every night situation, but EVERYBODY did it. Everybody drank, and that’s just how it was. If I had a jury trial, that was the only time I tried to take a break. But we all showed up to district court hungover. If you saw a lawyer with a blue Gatorade, you knew someone was having a rough morning.” “So, did you know you had a problem yet?” I asked her. “I mean, sure, there were consequences I was experiencing with my friends. But if something embarrassing happened one weekend, by the next one, someone else had already done something worse that took the attention away from me,” she responded.
What about getting married? Alissa vaguely remembered her boyfriend proposing to her. In describing her wedding, Alissa smirked as she shared, “Oh, I barely remember my wedding; it was nice, it was pretty, but I was so wasted,” she retorted. “I mean, in hindsight, we got married, but we had nothing in common.” Completely relatable. When I married my ex, I tried hard to drink just enough to get drunk but not blackout. I really wanted to remember my wedding. I remember some of it.
It didn’t take long for Alissa to find what she didn’t see in her husband with someone else. The summer following her wedding, Alissa’s boss sent her along with her colleagues to a week-long conference for attorneys. She recalled the team working diligently throughout the days and drinking copious amounts of liquor every night, the daily venture to the store. The sharpest memory in her mind from that week, however, was Peter.
Peter was another lawyer on staff, and though she never thought twice about him at work, they connected romantically on this trip. Their affair was quiet, exciting, and a secret to start, but it grew into more than just an affair; they fell in love. Yes, she was married, and yes, he was engaged. Eventually, time and emotions forced them out of the dark, and they decided to each leave their respective partners in pursuit of a life together.
At this point, I was predicting this as the classic affair gone wrong—the type where the woman leaves her husband for another, only to be abandoned by both. Nevertheless, Alissa interrupted my wandering thoughts and exclaimed, “I mean, I never would have done this crazy shit had I been sober! And guess what, Peter is my actual husband now, and we had a child.” She continued, “What is difficult for me is the fact that I do love Peter very much, and I am so happy for my daughter. So when I romanticize alcohol, it’s easy for me to want to credit my relationship with it for giving me the love of my life and my family,” Alissa continued.
Alissa’s train of thought reminded me of someone who recently emphasized that it is okay to have conflicting emotions. Both can exist simultaneously. In Alissa’s case, yes, alcohol did nearly ruin her life, AND alcohol also gave her the things in her life that she loves. Both are her realities.
“And don’t get me wrong, getting with Peter was so hard, especially on my career. We worked together, and though he never experienced consequences, the other women at work hated me. I mean, I represented a woman’s worst nightmare…Imagine being engaged. Your fiance comes home and is like, ‘I’m leaving you. There is someone else, so we’re not getting married.’ That’s devastating, and not to mention women are already terrible to each other. I had to find somewhere else to work. My job was becoming a dead end. And by then, I was drinking so much on the weekends that my body wasn’t back to normal til mid-week. I needed a change. I was pacing, shaking, anxious. I was telling people that I was ‘just’ suffering from ‘anxiety.’ Peter drank a lot, too.”
“So Alissa, being an attorney, how were you able to balance your drinking with all your responsibilities, like your paperwork?” Her answer was simple and a common one for many women. Alissa was a performer. She was incredibly talented at getting people out of jail. She had strong relationships with prosecutors, was highly respected, and had what she called “jail cred.” If someone was in police custody, Alissa was THE lawyer to represent them. While everything inside was disintegrating, and Alissa often slapped her paperwork together, she always hit the mark in court.
“I would get my hand slapped about not having someone’s documents done completely, and I’d respond, ‘Well, tell that to Joe, who I just got off of a 35-year sentence, and you let me know if he gives two shits about his paperwork being right.’ That was enough to keep everyone’s mouth shut.” And so she carried on, arranging her drinking around her work.
Eventually, Alissa’s body started to show signs of alcohol abuse. An emergency room doctor noticed during an urgent visit visible damage to her esophagus. In her mind, Alissa knew that it was due to her drinking and was expecting to be chastised by the doctor only to hear, “well, you have a stressful job. Make sure to take care of yourself.” How many doctors notice a patient is drinking too much and avoid confronting them? I wondered.
Though the ER doctor didn’t mention Alissa’s drinking, as soon as she described her visit to the hospital to her parents, her mother cautioned her of her grandfather’s drinking and how it led to esophageal problems. “I felt caught! But still, I told her she was out of line,” Alissa laughed. But, all jokes aside, the emergency room visit was enough to get her to stop drinking, for two months.
Alissa picked up a drink once again, and things quickly spiraled. She hit a low she thought she couldn’t escape from and tried to find a solution in a bottle of Klonopin. Hoping to not wake up, she found herself in a haze in a psychiatric ward to discover she was on a 72-hour hold for her suicide attempt. Alissa smirked as she looked back on that incident, describing how she thought she could “lawyer” her way out of it. She felt confident she would leave until the physician on call informed her that the courts would be involved if she tried to go home. Immediately Alissa knew that meant one of her judge friends would see the case. She paused, “Nevermind, I’m good!” She sulked back to her room and stayed quiet for the remainder of the psychiatric hold. At this time, though her parents pretended to ignore the fact that she had a failed suicide attempt,they insisted that she needed to stop drinking. Peter was also concerned, so Alissa joined Alcoholics Anonymous.
“I was working the steps, and things were going well, getting sober was great. Peter proposed. But then, I started doing Step 9. I went to make amends to my mom, and when I asked her what I could do to make things right, she said to me, ‘Now that you’re sober, what you can do for me is promise me that you won’t have kids.’”
My mouth dropped open, and I muttered, “wait, what?” Alissa responded, “Right, so as I’m sitting there devastated looking at my mother wide-eyed, I’m doing what my sponsor said to do and take notes of all the shit she said. So when I left her house, crushed, I called my sponsor. Her response was, ‘pray about it.’
“What the fuck was I supposed to pray about? ‘This is bullshit,’ I said, ‘this program sucks.’ So I quit AA. I used it as an excuse and went back and forth drinking. Then I got pregnant so I stopped for my pregnancy.” The birth of her daughter brought the family together for a brief time to celebrate this new life.
But by her first Mother’s Day, Alissa relapsed.
Her relationship with AA was on and off for a while. She would go back and attend meetings regularly for a time, baby in tow. Still, having a child and drinking that was not yet under control also gave Alissa’s parents the ammo to exert the power they lost when Alissa gained financial independence. Her fight against her parents’ control and the program’s suggestions for managing that conflict both motivated Alissa to drink and to stop drinking. She drank to escape and didn’t drink to outwardly prove she was acceptable in her parents’ eyes. Alissa did have a short span of sobriety, and as things started to calm down, she was up for a significant promotion at work. But then she drank, along with Peter, complicating her life once again.
During this binge, they drank for about four days. Alissa threatened to leave during a drunken argument, and when Peter took her phone to prevent her from going out, she, in her words, “hurt him badly.” I didn’t ask what that meant. Nonetheless, it was enough for her parents to come and take their daughter away. Alissa was immediately hospitalized for 28 days.
Alissa’s parents’ involvement became overwhelming, and this time because of her daughter, she felt pressured to yield to every request. Everything they asked for, she did in fear of them calling child protective services. She tried everything, but she still couldn’t stay consistently sober. When her parents caught Alissa drinking, they would take her daughter for a few days until she appeared steady. “I mean, I wasn’t really sober, but I didn’t want to lose my daughter. At this time, she was showing some delays with speaking and walking, and my parents proceeded to blame me for her developmental concerns,” Alissa said. “How is she now?” I asked. She responded, “Oh, she runs around and talks a ton now.” So glad to hear that.
Subsequently, Alissa relapsed for the last time. Her and her husband’s arguing escalated to the point that she ran to the neighbors’ house. Alissa claimed that Peter was abusing her, so the police came and arrested Peter. They sent Alissa to a nearby hospital for alcohol intoxication, where she blew almost a .4. After which, the hospital transferred her to a residential facility for 35 days. She barely spoke to her husband then. From jail, Peter also went to a different treatment center. The little communication time she had was for FaceTime with her daughter.
“I mean, I didn’t love rehab, but I was starting to feel better and looked forward to getting out. Then one day, one of the therapists took me to her office. She opens the door, and there is a representative from child protection services there. I couldn’t’ believe it! My parents actually decided to try to take my daughter from me, and on top of that, my court date was the day I left treatment.” At the hearing, Alissa did agree to give her parents temporary custody. However, since then, her parents have fought with her regarding visitations and intentionally planning events to create scheduling conflicts. They purposely organized social activities with her siblings and daughter when Alissa couldn’t attend. As a result, Alissa’s parents alienated her from the family.
Despite this ongoing battle for her daughter and freedom from her parents that Alissa is in, she has stayed sober. She’s back in AA, and she’s accepted working with a sponsor. She doesn’t love the program, but it’s helping to keep her sober.
Alissa’s been sober since November of 2020, and her sobriety since has been anything but easy. “A lot is riding on me staying sober,” Alissa reflected. Peter got sober, too. Today, Alissa works her recovery program and works with a therapist. She exercises and stays busy.
Alissa remarked as we wrapped up, “I feel like I was always trying so hard to get the approval and praise of my family. I got it from everywhere else but them. Now, look where we’re at. Now I realize and understand where my parents’ behaviors came from. It doesn’t make it easy, but it helps to understand.” It’s an uncomfortable truth to accept, but Alissa knows that moving forward, it’s going to take a lot of work, including staying sober.
“I’m doing whatever it takes. I can’t lose my daughter.”
“I can’t post about my dating life! My dating life has nothing to do with my recovery,” I said.
My friend Chris very quickly responded, “But your recovery is more than just you recovering from being an alcoholic. Your message of recovery is the life that you live now, so even if that includes a boyfriend, or whatever that is, that is your message of recovery. You’ve recovered from where you were. From the heartache, from the death of Ian…and you’re moving on with your life. That’s the testimony and that’s the recovery that you’re in. So you’re still portraying the same message. The message of wholeness, the message of happiness, the message of joy, the message of love, like all that’s prevalent. Everything that you post as far as your recovery does not have to be directly about alcohol or the stuff that you’ve dealt with. Having a new relationship is just as much recovery as well.”
I never thought about it that way.
I got anxious thinking about my fear of judgment because I’m “breaking” yet another one of the invisible “rules” of early sobriety. You know, “don’t do this…,” and, “don’t do that…,” and everything in between. esp
Suddenly it dawned on me that when I tried to follow invisible rules, attempting to didn’t get me sober. Accepting help from above and those around me, cutting myself loose from my secret, THAT is what helped me get and stay sober a day at a time to this point.
My mentor often says, “you can do ANYTHING you want, as long as you’re sober. ANYTHING.” She’s definitely an admirable “rule-breaker” who has been sober for many years, so what she says is always something to really process.
Anything, right?
Well to that list of doing “anything” I want, I’ve added allowing my heart to mend.
My heart has been touched by someone, actually. My hope is restored and crazy enough, I’m feeling again. I don’t know where this journey will take me, or what it may mean for my future, but what it does mean is that today I’m healing.
We do recover from alcohol. We do recover from drugs.
**Please consult with a medical provider when seeking treatment for drug addiction.*
Audio
Life in active addiction is difficult. Getting sober can be nearly impossible for some, and a sober life does not necessarily equal an easy life. Ana’s story is full of countless challenges, lots of falls, and even more comebacks.
“Sobriety’s been a challenge, but I wouldn’t trade my life today for anything.”
Raised by her abusive mother. Ana’s childhood only increased in chaos as she grew. She described her mother as, “The older she got, the crazier she got. I mean, she caught herself on fire.” Yes, Ana meant this literally. “What about your dad, Ana?” Ana’s dad was primarily absent from her childhood. “My dad, I saw him a handful of times growing up. I always wanted to be with him, especially because my mother was constantly hurting us. She hurt us a lot. My dad had a wreck drinking and driving. He actually killed someone, so he went to prison.” Ana’s a fast talker and can get a lot out in a single breath, so she paused then continued, “There was always something that was causing me trauma, and I didn’t even know, I didn’t understand that it was happening to me. I didn’t understand any of it. I wasn’t allowed to kiss my mother, hug my mother, tell her I loved her. I just couldn’t find the love. I was a good kid. I wasn’t a bad kid.”
“When I was 16, that’s when I found alcohol and drugs. My first drink felt like I could breathe. I felt that people cared about me. The people that did drugs and alcohol didn’t judge me. They didn’t make fun of how I looked. I fit right in.” Ana described how drugs and alcohol brought her the peace and comfort she yearned for since early childhood. Her life was really chaotic and confusing, so for her to escape was bliss. I assumed that since her mother had been so abusive, that her doing drugs would have only brought on more chaos at home.
“How was your relationship with your mother now that you were older and she found out that you were doing drugs?” Ana chuckled, “At that time we started using together, it brought the relationship to a different level. I finally had something she wanted, she started to be nice to me, it was good. She started liking my friends, too. She just was easier to be around.”
This new bond didn’t last long. One day her mother had Ana drive up to her mother’s boyfriend’s house. As she got out of the car, she turned to Ana and said in a harsh yet hushed tone, “don’t get out of the car, don’t say anything, and shut your mouth,” Ana recalled. Her mother went into the house and rushed out shortly after, taking Ana straight home. Ana’s mom had just robbed her own boyfriend. As they heard a call pull up, the boyfriend’s car, they went and hid in the back. Ana recalled watching the car slowly pull into the driveway and pausing. They held still, watching him. Steadily, he put the car in reverse and backed away, driving off as he had come in. Had he gone a “hair further,” he would have seen them.
Once he was gone, her mother went through the house, ransacking it, searching for all the drugs in the home, including what she stole, making sure not to leave a fraction of an ounce of weed, and balancing the beer that remained in the fridge. She walked out. They didn’t see her again for about four months,
“So you must have been devastated, right?” I asked.
Wrong.
Ana and her sister, ages 16 and 14, respectively, were alone for a week. The “wicked witch was gone.” So they partied, had friends over, they were distracting themselves. Yes, they thought about their mother, they wondered where she went, but they also felt relief. No one was in the house who could hurt them. Shortly after her mother’s departure, the family got involved. It happened to be that her father was wrapping up his prison sentence. As soon as he got out, he pulled the girls out of school to live with him and his girlfriend, her two kids, plus the additional two kids who would come over every other weekend. Eight people in a one-bedroom apartment. It was tight, but her father eventually got them into a house where they had room to stretch. With her mother gone and her father back in the picture, Ana looked forward to having a dad around. The time lost while he was away now could be made up. Hope filled Ana’s heart as she started this new life with her father.
She said, “I wanted my dad my entire life. But when I finally got my dad, I didn’t have my dad at all. He was focused on his girlfriend and her sons. All the strangers were getting the affection. So one day, I came home high on weed. Then he called the police on me! They didn’t do anything, so I did it again. I was so angry. All these years, you abandoned me, and you hadn’t been around. And now I’m still not good enough.” Things weren’t any better at her new high school either. “I had been to ten schools, and that was the worst school I had ever been in.” As a teacher, I’ve seen my fair share of parents who would come to school and raise hell if they suspected their daughter was being bullied. Instead, her father pulled her out of school senior year. “I didn’t get to go to prom, walk at graduation, participate in any senior trips. Instead, I spent my senior year in a treatment facility.”
Like Sara, despite being the youngest in the facility, Ana adjusted fairly well, but she was furious and felt betrayed. “I didn’t need to be around strangers; I needed someone to show me that they cared, but he just sent me there. I didn’t get a yearbook when I was 17. I got a Big Book. I got a Big Book with everyone’s signatures.” When her time in treatment was up at age 18, Ana prepared to go back home only to find that her stepmother was sending her to another facility instead of letting her come back into the home. At this point, Ana’s mother had reappeared. She also had gone to treatment herself. When Ana was getting transferred to the new facility, she escaped and hid from the police dispatched to find her. “I walked in the snow, knocking door to door, hoping someone would let me in so I could avoid the cops.” No one let her in, but Ana did eventually get a hold of her mother. Her mom had a place to stay, so she let Ana stay with her. Though they each had just completed treatment programs, they didn’t stay clean. Ana didn’t live with her mother for long either.
The next years of her life were a blur. “I don’t remember what happened, I just know that shit happened, and it was all bad.” Her drug use got worse, crack, homelessness, moving around to different cities hoping to get her life together.
She lucked out when her aunt gave her a chance, and she moved into an apartment with her cousin in a new city. She was grateful. Her drug use slowed down as a result, which was positive, but her drinking continued and along with it, so did her depression. One day, on her birthday, she hit a low point.
Ana attempted suicide.
In the hours leading to the attempt, Ana went out drinking for her birthday, hoping to find someone to spend the night with. She had the apartment to herself as her cousin was away on a camping trip. When she didn’t connect with anyone, she came home drunk, upset, rejected. Two dozen bright red roses were sitting still, waiting for her when she arrived. They were a gift from her sister.
Ana snapped. She scrambled around the apartment, looking for anything with a sharp edge. Razors, knives, whatever she thought would cut her flesh. She laid in bed preparing to rip at her wrists when the doorknob rattled. She heard the door squeak and then a shriek. Her cousin had walked in. Seeing Ana lying with the blade against her wrist, her cousin leaped onto the bed. When she landed, her cousin felt a poke and ripped the sheet up off of Ana, revealing every sharp tool in the apartment laid around her. She called 911, and Ana went straight to the hospital again.
“I was pissed. I always wanted to D-I-E,” she spelled out the word die, being mindful of her son possibly being within earshot as she spoke. “I felt horrible, I wanted to die, and no one even let me try. I would pray to God, I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be here anymore. I have always asked God since I was a kid. I never had any love, no kindness. I couldn’t take it. I just didn’t want to keep going through life. It was too overwhelming and hard.”
After her suicide attempt in the apartment, Ana’s aunt didn’t allow her to return. Ana eventually ended up back home and moved in with a friend. She did find her way back to drugs, but this time not for long.
When she moved in, she met John, “the boy next door.” He later became her husband. Ana had a habit of attracting younger men, so throughout our conversation, she occasionally referred to them as “boys.” Her connection with John filled a void for Ana, and she found herself willing to give up everything for him. The drugs, the alcohol, even cigarettes. “Those were the rules that I wanted him to live by, and I was willing to do the same. He was okay with it! He chose me! He gave up all of his comforts with his family for the sake of being with me; I felt loved.”
For the duration of her marriage, about six years, Ana didn’t touch alcohol or drugs. Toward the end of their relationship, she started stealing his grandmother’s prescriptions. Though the pill use appeared minor at the time, this was a slip that would lead to an eventual landslide. When they divorced, Ana was happy to move on. In her married years, she did well for herself and was ready to be an independent single woman. Outside of those few pills she was sneaking, everything was great.
Ana was recently divorced and 30 when she met up with some friends at a festival. She hadn’t had a drink in seven years, and her friends were excited to taste wine. Ana said, “I thought to myself, I’m grown, I’m a woman now. I know right from wrong. I mean, I drive a Mercedes. Certainly, I’m not going to drink and drive in a Mercedes! I had become sophisticated!”
On day one of drinking after seven dry years, she went straight from tasting wine to pounding drinks at a bar past 2 in the morning. Shortly after, drugs came right back into the picture.
So much of what Ana gained in those seven years that she was sober, vanished, or was at risk of being ruined. Nothing in Ana’s life was steady except for the hold of drugs and alcohol on her.
During an attempt to get sober in 2015, Ana moved into a halfway house and met a “boy.” He was eleven years younger than her and was barely a few months sober. Things moved quickly. It was August, they met. October came, and they moved in together. Come November Ana’s pregnant. By the end of the year, Eddie relapsed and left town after he robbed a local heroin dealer.
Ana was alone briefly, but she followed after Eddie because “I wanted my baby hell or high water to have a mom AND a dad there.” Eddie couldn’t stay out of jail, nor could he stay sober. Once Bryson was born, Ana couldn’t stay sober either. In the years that followed, there were attempts at getting clean. They tried to get it together. They moved cities, looked for different environments, but no matter where they went, they couldn’t escape their addiction.
The following years consisted of breakups, attempts to get sober, broken promises, and increasingly worse drug use. Then things took a turn for the worse.
They pulled in from having bought some spice. They looked at their money. In front of them were only five one-dollar bills. They looked at each other. They knew what to do. Sure they had just come from buying the drugs, but why not be efficient and get the five dollars’ worth NOW so that they wouldn’t have to turn around and worry about it later?
The last thing that Ana remembered was putting the car in reverse.
She opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by white smoke. It was choking her. Her entire body was throbbing. She didn’t realize where she was until she looked up, and as she focused her eyes, a tree came into view as the smoke cleared. Ana had swerved into oncoming traffic, crossed four lanes, and crashed into a tree on the side of the road. Eddie was in the car with her.
So was their son.
I figured this is the part of the story where the arrest happens. “So, did you get arrested there?” I asked. “No, I woke up real quick. I made up this whole story about how I had to swerve to avoid someone who looked like they were on the phone, and so to avoid hitting that driver, I said that I lost control of my car. They believed me: no ticket, no arrest, nothing. I didn’t even have insurance or any papers for the car. Nobody was even hurt, but I took that as a sign, and I left Eddie again.”
Though she was briefly clean, Ana connected with another “boy” with who she had gone to elementary school, Jason. She obsessed over him for a year, and after much anticipation, upon meeting, she immediately felt something. She said, “Something was not right, I thought, ‘Jason’s probably not sober.’” She continued to describe the moment, “It was something about the way his head was cocked to the side, oh, and he asked me for money, too. I knew I shouldn’t have talked to him, Jessica. The problem with me is that it never matters. If I want something, I’m gonna get something. I just don’t care.”
“He was a heroin user, and at this point, I was no longer scared of the high. I wanted to know exactly what everyone was talking about. He didn’t want me to try it, so I told him that either he get me heroin and would help me use it, or I was going to go out there, find it myself and probably die trying because I wouldn’t do it right. I told him, ‘I’ll die, and it’ll be on your conscience.’ That was enough to have him get me the heroin.” From then on, they used heroin together, always in secret. It was fun at first, she said. “I was high all the time. I pretended to be a mom, I pretended to be present, but I was high all the time.” The one thing she didn’t do was put a needle in her arm. She only snorted it. “I was almost at the point of shooting up, but then my mom died, and that changed everything.”
Ana was going to her mother’s house one day with her son, she was heading to work, and her mother was going to babysit. “I don’t know what happened to her, I walked in with my kid, and she was dead on the floor. I think when my momma went to Heaven, she found out what I was doing and shifted things, so I had to stop heroin.”
Ana had not experienced “dope sickness” because she never ran out of heroin. Then one day, the “jump out boys” got her and Jason. She started to explain, “The police officer came to my car.” At that moment, I thought, “Oh, okay, so THIS is the part of her story where she gets arrested.”
I was still wrong. She got off with a warning, but she had to give all of the drugs she had over to the police officer. She described the moment saying, “I said, ‘Here you go sir, I’m sorry.’ And he let me go. Then, as soon as he walked away, it hit me that not once in my life did I ever have to go get drugs.” Finding heroin was practically impossible, it seemed. People would sell her fake drugs. It got bad enough that she had to find a former sponsee who had also relapsed to get her drugs. Eventually, Ana grew tired of the struggle. She decided that she needed to get off of heroin, and she left Jason.
“Did you go to treatment to get off heroin?” I asked.
“No, I smoked meth for four days.” She responded.
For four days, she stayed in the bathroom, using meth to help her get through the dope sickness that heroin withdrawal brought on. All the while, her son was home. “I made sure to check on him, feed him, leave him, and go retreat into the bathroom to stay high in there. I made sure he ate, he had a toy, the TV on, anything to keep him entertained while I hid in the bathroom.”
When she learned what long-term meth use does, she freaked out and got sober. Again.
Then Eddie called.
Just like before, he came with promises, waving the white flag of so-called sobriety, that he was “just” using CBD. Curious, Ana tried some when he offered. As soon as she hit the pipe, she felt the smoke flow into her lungs, and suddenly her heart sank. It wasn’t CBD. It was THC.
They were driving, and when Eddie saw her face overcome with worry, laughing, he said, “Let’s make a stopover at this house. We need to pick up something.” Angrily, she cried as they picked up drugs. She cried as she watched him go mad in her house, taking things apart, being obsessive, being compulsive. He had to leave.
Eddie finally left, and Ana felt she needed to take the edge off and drink, so she picked up two wine bottles. She uncorked one, sipped some, and as she felt the buzz start, she realized, “I don’t want to do this.” She opened the other wine bottle, and she poured all she had left down the sink. This was on July 18, 2019. “I pray to God that was the last time I picked up a white chip.”
So, how has Ana stayed sober ever since?
“I have stayed away from men. My thinker doesn’t work when I’m around them. I only have made bad decisions. I decided to focus only on my recovery.” Then she paused. “But things changed recently,” she said.
“Mark, a family friend who was going through a divorce, started reaching out. For months I refused each invite to dinner, to a movie, to a walk.” Then one day, after a long work week, she agreed to go to a movie. “From there, it was perfect. We connected on a deeper level than any I felt before. He told me he would take care of me, of my son, that he wanted to have a baby with me. He even told my father. I thought to myself, ‘I’ve been patient, I’m finally gonna get something good!’” As Ana spoke, her voice picked up an enthusiastic note. I even got excited for her. I thought, “Yes! She’s been so patient, now she’s getting the love she’s been waiting for!”
Her tone changed. “Then one day, I get a call at work.” I cringed and immediately braced myself, “Oh God,” I thought.
“He told me to come and get my things, that his wife was coming back. That he didn’t love me anymore, that he loves his wife. I didn’t have anywhere safe to go, my roommate had relapsed, and I couldn’t go back there with my son. So I stayed with a friend in the program.”
This all happened three weeks before we met. Thankfully Ana did just find a home recently, so she now has a safe space for her son. “It’s the most beautiful home I’ve ever lived in. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before.”
Despite this heartbreak, Ana stayed sober. She maintained optimism and was ready to move on and not let this set her back. Yes, she was hurt and reeling from the shock, but she was grateful to have a home and be safe.
Then she started to feel sick.
She felt different, so she took a pregnancy test.
It was positive. She took more. Each one was positive.
“Mark called me, telling me to meet him at the clinic to get rid of it. I’ve done too much in my life to go get an abortion. I told him to get fucked and hung up.” For days he persisted, calling her phone, calling her at work. “I told him not to worry, I don’t want him. This isn’t a trap. I’m a grown woman. I made my bed, I’m going to lie in it and take care of my kid. So that’s where I’m at.” Ana spoke firmly with strong resolve.
“So, how are you feeling now?” I asked her. “Well, I’ve never made it to two years while trying to be in recovery on my own. The fact that I have a baby inside me makes me feel hopeful that I will make it. So far, I have a good history of not doing drugs while pregnant, so I think I’ll make it.” She laughed. “This baby is a blessing. This baby has saved my life.”
The baby is due in October of 2021. “Mark’s tried to deny that it’s his, but he’s just in denial. He begged for this baby for two months, and now he’s trying to deny it. I can’t WAIT to meet my baby. I have all the love to give this baby that I didn’t get.”
So a few wrap-up questions. “Where’s Eddie?” I asked. He’s in prison. Though Ana knows they won’t have the family she once dreamed of, she prays for him. She wants her son to have his father. “I’m scared for Eddie. He’s not using when he’s in there. When people sober up for a while, and then they go shooting up, it’s too strong for them, and they’re dying. I want my son to have his father. I don’t want Eddie to die when he gets out.” Ana’s right. That is too often a common story in recent years.
What’s next for Ana? “Well, I never got to finish music school when I was younger, but one thing that I will be doing is offering voice lessons. I can’t wait. I’m really excited to do that here in the next few months. I’m working on a book. I have a lot of goals. I’m really taking care of myself this time. I’m not letting my sorrow, my emotions, or my pain get the best of me. I cope differently today. I don’t cope with a bottle, a pill, or heroin. I cope with serenity, with God, with my support group, with music, with walking. Anything and everything, without putting some shit in my body. I refuse it. I’m definitely not above it though, when this break-up first happened, I was really close to getting myself a bottle, but thank God. Today, I think everything through. I think, think, think. I think about my life and how I will go right back to where I was if I put anything in my body. I just can’t. I’ve got two kids to think about now. I’ve got a future that I want to have.”
What about work? Actually, Ana’s been a nurse for 12 years. She completed college and nursing school during those different periods of sobriety she’s had throughout the years. Did I intentionally leave out the fact that she’s a nurse? Maybe, but to be honest, her line of work never came up in the conversation until the end. Ana is and has always been a professional. A mother. Addiction doesn’t target any specific group of people. A disease is a disease, and it manifests in the same way regardless of the host. So be mindful in your daily interactions with others because you don’t know what you don’t see.
Reading the article, then listening to my voice back from April 2020, full of almost innocent-like hope, was so incredibly painful.
Flashbacks are real.
Anyway, I decided to expound on the experience of having had alcoholic liver disease. Statistics and numbers are great for envisioning the number of incidents, but they don’t paint a picture of what it’s like. My intention with this piece is to capture a sliver of how terrible ALD is. I also want to clarify that though I felt horrible, I had it fairly “easy” because I stopped drinking. My liver healed.
Carolyn, Susan’s daughter, also had alcoholic liver disease, and she passed away in January. (See, “In Memory of Carolyn.”)
The summer leading up to my decision to start my recovery process was dreadful. In August of 2019 I drank at least a fifth of alcohol a day, around 17-20 drinks, in ONE day. I was POISONING MYSELF because I hated everything about existing. I perceived having no purpose because it was summer and I wasn’t accountable to anything or anyone. It was the perfect opportunity for me to isolate myself in my then-apartment. I had no commitments except to the bottles I nursed from when I woke up, until the moment I passed out, over and over and over again. I woke up, felt sick, drank, fell asleep to forget how sick I was feeling, rinse, cycle, repeat.
Then one day, I had a doctor’s appointment.
I remember being at the doctor’s office shaking, sweating, hoping I didn’t smell like liquor from drinking the night before. I tried drinking as much water as I could stomach that morning, knowing that it felt horrible to drink, well horrible to drink water, let me clarify. I hid my hands in my pockets to hide tremors. Then I felt the tremors in my neck and my head, my brain twitched, “Am I about to have a seizure?” Every single part of my body was aching or shaking. I just wanted to go home to snuggle up under the covers with my bottle in hand. While in the waiting room, I looked down at my feet. My sandal straps were cutting into them they were so swollen. I looked up instead. My eyes hurt. I remembered they were starting to get a very slight hint of yellow, so I grabbed my glasses from my purse and put them on to distract the doctor and nurse from looking right into my eyes.
Signs of ALD in 2019
On that morning like many others, I couldn’t stop hacking. The fits were uncontrollable, and my ribs were so bruised that the few moments I could laugh in those times, I wouldn’t. I coughed up slimy green acidic bile, retching over whatever sink or toilet was near me until I could get to a drink. When I was off, I soothed my violent nausea in the mornings with whatever splashes of cheap bourbon remained in bottles I picked up off the floor around my bed or bathroom. When I gripped a bottle, I braced myself, anticipating the horrible taste and burn. It was fire down my throat, I burned while waiting for the temporary relief. The nausea stopped. The shaking subsided. Gasping, gripping the vanity in fear of falling over, I would look up in the mirror with liquor dripping out of the side of my mouth. I would look at and not recognize the woman looking back at me. I saw the unusual weight loss, random bruises, the dark circles. Cracked lips. A plump aching belly with no baby in it. I was transforming. I was imploding.
I was fearful of getting on my phone to check my lab results. I didn’t want to think that I would be like my cousin, who died after bleeding out from a simple procedure because she could no longer heal. When I got the blood results back, however, I accepted my dark fate. I got a note from the doctor saying that I had alcoholic hepatitis. If what you see in the screenshot is something you would even want to consider a note. With no explanation from my doctor as to what numbers meant what, I spent quite a bit of time doing research.
2019 Lab Results
My AST/SGOT was 429, a standard range is 15-46 U/L. What did this mean? According to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, “AST/SGOT is one of the two liver enzymes. When liver cells are damaged, AST leaks out into the bloodstream and the level of AST in the blood becomes elevated. AST is different from ALT because AST is found in parts of the body other than the liver–including the heart, kidneys, muscles, and brain. When cells in any of those parts of the body are damaged, AST can be elevated.” And my ALT? It was 9 times the normal range. It was 160. That normal range was supposed to be 13-69. “ALT, is one of the two liver enzymes. When liver cells are damaged, ALT leaks out into the bloodstream, and the level of ALT in the blood is elevated.” My bilirubin was 1.8 when normal ranges are 0.2-1.3, so that was another indicator of my poor liver function.
2019 Lab Result “Interpretation”
At that point, I was terrified because I understood that I had to stop, but I was afraid to ask for help without letting my secret out. I knew I needed alcohol to not feel ill but the idea of putting the bottle down terrified me. In my previous experience with getting sober in 2013, I simply stopped drinking, that shit wasn’t going to wrok this time. This time, it was different. I had been alone for what had been almost two months, and I just wanted to stay hidden in my apartment and forget this was even a problem. I wanted to disappear silently. Maybe one day I would fall asleep and not wake up, no one would notice, right?
The physical symptoms very quickly turned into psychological ones. I started to feel crippling anxiety and minor hallucinations. I noticed I would hear and see flashes of things that no one else saw. It got worse when I had to go back to work. Going back to school, I was forced to modify my drinking because I had to make it to the school building alive and barely sober. The daily withdrawal symptoms led to the worst school days. My only safe space, my classroom, riddled me with fear and panic. The sound of a notebook falling, a chair squeaking too hard, a child’s laughter, all those sounds terrorized me. They made my stomach drop each time. My coughing fits got so bad the kids thought I was having an asthma attack. I carried an asthma pump to “explain” the coughing. I knew what was going on. When your liver stops working, the fluids that should be leaving your body don’t, so they find other places to settle. In my case, it was my feet, ankles, and my lungs. It’s a miracle I didn’t get pneumonia.
It wasn’t long before the panic, anxiety, and illness brought me to my knees.
One morning in September of 2019, I couldn’t get out of bed to drive to work. I was terrified of walking out the door. I couldn’t go to work. I knew something had to give when I couldn’t go to the one place I loved the most. The only people I told that I was going to a hospital to were my principal and my sister. Neither knew I went in for my drinking. I blamed it on depression and anxiety. The rest is history, but I don’t know how I functioned when reflecting on those times.
I don’t know how I functioned so SUCCESSFULLY.
I stop sometimes and think, “What the hell?!” The only explanation I can think of is the power of the mind and its determination. A mind fueled by shame and guilt is profoundly capable of massive feats to put up appearances. I was killing myself, and yet I was showing up.
So yes, all these conversations about women and their dangerous relationships with alcohol need to happen, and I’m SO grateful that they are. I can only speak from my experience, but I will say a million times, it can’t just be me. The more we have these conversations, the more people we’ll have come forward saying, “You know what, I’ve got that problem, too.”
I couldn’t help but be corny, but today’s a big deal. If all goes well, it’ll be the last time I’ll ever be 99 days sober. If it doesn’t and I spiral entirely out of control to a certain dark fate, it will still be my last time being 99 days sober. If I fall and bounce back, then hopefully, I’d make it back to 99 days. At this very moment, all that matters is now.
Just about the same thing that I wrote, in case you don’t feel like reading.
I finished an interview about a month ago with Vic Vela from Colorado Public Radio for his show Back from Broken. We checked in this weekend, and I shared how I’ve managed to stay sober for this many days in a row.
Immediately I thought of the generic response, “Well, you know, I follow the steps, I follow suggestions, I go to meetings, etc.” Not to say I don’t do those things, because I certainly do. They are a critical part of my toolbox along with accepting that I need medication and therapy.
However, the biggest thing that I’ve picked up on is my writing. Being sober makes it pretty easy to string a couple of sentences together coherently. It turns out that many feelings (especially my grief which triggered me nonstop) that I was always trying to suppress now have a way out. It’s either through pen to paper or by hitting that keyboard. A part of this writing is a part of my program, a part of it is trying to capture others’ stories, and a lot of it is also just letting everything inside me out. No matter what, it just feels really good. It’s a great distraction, and I’m finding joy today in what I create rather than seeking joy grasping onto the external.
Clips from The Lost Weekend. Clearly time doesn’t change addiction.
Oh, and a random thought worth sharing. I watched this old 1940’s film, The Lost Weekend, after a friend recommended it. I’ve experienced near end-stage alcoholism through my own eyes. However, I’ve never seen what it looks like from the outside to be nearly dying and to feel ready for it because every waking moment is a nightmare physically and emotionally. I’ve always known what it felt like, but not what it looks like. It’s terrifying, and I hate that several people I love had to see me like that, but I’m grateful not to be there today.
I pray I’m not there tomorrow, and that’s why I say I just have today. The 98 days before today are gone, they’ve vanished. Tomorrow’s not here. If it comes, however, it will be day 100 and that’s a nice number. I do have hopes for tomorrow and for the tomorrows after that.
The hope I carry is enough for me to stay sober, just for today.
“From the beginning? I was born prematurely, four to five months premature. Apparently I was full of crack cocaine, survived that, went into foster care and was adopted at 18 months.” Chris was so casual, as if being born addicted to drugs and being placed in the foster care system was no big deal. Then I reflected on the stories I’ve heard, about my own story even, and realized that maybe the ability to be one step removed emotionally from our own story is a trait we all carry for the sake of surviving.
Chris was raised by his adoptive black family in Dallas Fort-Worth. Childhood was great, and he described his environment as “warm” and he felt like he fit right in. Then he learned that he was adopted. “What changed, the environment?” I asked. “No, it was me,” he replied. There was a change, a shift in Chris. When he was six, his parents sat him down to let him know that a sister was on the way, and she was joining the family exactly as he did, through an adoption. His perception of the world around him was forever altered.
The court had to make sure his home was safe for another child. There were proceedings, meetings, and home visits. He was soon a big brother. Did his behavior change at this age? No. However, Chris had discovered the world was not as it had seemed. He was adopted. Parents put up children for adoption. These were new realizations. Chris asked himself, “What else is there? What else don’t I know?”
He started to wonder. “Where? Who? Why? What?” he said. “All the wondering, really.” “So did you ever find your parents, or look for them?” I asked. “I did,” Chris said. He was 29. He attained unsealed records from his entire adoption process, including his birth records. He was able to read through those. “I found the names. I went to Facebook. There they were.”
“Okay, so did you meet them? Were they together? Were they using? Were they sober? What was it like?” I stopped myself. Sometimes I don’t realize how quickly I can speak, so I took a breath. I often experience the “frenzied speech” behavior that is part of bipolar disorder; if I get excited about something I’ll never stop.
Chris smiled.
“First, I’ll tell you about my mother. She was still using. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, it was rough to meet her, but to be fair, I was extremely drunk at the time as well.” No surprise there—I would be, too. Who wouldn’t get drunk? Well, I suppose a “normal” person wouldn’t; I forget we’re not all the same.
It was the same day that he also met his biological father. And no, not at the same time, (because of course, I asked), but on the same day. His parents are no longer together. His father wasn’t high or drunk to his blurred memory. “To be honest, I’m not sure if my father was or is sober.” They haven’t spoken in two years. He hasn’t seen his mother since the day they met.
The conversation went back to the early days of Chris’s using and drinking. Like many high school students, he began drinking on and off in party settings. “It started then and it felt like it lasted until forever, until I finally stopped. It was still social then. Sometimes the drinks were spiked at parties, sometimes I was with cousins who had access to the liquor cabinets. My drinking didn’t become heavy until I got to college, so I was around 18.”
So how heavy is heavy?
“Thursday through Sunday, every weekend.” I remember those weekends, drunken weekends. The weekends that made it easy to blend in, the weekends where an alcoholic or drug addict might still, albeit falsely, feel a part of the group. The good old days when drinking was the norm and no one judged you yet for your awful hangovers or your reckless behavior. Chris described himself as a “lucid drunk” during his college years. He never blacked out. Though he wasn’t spiritual then, he definitely credits “the universe” with making sure he got home safely even when he didn’t remember it.
His drug use started when he was 19. “Touchy, feely, energetic, spacey” was how it felt in the beginning. “Okay, so when did it stop being fun?” I asked.
Adderall. “It’s one of those drugs where you think, ‘I can do this,’ until you realize that you can’t stop. You think you’re okay, then you realize you’re not okay.” Further, Chris realized his drinking was problematic when he couldn’t manage to stop once he started. His tolerance was so high that people would give him non-stop drinks, but he wouldn’t get sick and he never threw up. He started coming home drunk, getting some sleep, waking up, and then going to class and later work like nothing happened. “I didn’t need to be watched while I drank, but come to think of it, I probably should’ve.” Smiled again.
What about heroin? As he said, “Culturally, as a black person, needles have always been looked down on.” But laughing, he continued, “For all the shit I put into my body, the needle standard was so arbitrary.” Sure, he snorted it and got high, but he got sick. “I felt like trash and it was one and done.” Many first-time heroin users tell a different story, of feeling an intense relief washing over them. For Chris, though, he vomited as if possessed by a demon, and he never touched heroin again.
Chris didn’t finish college but it wasn’t his drinking and drug use, he said. “I never did finish, but it’s because I never wanted to start either.” He didn’t want to go in the first place, but he was pressured to live up to societal norms and his family’s expectations. “I mean, it’s what you do. You graduate from high school. You go to college wherever you get accepted and can afford to go to. You work. Then you die. For a lot of people, they can live that linear life, but I couldn’t. I was always an adventurer, always an explorer. It’s a part of where the drugs came in. I was always curious about them, and I was bipolar. They helped.”
Chris was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 15. He found that psychiatric medications made him feel horrible, so he stopped taking the meds and like many others, self-medicated with drugs and alcohol. There wasn’t a drug that was off limits, except for heroin after that one use. His doctors warned him about his drug use, that the manic spikes would be dangerous and the depressive states even more intense given the path he was on, but that didn’t stop him. I understood the feeling. When I was told my liver enzymes were dangerously high and that I had alcoholic hepatitis, I should have stopped, but I didn’t.
For people with bipolar disorder, sobriety can be a delicate balancing game. The extremes lead to self-medicating with drugs and alcohol. The use of the drugs and alcohol create a physical dependency so when the bipolar person tries to break free from the physical addiction, their “medication” is gone. Their relief is gone. It’s merely a matter of time before a bipolar person gets triggered, falls apart, and goes back to drinking or using. According to American Addiction Centers, “The rate of co-occurring substance use disorders in individuals diagnosed with bipolar disorder ranges from about 20 percent to as high as nearly 60 percent.”
So he dropped all the substances and started going to Bible study. Even though he was trying to stay sober, he still didn’t feel whole. So when he started to drink, he started to feel the conflict between his need to drink for relief and the persona he created for himself at church. He couldn’t “feel through” himself, so he ended up heavily drinking and smoking again, and before long he was back to hard drugs.
So is Chris an alcoholic since he started to drink first and drugs came after? I know several people in the 12-step community who call themselves alcoholics even though they have had extensive drug use. Why? They say that once they drink, they can’t just stop there. Chris didn’t need a substance in any particular order in order to want the rest. Anything that was mind altering and brought relief was his substance of choice in that moment. His moods dictated what type of relief he was seeking, so for him the words “alcoholic” or “drug addict” are irrelevant. He could do three lines of coke and suddenly decide to drink or the other way around. It was the disease of “never enough.”
Remember, Chris doesn’t fit inside boxes.
For some people, the motivation to stop is a significant consequence, a terrifying moment, but for Chris, the desire to stop came from within. “I’m drinking all the time by myself. I could drink everyone under the table, do drugs all night, stay awake for four or five days. I’m tired of it. It’s not serving me, it’s not benefiting me, it’s just costing me a bunch of money, and what for? And that was literally it.”
Chris does face some challenges. Chris was known as a source for drugs. “I still have friends or distant family who will text me asking if I can help find them this drug or that drug. It was just who I was. It was an entire personality I had.”
For Chris, a 12-step program wouldn’t work. He’s too much of an individual and he likes to blaze his own path, but he’s not against 12-step programs for other people. “If that would work for you do it. You have to do what’s right for you.” So he has not necessarily abstained 100%, but his life today is drastically different than what it was before. He tells himself not to be so judgy or so hard on himself but to try his best for that day. He felt going cold turkey would be too difficult because it would make him fixate on wanting it more. He’s not counting days and he’s not putting pressure on himself to say that he’ll never drink or use drugs again. He’s had about two shots of alcohol since last fall, and for him it’s important to focus on the fact that it’s two shots compared to the three bottles he would have slammed in the past.
For Chris, it’s harder to deal with the people who are surprised he’s not drinking than it is to not drink. Recently, he faced a challenge when he went to a Super Bowl party and didn’t drink and didn’t use. What about “One is too many and a thousand is never enough”? For Chris he could have one, but he asks himself, “What am I thinking? How am I feeling? Why would I do it? I already know where it’s going to lead me and how I’m going to be feeling later. After one, it’s going to be two. After two it’s going to be three. At that point, I’m just drinking. It creates a circle. The more aware I become daily, the better I am at stopping those thoughts when they creep up.”
Every morning, Chris gets up and looks in the mirror first thing and says to his reflection, “I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t use.” He prays, he meditates, he exercises. And then it’s time to face the world.
