I am at a conference in New Orleans, and one of the questions for discussion at a session I attended was, what cultural or family norm(s) do you need to release to survive?
My grandmother, Sofía, was a child bride who was taken from her family in Nicaragua at 14 and brought to Costa Rica. Her abuser claimed she was his daughter at the border in order to traffic her into Costa Rica, then married her there against her will. For years, he beat her as she had child after child of his. Abuela Sofía couldn’t speak up because for her to speak up was to risk her safety and that of her children. She was in a foreign country with no rights and no resources. Recognizing and advocating for her mental health needs was not an option, and the day she finally summoned the courage to take that risk, her abuser threw her and their children into the street, leaving them to survive without his support.
My mother, raised in the aftermath of my grandmother’s choice to speak up, migrated to the United States from Costa Rica years later. From my grandmother, my mother learned that speaking up for herself could lead to grave consequences, and being an undocumented and unwelcome immigrant in a foreign country where she did not speak English, she too avoided making many waves.
Most of my family who migrated to the United States followed suit. As they arrived, they carried silence with them into this country.
We did not discuss many things, mental health being a topic not up for discussion. Sure, if someone drank too much, they were labeled a “borracho” (drunk) or a “vago” (lazy person), but that was where the conversation ended, at a label: no discussion, no digging, no examination, no reflection.
So when I found myself in the throws of addiction, I continued the family tradition of silence. However, the silence was stifling, and I slowly lost my breath. I was suffocating. Silence may have worked as a tool for survival for my mother, grandmother, and the women before them, but it was killing me.
For years, I didn’t step outside of myself to examine my situation and realize that I was not in my mother’s shoes or my grandmother’s. I was born here in the United States. At the peak of my addiction, I had a job with access to medical benefits that I could use to help me treat my yearning for alcohol. No one was putting me in danger but me.
The longer I carried the weight of the cultural tradition of silence, the farther I distanced myself from help. Rapidly, I was starting to drown in the midst of my alcohol use until suddenly, in November 2020, I opened my mouth. I used my voice and stopped comparing what I needed to do to live to those before me.
I tapped into the power that my family’s silence had stifled for generations and asked for help.
I had to release the norm of silence to save my own life, and now, I’ll make it my mission to always speak openly about this journey because I know that silence can be deadly.
Audio of the text for people who prefer to listen.
November 2, 2022 marked 11 years since I last drank alcohol.
I celebrated by posting myself on Instagram holding a sign that read, “I am 11 years sober today!”
Discussing my past relationship with alcohol is a task I struggle to do because I am still coming to terms with my experiences.
Nonetheless, I’m committed to adding a face to mental illness and encouraging others to prioritize healing.
So, I hit the “share” button on Instagram, stepped out of my comfort zone, and virtually stood in my power as a woman in recovery.
Several sobriety-centered accounts kindly reposted my picture. Many of their followers congratulated me and shared their sobriety anniversaries.
Amidst the support, several followers in the comment section downplayed my sobriety, suggested I pick up drinking again and accused me of not being sober.
My age came up as a topic by supporters and skeptics alike.
Depending on who you ask, I present as a teenager or someone in their early twenties. My teenage years and early twenties are far behind me.
Let’s be clear, I appreciate aging like Benjamin Button and am thankful for my Ecuadorean and Nicaraguan genetics.
I welcome compliments about my youthful appearance. I do not welcome comments weaponizing my presumed age to undermine my sobriety.
“Sooo you stopped drinking when you were 10 years old? Not impressed,” said one Instagram user while another wrote, “I don’t know what 11 years means coming from someone probably in their mid 20’s…..” said another.
In reality, I stopped drinking during my junior year of college after several years of binge drinking that started in high school.
Priscilla over 11 years ago, before recovery.
I tried hard to convince myself that my relationship with alcohol was normal during those three years.
In hindsight, holding my drinking to a normalcy standard was too subjective.
Self-destruction would have been a more objective and helpful standard.
Objectively, repeatedly blacking out, vomiting, and jeopardizing my education, health, and safety were self-destructive behaviors.
But, for many, those are considered normal drunk behaviors for a college student. I was less motivated back then to challenge stereotypes surrounding alcohol abuse because I hid behind these generalizations and social norms.
I rationalized and deliberately avoided “red flags” that mental health providers look for to diagnose patients with alcohol dependency.
For example, I would go partying by myself and drink because I knew mental health professionals considered drinking alone a warning sign for alcoholism.
No, I was not alone but I was lonely inside a club full of strangers.
Who decides how someone with an alcohol use disorder looks or even acts? The truth is no two people with a drinking problem look or behave the same way.
Actress Drew Barrymore underwent treatment for alcohol and drug addiction at the age of 13.
Supermodel Naomi Campbell is in recovery from alcohol abuse and does not resemble the fictional alcoholic Frank Gallagher from Shameless.
Yet, Drew, Naomi, Frank, and I are all legitimate representations of alcohol use disorder because we fell on the spectrum of alcohol abuse.
According to licensed mental health counselor and author Sarah Allen Benton, alcohol use disorder is “a condition that ranges from mild to moderate to severe.
And it’s all still problem drinking, even if you think it’s ‘mild.’”
An alcohol use disorder diagnosis is rarely a straightforward process and involves self-reporting answers from the alleged alcoholic.
Reacting to someone’s disclosure about the intensity, frequency, and consequences of their drinking with disbelief or ridicule could obstruct their diagnosis and treatment.
Respond with compassion when someone discusses their relationship with alcohol instead of comparison.
It is very likely that the person sharing struggled to realize their problem let alone share their experiences with others.
I am unsure whether those that downplay my sobriety are trying to make me or themselves feel better.
I am sure that invalidating someone’s relationship with alcohol does not provide relief or empower those in recovery.
Priscilla in 2022. Provided by author.
Our community is healthier and stronger when we do not buy into misconceptions about alcohol use.
Stereotypes fuel secrecy, stigma, and ignorance around alcohol recovery.
My name is Priscilla and I am what somebody in recovery from alcohol abuse looks like.
About the author: Priscilla is a certified trauma recovery coach and mental health speaker. Contact her directly at www.priscillamaria.com
Writing Prompt: If you could write a letter to your younger self, what would you say?
Young Kenneth. Submitted by author.
Dear 12 year old me, It’s the summer before your 13th bday. You have a friend staying the night from school. Mom and Dad leaves you guys there to go hang out with friends. Pops has his liquor stash in the cabinet in the kitchen. Before you open it to take 12 shots of E&J Brandy, know this won’t be the last time you get drunk. You will experience being drunk a few more times over the next 25 years. Even though you throw up and feel like shit it won’t be your last time. But that’s what happens when you are left alone a lot to fend for yourself.
You are highly intelligent despite what any teacher will tell you in Jr high, high school and even college. Yes, that’s right college. You will be the first one in the family to get a Bachelor’s/Master’s degree. You are a great athlete but know the family will be too busy to see you play. Will it hurt, HELL YEAH! You get your heart broken a few times by girls and women. But don’t give up cause she is out there.
You will experience some shit others may only hear or read about. But that’s what makes you unique. You think you faced racism? You are barely scratching the surface. Can you believe you join the Army. Just like your Brother Anthony who is on deployment right now. And you end of getting stationed in El Paso, TX just like him. You get the chance to live any many cities. You experience pregnancies at 14, 17, 26 & 27. But no kids just yet and I’m 43 today. That time will come. Your dream of working in radio comes true. But depression sinks in once your not able to advance in the field. You pickup heavy drinking at 25 and over the next 12 years it’s hell for you. But you are strong enough that you make it out of it to become an author, podcaster, mentor and public speaker. You go to rehab 4 times but you finally got it right.
Kenneth today. Submitted by author.
I can say so much more about how life will be, but I want you to live it up to the fullest. Don’t change a thing cause when you reach my age you will say it was well worth it and probably do it the same exact way God has in store for you. Keep that million dollar smile cause many people will continue to gravitate to you. You don’t hear this enough but I love you and will be there with you every step of the way.
Follow Kenneth on Instagram, Facebook and YouTube at @12facesofsober
This is for you if you are anything how I used to be.
Maybe you said you would stop drinking after September 30th for “Sober October,” except that it’s only October 2nd, and you are already drinking.
Maybe you woke up yesterday morning and eagerly wrote a note in an app or on your calendar marking October 1st as your “day one” because you got tired of saying, “one day I’ll stop drinking,” except that now you’re at day zero.
Maybe you’re looking at all the fun posts with the hashtag #SoberOctober, wishing you could post something just as festive and equally as inspiring. Still, you feel like you can’t because you’re the farthest thing from sober on this October day, and the most spooky thing you’re doing right now is feeling anxiety sink your stomach because you said you were going to stop drinking and haven’t. You lied to yourself, saying, “It’s just a month, right? Anyone can do that,” and now, you’re drunk on the internet.
I know because that was me.
I can’t tell you how often I would look at myself in the mirror, promising that I would stop, only to drink hours later. Alcohol was more than something I liked to do. By the end of my drinking career, it was something that I needed to do. It was the only way to avoid becoming violently ill with withdrawal symptoms such as shakes, seizures, vomiting, and so on.
Suppose you have genuinely tried your best to stop drinking these past few days, and you have this unbelievable compulsion to do so, to the point that you regret it and hate yourself just a little bit more with every gulp. You complicate your life, day in and out, just to drink even after you firmly promised yourself or others that you wouldn’t. You might have more than a problematic relationship with alcohol. If you are like me, you are fully addicted, and something as simple as putting the bottle down because everyone else is doing it on social media is not enough and, frankly, probably not safe for you to do on your own.
Everyone’s journey is different, and what worked for me may not work for you, but when I could not physically pull myself away from the bottle, going to treatment helped. It did not resolve all my problems, as my own story includes many relapses, though now I have been continuously sober since November 2020. However, treatment gave me a space to stop safely, which was impossible for me to do on my own in the privacy of my home. Medications that doctors administered allowed me to safely go through what can be a deadly withdrawal process.
If you’re where I was, and you’re already struggling with “Sober October,” seek medical advice. If you do not have a physician who can assist you, SAMHSA, the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, has a treatment referral line open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Call them at 1-800-662-HELP (4357).
I recently read the poet Rumi’s words, “The wound is the place where the light enters you.” If your “Sober October” is turning out to be incredibly painful, then this is the opportunity for the breakthrough you need to make space for the life you deserve.
If you’re a teacher, you are working in a climate that has gotten exponentially more challenging with time. Summer was likely a great relief for many, but the lack of structure can lead to more unhealthy behaviors. If you already had a questionable relationship with alcohol, you might have been using your time off drinking even more than you did before. Now that it is time for many of you to start getting ready to return to your school buildings, you may be worrying if your drinking is a problem. Is your alcohol consumption at the point where you may need help but are scared that it’s too late to do anything about it because you can’t miss work?
“But, I’m a professional. I do well at work and take care of all my responsibilities (finances, kids, family, pets, etc.).” None of that is relevant. When it comes to alcohol abuse, what you accomplish despite your drinking does not negate the fact that your relationship with alcohol is a problem.
The National Institutes of Health (NIH) uses guidelines to determine if a person falls on the spectrum of alcohol use disorder. It is essential to highlight the word spectrum because one person’s problems with alcohol may look drastically different from another. Identifying alcohol abuse is not about comparing your drinking to someone else’s and being tempted to say, “Well, I am not as bad as her, so I must not have a problem.” This analysis is about your health and your life. This reflection needs to be about you solely. Examine what your thought process is and what your behavior is when it comes to drinking. Is it an issue?
Here are some questions the NIH provides to ask regarding drinking.
In the past year, have you:
Had times when you ended up drinking more, or longer, than you intended? More than once wanted to cut down or stop drinking, or tried to, but couldn’t?
Spent a lot of time drinking? Or being sick or getting over other aftereffects?
Wanted a drink so badly you couldn’t think of anything else?
Found that drinking—or being sick from drinking—often interfered with taking care of your home or family? Or caused job troubles? Or school problems?
Continued to drink even though it was causing trouble with your family or friends?
Given up or cut back on activities that were important or interesting to you, or gave you pleasure, in order to drink?
More than once gotten into situations while or after drinking that increased your chances of getting hurt (such as driving, swimming, using machinery, walking in a dangerous area, or having unprotected sex)?
Continued to drink even though it was making you feel depressed or anxious or adding to another health problem? Or after having had a memory blackout?
Had to drink much more than you once did to get the effect you want? Or found that your usual number of drinks had much less effect than before?
Found that when the effects of alcohol were wearing off, you had withdrawal symptoms, such as trouble sleeping, shakiness, restlessness, nausea, sweating, a racing heart, or a seizure? Or sensed things that were not there?
If, after reading this list, you are uncomfortable with the fact that you may have a problem with alcohol, I first want to say that you’re not alone. I taught successfully for thirteen years and won numerous awards, and at the end of my drinking career, I drank a fifth of bourbon a night and excelled the next day at work. I’ve been sober since November 28, 2020, so I promise you that it gets better and that knowing you have an issue can only serve your higher good.
Maybe you have tried to stop drinking only to find that, for different reasons, you really could not control it on your own. You’ve heard of people going to treatment facilities, but now that school is around the corner, you feel like your opportunity to get assistance is gone. You think that you might have to wait for another break in the school year to come.
“Who is going to cover my classes?” “I don’t want to/don’t have the mental capacity to write these sub plans.” “I worry about my classroom.” “Will this go on file against me?” “I’ve never been to rehab. I’m scared to go.” “I don’t want to leave my kids at home.” “What if I lose my job?” “What if no one watches my children/pets at home?”
I, too, have said most of the above, but it is important to note that eventually if you don’t stop drinking, many of the fears listed will materialize anyway. You will decrease the likelihood of experiencing significant losses and consequences by going to treatment for a week or several weeks.
There are many resources and avenues for getting help outside of a treatment facility, and you can find those here. However, for those considering going into a facility, please be aware that if you have worked in the same district for over a year, you may be eligible to take advantage of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) program with the U.S. Department of Labor. This program also applies to employees at agencies at the local, state, and federal levels. The specific line of the act that would apply to entering a treatment facility is “a serious health condition that makes the employee unable to perform the essential functions of his or her job.” Mental health IS health, so a problem with addiction IS a serious health issue. In my personal experience, I used FMLA as a public school teacher when I needed treatment.
So what is FMLA? It is a federal program that, upon approval, allows individuals to take up to twelve weeks (or twenty-six, it depends on the circumstances) off of work to take care of different medical needs. This time off is usually NOT paid time off (not ideal, I know). However, the employee keeps all their benefits, and their job is guaranteed for them when they return. You are also protected by confidentiality, so your employer cannot disclose the nature of your absence to others.
When I used it, my employer was only allowed to say that I was “on leave,” my accounts, such as my school email (your district may do something different), were put on pause until I returned. Also, when I say employer, I mean your human resources department. If you disclose your situation to your school principal, that is your choice, but the HR department cannot tell your principal why you are on leave. In my case, I did not write any lesson plans, either.
I share this information about FMLA because I was unaware I could use it when struggling with alcohol. I learned about it when I ended up in a hospital and the doctor on call recommended that I enter into treatment. My first reaction was, “No. I can’t. I’m a teacher.” He proceeded to explain FMLA to me, and when my family contacted my district’s human resources department, the HR staff confirmed that with the proper documentation, I was eligible for it.
Many teachers have lost their jobs due to drinking, and if they haven’t lost their jobs, they have suffered other consequences, too. When I taught, I built my schedule around alcohol so that I could teach, lesson plan, grade, drink, pass out and get up only to repeat the same cycle every day for years. Alcohol dictated everything for me, and it made me physically very sick, yet I still successfully put up appearances of doing well. I was quietly letting it kill me. You don’t have to spend another school year suffering if you are still teaching. I let my problem spiral to the point where I had to leave, but you don’t have to.
“Well, the funny thing is I didn’t tell him that I have the Holy Trinity.” Natalie cackled while talking to some of the twenty-somethings in the courtyard.
Off to the side of everyone chatting, I was sitting in a beat-up camping chair trying to mind my business and enjoy the sun and its warmth on my skin. Natalie’s voice carried over to my ears and I could feel them perk up. Holy Trinity? I wondered. Even though I initially wasn’t listening, her gleeful energy in between cigarette pulls caught everyone’s attention, including mine.
Photo from Unsplash.
“You know,” she said as the smoke slowly floated up from the side of her mouth, “Hep A, B, and C!”
Immediately my jaw dropped with a slight gasp and laugh. What? Then I had a flashback to the night before when I saw some of the “young ones,” as I like to call them, scurrying around the facility. They were trying to distract the techs from supervising so Natalie and some other kid could run off to have sex. What was another conquest for Natalie to brag about was about to become a really uncomfortable situation for that kid. Days later, he came back to us saying that he tested “positive.” Originally I thought it would be for hepatitis given Mother Teresa and her “Holy Trinity,” but it turned out to be some other STI. So maybe the joke was on Natalie? I don’t know. There were no condoms around because, of course, no one was supposed to have sex. Except they did, and clearly it was not safe.
I remember one morning coming back to my room after brushing my teeth. As I approached, I noticed that the lights were off. Hmm, did I do that? Our doors didn’t lock, so as I leaned on the door with my arms full of toiletries, I heard heavy breathing from the other side of the room and saw shuffling under the covers. It was my roommate with a particularly creepy man who made my skin crawl. I cringed when I heard him moan then loudly whisper in her ear. He definitely was not a twenty-something.
Do I interrupt? Do I tell a tech what’s happening? I knew the rules, but I didn’t know what was considered right and what was wrong. I was quickly learning during my stay that it wasn’t about the rules, it was about what I needed to get through those 35 days in peace. It hit me that my five weeks would quickly feel like ten if I had a conflict with anyone, so in that moment, I decided that I hadn’t seen or heard anything.
Before they noticed that I had walked in, I stepped out and took a seat in the common area. I exhaled, putting my face in the palm of my hand to wait. It only took a few minutes for him to come out of the room. I was not surprised.
While the techs occasionally played Whack-A-Mole trying to control the twenty-somethings, I found myself entertained in my own way thanks to another patient. No, I did not have sex with this man. I didn’t even touch him. But I still found myself distracted in his company. Our connection brought me comfort at a moment in my life when I was grieving the man I knew was permanently gone. He was no replacement, but he took me away from my pain. If I couldn’t have alcohol while in treatment, at least I could have some male attention. He was exactly what I needed for those five weeks.
I always looked forward to early evening when we could work on crossword puzzles by the tech desk. We chatted with each other and the techs, who, like Danielle, were all in recovery and helped remind us that getting better was possible.
Photo from Unsplash.
As it got close to 9 PM, I began to dread my nightly trip to the nurse’s station. As soon as I took my night meds, the clock started counting down. Slowly my eyelids got heavier and my head started to nod off, which annoyed me. It was a nice change, for once, to actually want to be awake, but those meds sapped my energy. I was finally laughing with others after not having done so in over a month, and even more surprising, I was smiling again. I didn’t want the meds to take that little bit of joy away from me early every evening.
As we worked on the crossword one time, I looked at him and wondered, why isn’t HE sleepy? It was then that I learned from the others how to “cheek” my meds. So that night I went into the nurse’s station, took the little paper cup with my medications, emptied it into my mouth and said “ahhh” like a little kid as I stuck my tongue out so the nurse could take a look. All the while, I tasted the bitterness of the pills hidden between my gums and cheek as they started to break down. I rushed to the bathroom to spit them out before they disintegrated, wrapped them up in tissue, stuffed them into my bra, and saved them for when I wanted to go to bed. Back to the crosswords!
I rapidly fell into the daily routine. I was so wrapped up with therapy, groups, and classes that I started to forget about the world outside, the world that treatment was shielding me from.
I was vaguely aware that it was a world that seemed to have fallen apart. Every now and then, someone would flip past a news channel while looking for another episode of Botched. I remember hearing snippets of COVID’s numbers going up as the TV abruptly switched to Naked and Afraid or some other reality show. I remember being allowed to watch TV briefly while the protests broke out around the country and just miles away from where we were. Then, as soon as gunshots rang out live on TV, it suddenly became silent. TV off. A part of me was relieved to be away from it all. Away from one unprecedented event after the other as well as the alcohol that waited patiently for me.
Every week I got thirty minutes to speak to someone from the outside on video chat. I always chose my sister, Sophie. It had hurt her so much to see me struggling that I wanted to show her how good I looked the longer I was in treatment.
“You have no idea how much at peace I feel knowing you’re safe. I’ve been taking the family support classes, and I’m learning a lot,” she’d say. The facility provided classes for both families and patients on addiction and how it is a disease and not a failure of character.
I still felt like a failure, but I didn’t have to think about that in treatment. Instead, I could just relax, like I was at a summer camp for dysfunctional adults. I knew what was waiting for me on the other side of the fence. It was the people outside, those people and their opinions, that ran chills down my spine.
“Mami doesn’t know where I am, right?” I asked.
Photo from Unsplash.
Each time I spoke to my sister, I asked if people had figured out where I was, fearful that my secret would be revealed. I just wanted people to think I was taking time for myself and “unplugging” after the loss. I didn’t want a soul to know that I was locked away in a treatment facility, that I was institutionalized.
The very idea of anyone knowing where I was made my heart race and my stomach sink fast, like a free fall with no end. I’d seen people get ripped apart publicly because of their secrets and I didn’t want that to be me. As I watched my sister chat on the screen about her days and what things have been like for her, my mind wandered to thoughts of how I would rather die than have others know where I was. I mean, how could I, this teacher loved by the community, be an alcoholic? How could I be such an extreme case that I couldn’t be trusted with my own life and had to be locked away? How could I be a good person but be hooked so badly?
It. Just. Didn’t. Make. Sense.
I didn’t tell my sister that those thoughts raced through my mind while we spoke. I didn’t tell my therapist when I looked her in her eyes across her desk. I didn’t tell anyone in my group sessions during those heavy pauses when I could have said something. I did not tell a single soul how torn I felt inside.
Even in those moments, surrounded by people just like me, I was alone.
Originally written by Jessica for Love & Literature Magazine.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said, narrowly opening my eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening while hanging upside down. It was the morning of May 25, 2020, and I had just gained consciousness after wrecking my car on Bardstown Rd in Louisville, Kentucky. I vaguely remembered that my dog Cruz and I were on our way to meet a friend for a walk. Instead, I found myself suspended in the air by my seatbelt, realizing that everything was upside down and feeling the pressure of blood rushing to my head. Awake and still alive, unfortunately.
Stock image of a flipped car. Mine was flipped in the same manner.
“Wait, my dog….” I started to mumble when I looked out, and there he was, tail still as if he was holding his breath waiting for me. Relief.
Then the waves hit my body one after the other. Not pain, but first fear. “What is happening to me?” Next, anger. “I shouldn’t be okay…I don’t want this!” Lastly, shame. “I’m awful. How could I want to die with my dog in the car? What kind of sick person am I? I deserve to die. I’m fucking hopeless.”
I wanted to walk away from the scene to escape the best way I knew how, racing to the bottom of a bottle of cheap bourbon. Still, first things first, these damn first responders weren’t letting me go if it wasn’t in an ambulance. I hadn’t even realized that I lacerated my elbow and had pieces of glass embedded throughout my skin like some sort of glittery decor.
“I don’t want any Goddamn help,” I muttered under my breath as I got into the ambulance. I had to answer the same rote questions I’ve responded to many times in ambulance rides. “Wait, how do you spell your last name?” “D for David, u, e for Edward…” until getting to the hospital.
Though I was furious and incredibly resentful at going to the hospital, there was one positive: Pain pills! My favorite mind-altering drug has always been alcohol, as I never had the “oomph” in me to work as hard as people do to get illicit drugs. However, I certainly wasn’t going to reject a nice prescription, either. I could already feel the euphoria just before blacking out with burning splashes of Evan Williams. I couldn’t wait to escape my misery and get away for a day or two.
“Here’s your prescription for Ibuprofen 800s.”
“Excuse me, IBUPROFEN?!” I felt myself clutching my nonexistent pearls.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But, I just flipped my car over. I just got out of a terrible wreck.”
“Sorry, you aren’t experiencing enough pain for anything stronger.”
Wow. Immediately I wondered what the fuck someone would have to do to get a pain pill around here; I mean, lose a limb? Welp, there went any slight, “on the bright side,” feeling I was starting to have. My stomach started sinking again. I rolled my eyes and groaned.
Getting home from the hospital, I knew I would have to tell my sister what happened. I had already been hospitalized several times since April 28, when I found my then-boyfriend dead from a drug overdose. Ever since, I was trapped in what felt like a never-ending bender from Hell. In less than a month, I had already gone twice to detox. I had several emergency room visits with dangerously high blood alcohol levels. So to prepare myself for this call, I got a few liquor bottles dropped off thanks to alcohol delivery and opened one of the bottles. No need to pour it in a glass, I drank it like water.
“Jess, you’re dying. You need help. Please, go somewhere. I can’t handle this. Every time the phone rings, I’m terrified,” Sophie cried. I sighed and thought to myself, Damn, I don’t want to be hurting her like this. So I picked up the phone and called a local treatment facility inquiring about their five-week program. Deep down, I was hoping they wouldn’t have a bed open. Deep down, I wanted to just keep drinking and shut down. I was already dreading the feeling of detoxing and withdrawals. The woman on the phone said, “Yes! We can take you. How about we pick you up later today?” I went to clutch my imaginary pearls again.
“TODAY?! but I’m not packed.”
“That’s okay. Someone can drop clothes off for you.”
I tried to deflect. “I can’t come tomorrow?”
“Well, sweetheart, you CAN come tomorrow, but WILL you make it ’til then?” I sighed.
“FINE. But can you come in the evening?”
“Yes.”
Rubbing my hands together, I realized I had a few hours so that I could give myself one last hurrah before I went into this place. I couldn’t imagine five weeks without drinking. I dreaded the idea of having to feel everything, of only being unconscious to sleep. So I swallowed hard, I drank fast. I threw the Ibuprofen 800s in the trash. I vaguely remember a friend coming to get Cruz, and then everything went dark and silent. I couldn’t feel a thing. Things were exactly how I wanted them to be always and forever.
Intake picture from treatment. May 2020.
I came-to on a couch in an unfamiliar space. I looked around. There were people watching TV, others were playing games at a table, someone was writing in a notebook while reading out of what appeared to be a Bible. I could tell I needed a drink; my head was starting to throb, my hands were beginning to shake. I looked down. As I examined the dried blood on my clothes, I suddenly felt like my elbow was being stabbed. There were some rough stitches in there. The thick, black surgical thread stuck out of my elbow like a porcupine’s needles. I got up only to feel the room start spinning, and a woman, to this day I don’t remember who it was, grabbed my good arm and walked me to a room. She pointed me to a plainly dressed bed. Immediately I got in. Back to black. Relief.
I finally woke up with a clearer head in that same bed and walked out of the room. It looked like I was in a college dorm setup of some kind. I saw people sitting in a courtyard, cigarettes and vape pens in hand surrounded by a cloud of smoke to the left of me. In front of me, standing at the desk, a young woman looked at me and smiled, “Hi Jessica! How are you, love? I’m Danielle.” Danielle was a tech, so she was introducing herself to let me know that she, alongside the other techs, supervised the area to make sure that all was in order. She was also a few years in recovery from all kinds of drugs, and she just glowed.
Medical Bracelet while in treatment in Louisville, KY where I was hospitalized May-June of 2020.
As she walked me around the facility to give me a sense of where I was, she ran down basic things like the schedule, rules, and our responsibilities. Yes, we as the patients, had chores. Some people eagerly waved “hello” as we passed them. Others looked like they had just gotten there, too, and moved about like zombies.
“You know, my boyfriend died two years ago from a drug overdose, too.” I was immediately caught off guard. First, I wondered how she knew, then second, I felt a surge of relief. It had basically been a month since Ian died, and I had yet to hear that there was another soul on this earth who also had a boyfriend who died from a drug overdose. She sat me down and shared her story with me. There was so much I related to. I had to ask, “But, how did you live through it? How are you still here?”
In my mind, I thought this life experience was supposed to come with some sort of death sentence. That I would just bide my time until I killed myself or died of alcohol poisoning. But Danielle, here she was, joyful, glowing, and with some solid continuous sober time under her belt and proving me wrong.
“Oh, trust me, it was the worst experience of my life to date, and my heart is still broken. Eventually, you start to find your way in this world with grief. I promise you it gets better. I’m a testament to that.”
Immediately I felt a tiny shift in me, a butterfly in my stomach. Maybe it does, in fact, get better. I mean, if Danielle did it, perhaps I can, too. She gave me a hug, which also surprised me, and went off to finish her shift. Before leaving for the day, Danielle came back to find me and handed me a sheet she pulled from the tech desk printer. The paper read:
Page from my journal where I pasted the printout. June 2020.
People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.
A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.
A soul mate’s purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master…
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love
I knew then that although it was going to be a long five weeks, that maybe this was exactly what I needed.
Originally written by Jessica for Love & Literature Magazine.
Transgender. Recovering alcoholic. Both labels carry stigmas. Coming out as each would change the way people viewed me. Both developments were positive, even cause to celebrate, in their own ways. There were also key differences, like the fact that I understand alcoholism as a disease, which transness definitely isn’t. But reflecting on the similarities between these parts of my narrative has helped me better understand why I stayed in the closet—in both senses—for as long as I did.
The first stage of coming out—as anything—is coming out to yourself. For many people, this stage is the hardest, because it means facing your internalized biases, your denial, and grieving the loss of a life you thought you’d have, or the person you believed yourself to be. For me, one major obstacle I faced in coming out to myself as trans—namely my tendency to avoid dealing with my own problems by comparing myself to others—was also a major obstacle on my path to sobriety.
I have a journal that dates back to six years ago, when I was first trying to get my drinking under control. Every other entry contained a new resolution. For example:
I will only drink x number of drinks per day
I will not start drinking before x o’clock
I will not drink alone
I will not drink more than x days per week
Two or three times a week I’d invent a new rule, because I’d break the previous rule by day two or three. The fascinating thing about these journal entries, is how blatantly obvious it is, looking at them now, that I was incapable of drinking in moderation.
But even though my alcoholism was right under my nose—and I was the one documenting it—I couldn’t see it. Hence, I just kept writing new resolutions, none of which involved getting sober. That was something only alcoholics did, and I wasn’t an alcoholic. I mean yes, I’d been trying unsuccessfully to moderate my drinking for years. Yes, I became a monster when I drank, who did and said awful things, then blacked out and woke up sick with remorse, only to do it all over again. But I knew real alcoholics, who’d gone to jail and rehab multiple times, and whose organs were literally shutting down. I wasn’t like them. They had a problem. They needed help. I just needed to learn better self-control.
That same notebook also documents the period of time when I was first trying to make sense of my “gender issues”: the feelings of discomfort I experienced when I looked in the mirror and saw a woman’s face. Or when I took off my clothes and saw a woman’s body. Or when someone would refer to me as “ma’am” or “miss.” Or when anyone tried to touch my chest or genitals during sex. It didn’t occur to me in any of these journal entries that I might be a trans man—after all, the trans men I had read about had always known they were trans. My story was not like theirs. It was not as linear, or as stereotypical. Those were trans people, people who actually had a reason to transition. I was just troubled, weird about gender, and would have to find some way to live with that weirdness.
So rather than allowing myself to name my true desires—i.e., the desire to transition and to claim a male identity—I drowned them in booze and sought external validation by sleeping with straight women, adopting toxically masculine traits, and hurting myself and a number of other people along the way. Looking back I wonder how much of this damage would have been prevented had someone told me that you could be trans without having a textbook trans narrative, that transness, like alcoholism, looks different on everyone.
There are so many obstacles that stand in the way of our growth, self-acceptance, and healing as queer and trans people: fear, stigma, guilt, shame, and social pressure just to name a few. The same goes for us addicts, alcoholics, and folks who struggle with substance abuse. The last thing we need is to make the journey any harder, or prolong our suffering by comparing ourselves to others. There are infinite possible trans narratives, gay narratives, and recovery narratives. None is better or truer than another. They all just are. And the sooner we can claim ours, the sooner we can heal, and share our light and hope with others.
Originally published at QueerKentucky
Adrian Silbernagel (he/him) is a queer transgender man who lives in Louisville, KY. He will have 5 years of continuous sobriety on September 28, 2022. Adrian is a writer, speaker, activist, and founding co-op member at Old Louisville Coffee Co-op: a late-night sober coffee shop that is opening soon in Louisville, KY.
Oxford defines recovery as “a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.” It also offers a second meaning, “the action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost.” For me, my recovery consists of moving to a functional state of good health and regaining control of myself. This has required complete abstinence from both drinking and teaching.
I’m Jessica. I was Kentucky’s State Teacher of the Year in 2019, and I’m also a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been sober since November 28th, 2020, and free from teaching since December 4th, 2020. I couldn’t tell you exactly when I lost myself. However, I can tell you my habit of avoiding feelings began when I was fat-shamed as a child. I learned to steal and hide the food I wanted to eat to avoid embarrassment. I ate like this for many years and dedicated myself to excelling as a student to feel better about being an overweight child and later a teen.
Eventually, my escapism transferred to alcohol and my career. After being called out at a happy hour for drinking too much, I decided to hide my alcohol consumption from others. “Whoa, you’re moving a little fast there, aren’t you?” I remember a fellow teacher said to me. My face was hot with shame, and from that day forward, unless I accidentally over-drank in front of others, I tried my best to not be caught drunker than the group I was with. I did well at work, so when I did slip and drink too much, no one could say I had a problem with alcohol because “look at how great Jessica is as an educator.”
Teacher of the Year Head Shot, 2019.
I hid my love for alcohol in many ways. A classic example is that I monitored how others drank at events to make sure that I matched everyone else drink for drink. If others had one glass, I had one. If they had four, I had four. I always knew something was wrong with me, but I gaslit myself. I convinced myself that there couldn’t be anything wrong with me because I went to college and then graduate school, twice. Alcoholics don’t get graduate degrees. They don’t successfully build relationships with kids and win awards for their work. There is no way that you can be named the top teacher in a state and be an alcoholic. But I was.
I lived a painful double life where every day I suffered and every day I chose to not tell anyone and drank instead. I eventually was physically dependent on alcohol, so I felt even worse about myself. How did I cope? I threw myself into teaching. I couldn’t be a bad person if I was a good educator, right?
My days were a non-stop Groundhog Day. I came home from whichever school I worked at and breathed a sigh of relief because I could be unbothered. I could drink without fear of judgment. Over the years, the amount of liquor I needed to escape and avoid withdrawal symptoms increased. I consumed a bit more than a fifth of liquor a day at the end of my drinking career. I ignored a diagnosis of alcoholic liver disease in 2019 and continued to drink. I allowed my health to decline as I drank more. I always had to lie as to why I felt sick. My students asked, “Why are you always going to the bathroom? Why are you always going to throw up?” I told them my stomach was just sensitive. However, no matter what, Ms. Dueñas was always doing her best.
My persona had two sides, and neither one was truly me. My teacher self took turns with my addicted self for years until April 28th of 2020, when my then-boyfriend relapsed and died from an overdose. That day between alcohol and teaching, the alcohol took over and controlled me fully until my current sobriety date.
Rehab, 2020.
For months, I barely worked as I was in and out of hospitals, staying in treatment facilities, and putting together a few weeks of fragile sobriety at a time before violently crashing. The day I left a five-week-long treatment program, I ordered alcohol delivery and faded away by myself. I wrecked my car, blew nearly a .5 blood alcohol level, and tried to purchase a gun to shoot myself with. I was hospitalized for the last time in November of 2020, which is when this recovery process truly started.
A psychiatrist at the hospital asked to evaluate me, and upon digging into my history, he diagnosed me with bipolar 2. The Mayo Clinic defines bipolar disorder as “a mental health condition that causes extreme mood swings that include emotional highs and lows.” With bipolar 2, “you’ve had at least one major depressive episode and at least one hypomanic (somewhat energized/euphoric) episode, but you’ve never had a manic episode (which is more severe).” So, for individuals with bipolar 2, there is never a psychotic episode, for example.
The doctor informed me of how frequently substance abuse went hand in hand with mental health conditions. He recommended that I try medication with a recovery program and therapy as part of my wellness plan. I accepted the recommendation. By then, things had gone too far. I wanted to die, but I was not dying, and my everyday existence had become unbearable. Something had to change. I needed to gain control of myself. I needed to get healthy. I needed to recover.
When I decided to accept help, I also realized that alcohol was not the only external factor controlling my life. It was not the only thing keeping me from being healthy. I allowed my teaching career to be just as much of an escape from myself as alcohol. No matter what chaos happened in my personal life, I was an excellent actor, and the classroom was my stage. I could only feel better about who I was if I helped others, but I never once helped myself. The teaching had to go as much as the alcohol needed to. I was reborn.
16 Months Sober, 2022.
Since November 2020, I’ve embarked on this lifelong journey of becoming authentically me. My medications allow me to feel enough stability to use my recovery program and therapy to address my mental and spiritual needs. I now can face past traumas that I avoided. I journal daily, pray, meditate, and lean on my support group. I don’t isolate myself. I connect with others both in person and through social media. I try new things. I care less about other people’s opinions of me, and when I do care, because I’m a human, I have ways to check myself and my fears. I don’t worry about constantly meeting others’ needs. I have identified MY needs, and I ask myself if people and situations meet them, and when they don’t, I remove myself.
Today, my success is not measured by academic standards, standardized test results, or a score on an administrator’s observation rubric. My success is measured by the intangible, my ability to create a life I no longer need to escape. Not everyone is allowed to do so and I am incredibly grateful for my daily gifts. Happy Resurrection Day.
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.
