Shame in the World of Sex Addiction

What does one do with the shame?

Perhaps you left your sex addict. Perhaps you stayed. Perhaps you left and then returned for reasons that are only known to you. Perhaps you don't know what to do. Perhaps you are a sex addict. Or a co-addict. Love addict. Romance addict. Relationship addict. Perhaps it's all of these. Perhaps it's none. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

Perhaps you are me.

At the end of the day when I am laying my tired body down to rest, my mind begins to wage war. The images scorch before my mind's eye, searching for a place to make their home.

I no longer want this body to be home to the memories. And so, the endless riddle is, what does one do with the shame?

When it began to dawn on me that my partner had a sexual addiction, I did nothing. I believed that if I loved him through it, showed him my unconditional love, that somehow he would be healed. And in doing so, I nearly destroyed myself. And honestly, when I say I did nothing, that is not true.

I enabled him.

I became a willing participant. I owned his shame. I owned his disease. And for a while, I believe I became his disease.

In my journey towards recovery, I have had to face the very real fact that I absolutely cannot change the past. I am a natural born control freak, so this has been challenging for me to accept. Shame revisits me often. I greet it like an old friend, cry with it, scream with it, and sleep with it. It visits me in my dreams, in shadows of pain, in twisted memories. Always exaggerating the evil it thinks it is.

And yet, in moments of clarity, I have come to realize that shame is nothing but love at the other end of the spectrum. I am propelled towards love and forgiveness with shame licking at my heels. I cannot seem to run fast enough. The awakening for me has been in the realization of this concept: anything that brings us back to love, is simply love in disguise. And so now, I tell my old friend that it is no longer needed, it has already done what it was supposed to do.

Shame has inspired within my soul a longing, a search for perfect love and complete forgiveness, acceptance, and redemption, and, yes, a soul mate, beautiful sunsets, full moons, magical beginnings, and happily ever-afters.

And I am finding that this road is leading back to Me.

sometimes a cigar is just a cigar

I find myself watching that show on A & E INTERVENTION from time to time. Sometimes I get sucked right into the addicts story of woe while other times, the addict ends up infuriating me so much that I fear I'll end up giving myself a stroke! I know that every addict is different and so is their tolerance, etc but you'll be hard pressed to convince me that someone who has just been using for a couple of years is going to have as difficult a time kicking then someone who has used for a couple of decades. Whatever, that's not really what has got me all fired up!

I am very much aware that there are a whole lot of people who drink or drug so that they are able to escape or forget some awful past trauma, or to self medicate either diagnosed or undiagnosed mental health issues. I also think that there are a whole lot of us out there who drink or take drugs just cause they like to drink or take drugs! I was most definitely one of them.

It's often much more difficult to watch the addicts support group as they struggle to come to terms with their addict and his/her behaviour. Without exception, they all seem to have a tendency to blame themselves in some way for the addicts problems. Maybe that's true in some cases, but I suspect that more often than naught, it is not at all related. Maybe they're simply being too hard on themselves. Certainly if they actually did something terrible, then my guess is that they already know it. So, if they are unable to actually think of anything that they could have done to cause them to drink or drug then there probably isn't anything at all. They should attempt to move on and stop torturing themselves with guilt, vainly searching for that traumatic event that caused their loved one to become an addict. They may simply have to accept that perhaps their addict does what they do simply because they love getting drunk or high for this and this alone.

I wished many times when I was young and immature and arrogant that I had something in my past to be tortured about. It's a lot more romantic and punk rock if your life is filled with some sort of angst! Unfortunately for me, I was as far removed from that lifestyle than one could possibly imagine - now, since my late teens and early twenties, I've since managed to change all of that and wish that I didn't have some of the baggage I've now managed to accumulate in the past two decades!

I was fortunate enough to be raised by involved, loving and kind parents, given every middle class advantage. I did exceptionally well in school. earning a full paying scholarship to university upon my high school graduation. I was a lifeguard at our local pool every summer and worked as a waitress at the local truck stop during the school year. I had more than enough friends and no terrible, life altering story to tell about my teen years or even any tease worthy physical defects. I had what many would consider an idyllic childhood and yet, I still managed to spend two and a half decades abusing substances as if this were my true life's calling.

I discovered booze in my mid teens, and I loved it. I mean, I couldn’t believe how much I loved it. I then managed to spend the next many years of my life enjoying it to great excess. I drank because I liked getting drunk too much. It fit just right inside my mind. Eventually, of course, the drinking got less fun, certainly less exciting, and in fact, actually started to get boring. It never got to the point where my drinking interfered with my work or life but still I could see that if I didn't reign myself in that I'd be unable to maintain the status quo much longer.

Drinking was much easier to walk away from simply because I had something newer and shinier to replace it with. I still had a pretty idyllic life even though I'd since been through a couple of really nasty relationships but even so, I never used any of this as an excuse to continue my substance abusing lifestyle. I had now simply integrated this into my everyday routine. Even at the very end of my final out of control opiate addiction two and a half years ago, I was never, ever using because of some awful trauma that I was trying desperately to suppress. To the end, and I mean to my absolute final hit with that syringe filled with about 12mg of dilaudid, I was using simply because I loved to use. End of sentence, full stop. Period.

In the end, it doesn't matter much how you got yourself addicted, once you are, you have a struggle ahead of you, and I don’t think that falling into addiction this way is any “worse” than falling into addiction and abuse for any other reason. Nobody plans to become a desperate drunk or drug addict, certainly not initially or intentionally, although as a species, we seem to be hardwired to seek out pleasure – and for those of us that seem to get more pleasure out of a drink and drugs than others, it’s understandable why we might get ourselves into trouble.

Life in Hell

What I know about the situation is that I placed myself in it, for starters, so I have no business complaining about it or being so butt-hurt. I also know how to solve the problem of wallowing in self-pity and resentment. I know how to mend the pain of being sore at myself. But apparantly, at the moment anyway, I am unwilling or unable to pick up those tools and put them to work. I imagine that tells me that I'm getting some sort of reward out of this being miserable which is a perverse idea so it shouldn't surprise me.

I went to court yesterday to be sentenced for a probation violation. If I had not violated I would have been off probation in like 10 more months.

Now I have 5 more years.

200 hours of community service to do within a year and 5 more years of being on probation in a state that doesn't allow me to leave except by special permission and only to go be with immediate family. Which means I'm here, in this state I can't stand, where I don't believe I'll ever have a boyfriend, where there are no opportunities unless you really like hunting or fishing or are a Mormon or a Republican, for five more M*$#er F@&$(*g years.

I seriously, at least at the moment, think I'd rather die. And unfortunately, because I placed myself in this position, it validates every rotten thing I already think about myself and every reason I think carrying on is not worth it. I know that is my disease talking. I know this too shall pass. But it won't pass till I'm fourty f-ing eight years old. Till then I'm trapped in a mean, nasty republican cultural wasteland trying to protect myself from my past and from my drunken mother.

What is stupider is that if they hadn't made it a requirement I probably wouldn't feel this way. I'd probably end up here for five more years anyway. And this feeling is so overwhelming, particularly on my 11th consecutive Valentine's Day without a companion or any prospect of one, that I'm afraid if I said what was really going on in my head I'd be locked up for my own good. In case anyone needs me I'll be hiding in my room, crying, praying for the willingness to do the work.

Welcome to the Jungle....well, maybe "not so much"

Hello, friends & family,
I'm so happy to join you; Let me introduce myself!
I have been an aspiring "humanoid" for just a bit more than 15 years, by the grace of God. Aspiring...? You may ask. Well, as opposed to the alienated and pseudo-isolated life of an active addict. My drug of choice was "MORE", and I have used every chemical that was presented to me at the time (most of them more than once.) On Thanksgiving of 1992, I had what they call a "Moment of Clarity", and it's been a really crazy ride ever since!
I am blessed to have been given two children, B & E. They are both boys, both rambunctious as anyone ever was, and really good kids when you get right down to it. I have inflicted my own understanding of family relations upon them, and I try to learn every day how to do it better. This is my attempt at "Living Amends". My extended family consists of Mom and my brother, N, & his family.
Currently I am taking courses at a local Community College, in pursuit of a degree in Substance Abuse Counseling. When I'm not there, or in the Blogosphere/Internet, I can be found either at the "Great"-Will store, or the closest flea market. If my church were open more often, I'd be there more, but what can I say, they haven't yet caught my vision for 5 + services a week. :o)
It's getting late, now, so I have to cut this short. I'm a novice at the blogging thing, so I hope you will all bare with me. Blessings and hugs,
abbiegrrl

mereggie, a.k.a. me, reggie macdonald a true story

I found this amazing site this evening while testing out a new search extension that I had just downloaded and installed to Firefox. I was randomly inputting various searches regarding the topic heroin. The site that I found is entitled mereggie, a.k.a. me, reggie macdonald a true story and its description reads mereggie, the sad true story of reggie macdonald of souris, pei, canada who lived life in the fast lane, involvement with / drug addiction, and subsequent disappearance.

His family is still searching for him or at the very least, hoping for his safe return to them. What he left behind is an unbelievable amount of his personal writings and what we have apparently lost is an incredible talent and voice that for now has been silenced. I’ve barely touched the surface of this site myself. The only thing preventing me from reading further is my desperate need for sleep at the moment. I dare anyone who visits this site to willingly look away.

mereggie is the true story of Reggie Macdonald.

In early December 2005, Reggie left home, while under the apparent effect of crystal meth and disappeared, and despite a country wide search could not be found.

Reggie led a troubled life dealing with drug addiction and the lingering effects on his personal and professional life. Shortly after he disappeared, his family found hundreds of pages of his writings which shed light on his struggles. Reggie had hoped to become a writer and that his life story would have a positive impact on someone, and so with this site, we present his writings.

Read the writing called Methadone, which describes the awful existence of a heroin addict on methadone. If this doesn’t want to make you avoid drugs, then I am surprised. For more harrowing tales that might lead one to avoid drugs, read the Iceland, Kidnapped! and other readings.

If you are intrigued, read on - you can start with Reg’s intro to his story …. more details will be added over the next few months …

NOTE:While Reg was very articulate and a very good writer, at times his perspective is very harsh, most likely affected by his addiction. We hope that his writings are viewed in that context, as the views Reg often expressed are not the views of his family.

The following entry of his is one that I can, unfortunately, relate all to well . Whatever. Now in my past I should think, and hope, and pray. This particular entry spoke to me specifically on many levels.

Prior to me starting back on MMT, I was hooked hardcore to dilaudids and just for me to maintain at a reasonable level, I required at least ten 8mg pills on a daily basis. This certainly doesn't mean that I got them everyday because even at this level, the best price one could hope for was $100 which actually meant for us $200 - there were two active addicts involved in all of this insanity after all. While we did manage to come close most days, at our worst we were still spending on average approx $2600 monthly.

I could have practically written this piece myself the similarities are so eerie. Again I encourage everyone to visit this site. This entry will be cross posted to METHADONE PRETTY as well.

methadone

When I get up in the morning, I don’t grab a coffee. I go to the fridge for my 100 ml bottle of methadone. After that my day is just like yours. But I wasn’t always like this. Life was a lot harder, a lot rougher. Every morning I would be sick as / like a dog. I’d crush up a couple of 8mg Dilaudid tablets and boil them in a spoon, then I’d fill a syringe. Tie my arm off and plunge the cure into my arm. And then I was good for … 3 or 4 hours. Wash, rinse, repeat. I couldn’t work.

Dilaudid is illegal unless your Dr. [gives you] a prescription. With a few phone calls you can get them for about $20 each. I used at least 10 a day. 10 to keep the sickness at bay, 10 to 20 more if I wanted to get high, and usually, I did if I had the money. It’s not easy to come up with $500/day for pills/medicine, but its gotta be done - or else the sickness – it’s always there. As soon as the pills begin to wear off, its banging at the door. Cramps, chills, sweats, diarrhea, the shits, nausea, chronic anxiety, insomnia – that’s just the beginning. Soon comes hallucinations and deliria, and unimaginable suffering. It all goes away if you take another pill, just one more. Then there’s methadone, a synthetic opiate, if you can get it. In most cities it’s easy, but not quite so in Charlottetown.

For @ 5 years my life revolves around Dilaudid and Oxycontone, percocil, morphine, codeine, etc. If I had money and pills were available, everything was fine. But I wasn’t always fine. I can’t count how many days I’ve lost to the sickness, how many times I’ve been to the treatment center. And a waste of time that was. They’d give you 2 or 3 mild sedatives a day for 3 days and then try to put you in god’s hands. It didn’t work – after the week, or 2, or 3, was over, I could suffer no longer. Straight to the dealer. It doesn’t help to tell me “everythings gonna be all right. You’ll feel better tomorrow”. Anybody who says / tells you that doesn’t know what this drug is about (why I take it).

But I had always heard about the mainland, where they gave you this drug, methadone, that took away the suffering and made you feel normal, not high, just normal, like I used to be … yeah, like it used to be, I miss those days.

I did the drugs for 5 or 6 years, but and I sat by and watched, as friends and acquaintances died one after another, month by month, because they couldn’t get the help they needed. I’m sure the doctor (at Detox) noticed too, but it didn’t matter [since] we are / they were expendable. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t handle the sickness. The detox couldn’t help. They didn’t have a clue. They would have nothing to do with methadone (methadone is addictive. You have to take it every dad or you get sick just like with the drugs, but it’s prescribed to you, you can have ready access to it. You never have to be sick again, you don’t get high on it, but you can live an ordinary life, like anyone else.

Finally, I scraped up some money, packed up my bags, and left for Alberta. All I had was a change of clothes, $500,and enough pills to last me 3 days, it was a gamble, nothing was lined up / set up - I was on my own.

But it worked out. Before 48 hours were up, I was in a doctor’s office getting a prescription for methadone. It was such a relief, such a good feeling. No more days spent looking for drug dealers, no more searching for a private place to inject my drugs, and no more waking up sick – I was human again. I got a job, an apartment, a car, and a normal life.

But I always wanted to come home again. I have children in PEI. What good am I to them if I am 3000 miles away? A few years went by, and I became used to feeling normal again and not needing drugs. I had seen on the internet that PEI was starting a methadone program. This year I came home. It was great. I missed PEI. I could see my kids, my family, my friends every day and I wasn’t sick all the time like I used to be. It was different now. Better. It seemed too good to be true.

It was. Sure I could get methadone now and I felt good … physically – but mentally? When I go to the pharmacy, I don’t go to the counter like anybody else, I go around the back, into the office, where no one can see me. I don’t feel different, but I am. The pharmacists are ashamed of me, or ashamed for me. Does it make a difference? I began to understand / grasp what life must be like for a black person, or these days, an arab, from their perspective. I don’t like it.

And things have changed at the treatment centre. They now have a methadone program – but they still don’t understand – they don’t get it. I came / went there with a perfect record from my doctor in Alberta. I gave urine tests every month, and never once did I fail only once in 4 years. I thought I had proven myself but no. It starts slowly, but within 3 months, for some reason, I realize that I am not like other people. I’m a drug addict, a junkie. I don’t feel like one now, but at the Detox, it is clear that is how they see me. I am a liar, a cheat, a thief, a dirtbag, scum of the earth. I know I’m clean and sober, with the help of methadone, but that doesn’t seem to matter – I’m a liar, a cheat, a thief. I must be if I’m on methadone. In PEI, it seems that only thieves, cheats and liars use methadone. In the rest of Canada, there are factory workers, plumbers and carpenters on meth[adone], as well as lawyers, and even doctors taking methadone!

But, my god, it is different here. I hate myself for having to do this. It didn’t bother me in Alberta, there I was treated like anyone else, but here, no. I’m walking on eggshells every time I go to the pharmacy, or the doctor, especially the doctor, I don’t know what to expect. On one day, I was asked twice for urine tests. Apparently, they thought that as soon as I gave the first sample, I was going to go and get some drugs. I live in constant suspicion and fear, even though I have done no wrong. Its just that I didn’t realize I was a cheat, a liar and a thief and as such I must be closely monitored. I am not on drugs, but they think I am. All drug users, past or present, are liars, cheats and thieves – that’s just how it is in PEI. They’re going to get me, to catch me, it doesn’t matter that I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s who I am I’m a thief, a liar and a cheat…

It’s Not a Habit…

I started methadone August of 1999. By then I was a solid year and a half into a pretty heavy opiate addiction. It had started with dilaudid but as soon as we were able we had moved on to heroin. We live in a funny city. While it is reasonably large with close to half a million, it is near impossible to find heroin here. Except for a time in the 1970's - so I have been told - it is one drug that does not seem welcome. Very white collar town so there is lots of pot and cocaine. Crack has had some effect as has speed but not like those other two. Because this is also very much a university and college town, there is also lots of ecstasy and its ilk. By the time I had even given a dilaudid a try, I was about two years deep into a large coke and speed habit. Funny can't even remember what that was like but I know that we were using every day and had been for a long time. Then along came a little yellow pill and it was as if nothing else existed. It was wondrous and it didn't take long to develop a tolerance for it. Thank heavens we knew someone that could get us heroin. He was out of town three out of the seven days and he happened to be working in a place that was literally drowning in it so every Thursday night right after getting off his bus, he would drop by our place with our weekly package. Sunday night we would wave him goodbye as his bus left town, our money in his pocket. This went on for over a year.

It started to get quite expensive as all habits tend to but this one also felt different. Where before, I may have been a bit of a bitch if I couldn't get blow or speed, I could get by at least but not this time. When I was without I hurt, I felt sick, I was in severe pain. I couldn't or wouldn't want to go to work and I had always prided myself on never letting any of my vices interfere with work and to be honest, life in general. Suddenly I had become single minded, nothing else mattered but not feeling sick anymore. I had to have a hit no matter what. Came close to bankrupting us. Sad but at least we had a house to sell to get us out of debt. And selling this one, our favourite, meant that we still had two others left although they were nowhere near as nice and they were in a much rougher part of town but that didn't seem to concern us so much anymore. We moved. We had to. We had someone else very important in our life now that very much needed to be accommodated. I had never lied before but suddenly I found myself doing just that. When my family doctor confronted me I couldn't admit it at first. I was every which way of denial until I couldn't take it anymore. This drug eventually wears you down, strips you of every vestige of dignity and self respect. I fessed up and when he started talking about getting us into a methadone program, I pretty much said yes just to humour him plus he said that as soon as we were on the list, he would be able to help us out and get us from having to buy our dope on the street at ridiculous prices.

I had never actually intended to follow thru with the methadone. The moment we were accepted our doctor wrote us each a prescription for 30 dilaudid a week. It was as if we had hit the jackpot. Between us we had 60 pills that would normally have cost us almost $20 each - quite a savings. He said that he could keep us supplied until we reached a high enough methadone dose that could sustain us on its own. I figured that we would ride this out as long as we could. Looked like it would be at least eight weeks that we could get our prescription and I figured that was long enough for us to get our finances back in order. We would in theory save a lot by not having to buy opiods for a two month period. As it was we were spending about $700/week and that was barely keeping us from getting sick so I knew that we were living on borrowed time if we continued spending at that rate. We were long overdue for a financial break.

But a funny thing happened while we going to methadone. It started working. I stopped grieving for any of the others. I went a day without a hit, then two and then a week. A week turned into a month and then two and three and we were still going. Suddenly two years had passed and I no longer did anything except for my methadone. I didn't even drink anymore. I forgot about heroin and dilaudid and morphine - oxys had yet to make their appearance but that was only a matter of time. The methadone made me so very tired though even if it did seem to work a small miracle. I would start to nod off at the worst possible time something I rarely did while addicted to the others. I needed to stay awake. So before we knew it we were back doing speed but this time we vowed that we would keep our spending under control and we did for a long time. Speed wasn't the same anyway now that we were on meth. Yes, you could kind of feel it but you never felt as if you were way out there. Oh well, it was still better than nothing. And we were spending about half of what we used to spend on the other.

Suddenly twenty seven months had passed. We were starting to get tired of the daily grind of having to grab our methadone. Yes, for the most part normalcy had returned to our lives. We fell into our own little routine. Gone were the hours upon hours dedicated to finding that one hit that would take away the pain. I could go back to work full time, we both could. Methadone gave our life structure once again. My credit card debts were now paid off. We had sold the other two houses and purchased a three story apartment building. Our self confidence and esteem had returned. We didn't want or need methadone any more. It was time to say goodbye. I had two weeks vacation at Christmas 2001 but a week before my vacation started I got a terrible flu. I was down to about 20mg of methadone a day. I felt so sick that I just didn't feel like grabbing my methadone one day and the next and the day after that. I just stopped going and when my flu ended, any withdrawal that I may have been going thru had also ended. It was hard to tell one from the other so I kept telling myself that there was no withdrawal just crappy flu symptoms.

Fast forward three and a half years. I am once again severely dependent on that little yellow pill. Well now it is the little white pill. No more #4s for us, we now need #8s. We are back spending ridiculous amounts of money and are consumed by abject fear whenever we find that we have run out or that none of our dealers is holding. It is no longer pleasant. But what of the intervening three years you ask? Well that is obviously a story for another day...TO BE CONTINUED

Before the Fall

Sometimes I wonder if my inability to remember large tracts of my past is due to the alcohol and drugs, or just a subconscious self defense measure. Regardless of the reason, I do have a hard time recalling certain portions of my life before my slip into total dependence. I am most curious about what my state of mind was as my alcohol abuse slowly phased into alcoholism because it is this time in my life I think is most important to my current recovery. Other than the memories of pain and misery serving as a visceral reminder, the hard core alcoholism portion of my life has very little instructive value. I drank to live and lived to drink… everything else that occurred was just a means to this end. It is this time right before the fall, when I was still a person instead of an alcoholic that I am most interested in.

I guess one of the main things that I can recall about this time frame is my almost total disconnect from the world around me. I do not mean in the same way an alcoholic retreats from others when he can no longer hide his disease, but more in the sense of being on the outside looking in through a window. I still participated and interacted with others, but never felt like I belonged in the scene. It was as if it was my point of reference that Hopper painted his the famous Nighthawks, I was the lonely guy out in the dark, empty street of the city.

Eventually this disconnect became real because of my own actions. I started to neglect things such as work, family, and commitments because I had become detached. It seemed the only time I got feedback out of life, was through the effect of alcohol. I began to depend on my drinking for the stimulus of all things. I needed to drink if I was going to a wedding, just as I would need to drink to go to a funeral. It got to where I would not participate in anything if I could not drink, often avoiding everything altogether by simply sleeping through them. By the time I was avoiding the real world through sleep, I was dependent on the alcohol in my time awake to construct a satisfactory world.

The thing is, I don’t think this “outside looking in” syndrome was anything special to my situation. I think that most people have times in their lives that they feel insignificant or a loss of control. My problem was the alcohol abuse. Even though I was not yet physically dependent on the alcohol, I had begun to rely upon it both as a reward in life and as coping agent for things less pleasant. My drinking was no longer the problem; it was my inability to function with out drinking that became the problem… before the fall.

Cross Posted at The Discovering Alcoholic

Step 1: We Admitted We Were Powerless

This is actually a post I wrote for another joint blog I'm on (Two Women Blogging), but I thought it applied here too.

---

We all like to think that we have control over our own lives. We like to think that if we just work hard enough or pray hard enough or act right, we can ensure that bad things don't happen to us. It's almost unbearably frightening to think that we're not the ones calling the shots: that it's God or the universe or random subatomic particles. So, we give lip service to our ultimate inability to control what happens to us, but deep down we never believe it, do we?

We'll say things like: "It's not his fault that he got colon cancer, but still, I do eat a lot of fiber. It's not their fault that their child is disabled, but still, I wouldn't have made the choices she did during pregnancy and childbirth. It's not her fault that she was raped, but still, I wouldn't wear that outfit. It's not her fault that her husband cheated, but still, she probably should have done more to satisfy him." We always think there really was a little something more those other people could have done. We would have eaten better, exercised more, prayed harder, worn different clothing, watched our children more carefully, done background checks on every last friend and neighbor, taken every precaution in every situation, right? We believe that we're luckier or smarter or that God likes us better. And as long as things go right, we can believe that.

My husband is a sex addict. He's like any other addict looking for a high, but his escape comes in the form sex and fantasy: affairs, pornonography, sex workers. There are people who blame him for being weak and immoral, but they also blame me, for somehow not satisfying him. I've met the wives of other sex addicts, and they too usually blame themselves to some degree: if only they were prettier, thinner, more exciting in bed...

Our culture constantly reinforces that stereotype: men are thoughtless pigs who will fuck anything that breathes if they aren't kept constantly satisfied by a beautiful, exciting woman with a ravenous sexual appetite. Look at the supermarket magazine rack. What does Cosmopolitan magazine (more aptly titled "Sexual Codependents magazine") tell us? Why do we love the stories of celebrity breakups? Is it because we know, beautiful as they are, there must be something wrong with them if they can't keep their lovers satisfied?

I was certain that my husband would never cheat on me, not only did he love me, deeply and passionately, we had a fabulous sex life. I wasn't like those other uptight women who couldn't orgasm or who had a low sex drive or who thought pornography was immoral or who wouldn't change up positions or wear kinky lingerie. I didn't need Cosmo to tell me how to make things hot in the bedroom; I was hot in the bedroom. I'd read, watch and look at pornography; I'd even create pornography; I'd send him stories and photos and videos of myself. I'd dress like a prostitute one night, a virgin the next. I'd ask him to tell me his fantasies and let me fulfill them. But more than in the bedroom, in all of our life, I was attractive, I was smart, I shared his interests and I let him be himself. Men cheated on women who hated action movies and sports and sci-fi, women who nagged them about leaving their socks on the floor and talked about shopping and wore frumpy sweatpants, women who were mindless and ultimately dull, women who were unattractive in their looks or their personalities. Men didn't cheat on women like me.

My husband was never faithful to me: not for a day, not for an instant. He was constantly looking for other women to have sex with, not because I wasn't satisfying him, but because nothing could fill the emptiness inside him. All the women and all the sex in all the world couldn't meet his needs. He couldn't control his addiction, and neither could I. We both had to let go of that illusion in order to heal. And I knew as soon as he came clean and told me about all the lies and cheating, knew in a way that I could feel at that deep down gut level, that his actions had nothing to do with me or his love for me.

Of course, we all know that that's because I'm luckier than those other addicts' partners or I did the right thing by trying so hard or God likes me better or something like that...

Reduction Redux

Image Credit: www.bbc.co.uk

At an AA meeting recently a speaker sharing his story mentioned harm reduction and how, well, that didn't really work for him. He spoke of how he would drink until he couldn't drink any more and then, as his own form of harm reduction, he would use speed. When he couldn't use speed any more he would turn to pot. After a while when that wasn't working he would return to alcohol. His point was that it was alcohol that brought him to his knees and gave him his bottom. No one could argue that point because it was, after all, his story. But one of the discussion comments after his share was someone who stated how she appreciated him speaking of harm reduction and how for her such a model for recovery was useless. She wished someone would tell the city and other funding and recovery organizations that harm reduction was a joke... a waste of time and money. There are many times I have wanted to speak at these meetings but none more than this time. But I have made it my goal right now to just go to meetings and listen. I am there to feel good and, for now, am not looking to risk that feeling by getting up on my soap box with an opposing view. So I will do it here instead.

I understand people's frustration with the concept of harm reduction. It IS a concept that in reality doesn't fully work. On the face of it it seems that there is a permission given to use or drink in a manageable way which totally goes against the grain of a twelve step program where the basis for recovery lies in how this issue of drinking and drugging has made life unmanageable. This does seem "wrong." I have never tried harm reduction myself. Instead I chose to use about a hundred times more than I needed to just to be certain that using and me was not a combination that was going to be helpful or enjoyable in any way. But in my recovery I have witnessed many, many people who have come to the same decision I have to not use ever again by employing the harm reduction model. People I know have used this model of recovery to come to the understanding through their own experience that using isn't going to work for them no matter how hard they try and manage their use. In many cases they did not have to lose their life completely to come to this understanding. They could retain their jobs and though relationships sufferred some where not completely severed. For some this was because of the harm reduction experience. They also came to the decision to seek a better life on their own. Indisputably, if telling people that using drugs were bad for them would make them quit, life for so many would be a whole lot easier. I think everyone whose life has been touched by addiction knows that simply is not enough. So there is great value in having a path to take that will reduce the harm along the way.

Even though harm reduction is akin to being suckered into a vacation get-away only to be corralled into a sales meeting to induce one to spend money on a time share, it is a way to get the addicted on the road to a complete recovery. It does reduce not only the harm they do to themselves but also the harm done to people's families, loved ones and community. It is easier to loosen one's commitment to using or drinking if the carrot of managing their addiction is dangled in front of them. Hopefully with a little clarity that might come of this scam, people can see there is a way and that way is better. It cannot hurt more than it already does to offer up yet one more way of getting better—perhaps one that does not sting as much.

I look forward to the day when one of my amends might be, "Sorry I tricked you into getting clean."

Re: A Spoon

I recently read JW's beautiful post that was used for the article in the San Diego Reader, and it is very moving. If you haven't read this yet, please go read it first, it really is a deeply moving piece of writing. It brought back strong memories of my early stages of recovery (I have been recovering or attempting to for about 10 years). I could very much relate to exactly what she was going through, and as an addict, what she was being put through. I wrote her an email to share my thought's on the post, and with the recent topic of lying (one of the ugliest parts of addiction), well, I felt that this went well with the entire topic of addiction and wanted to share it with everyone.

This is a quote from her post in reference to her asking her husband why he would use again after having been clean for a period of time:

"All he would say is that his friend asked him if he wanted to use, and he said yes, and then they got the drugs."

Here is my comment, with some added content to expand on ideas and thoughts:

I remember those times, when I first tried to recover, I would spend months clean, maybe going to meetings, maybe not. I would avoid my "friends" who were still using, even though I may have stupidly hung out with them before and not got loaded; then BHAM! "Let's get high." That's all it takes, a stupid little idea, three little words, that's it, that's all it took. Whether I had the idea alone, or I came up with it while with a friend, there is no thought process involved, the idea is formed, and immediate action is taken; this is where the addiction takes over. Any ability to think, to separate right from wrong, any bit of conscious that attempts to remind you of the past consequences of the very same decision is thrown by the way side, as the addiction takes over. If thoughts do arise questioning the decision you have just made, they are so easily dismissed, they slide so quickly to the side and are replaced with confirmation that everything will be okay, 'I'm only going to do it once, only today,' and the addiction takes over. From then on it's all muscle memory, the ability to think is lost, there are no thoughts of wifes, or girlfriends, promises and vows, no thoughts of consequences or where this decision will lead; as an addict active in addiction, it's a part of you, of who you are, it is all powerful and there is no denying it once the addiction takes over. This is why a recovery program is necessary for those early in recovery; as the AA Big Book states, we have no mental defense from taking that first drink, shot, snort, etc. (and yes, I can say this even though I am not active in a 12 step program, because I have the experience).

Reading that one sentence brought all that smashing home to me. I loved reading it, seeing where it all began for JW, reminding me that it is exactly the same place it started for me. It reminded me how human G is, and how alike we are. It also reminded me that I need to have more compassion for him, for all of my fellow addicts. He is my brother, all of you are my brothers and sisters in recovery. We share a common experience, a common bond, we all suffer from a devastating disease, one with grave consequences on our mind, body, and soul. I can't believe how outrageous I have been in being judgmental of him, and of other addicts. How dare I, honestly, how can I pass judgment on another addict, and not be looking at myself.

There is another section of the post where she talks about why her husband would have her bring him something that contained his drug paraphernalia in it:

Oh, and why he asked you to bring the shorts, I believe was his way of telling you, of giving himself up, without having to just come out and admit it. Admitting it would mean admitting to the lies and deceit that went into hiding the relapse or the addiction, it's not something an active addict is capable of; I don't believe that an active addict has the capacity for honesty when dealing with loved ones. I remember doing this so often with D, near the end of my last run; not caring that I left dope splattered all over bathroom sinks or leaving wrappers in the trash. This was never exactly a conscious decision, but a way for the man to scream for help when he is being held under by the addiction. I believe that every addict reaches a point where they no longer wish to use, but having no control over their ability to stop, to not lie about it, or to even admit they are using, or have relapsed, that the subconscious mind takes over and does things that would be against the addicts addictive nature.

Your husband is a sick man. But every day he gets by without using, he gets a little better. I am a sick man. But everyday I learn just a little, I grow just a little. Some days I make great discoveries and have mind blowing experiences, other days I feel like I am stuck, and still others I feel like I am slipping. While the symptoms of active addiction are so similar between addicts, I imagine that recovery, while taken at different paces, by different people, your husband has to be in a similar place, and it is not an easy place to be. Early recovery is filled with self loathing, guilt, and seeing the person you love the most crushed day after day, the woman who stood by you, and is still by your side, sometimes that in itself is heartbreaking and almost impossible to stand and you just want to distance yourself rather than to face that beauty, the very beauty you came so close to destroying. I think this is the reason that during early recovery it is so hard for the addict to be close, to share, to communicate with his/her partner. Until you are able to learn to let go of the guilt, and to begin rebuilding your self esteem, that you will continue to subconsciously, or even often times consciously push away the person you love. And who ever said that it's not about the significant other, it's solely about the addict, is completely right. Everything we do, every action we take, every lie we tell, has nothing personal involved. It is part of the disease. The comfort one can take in this is knowing that if the addict works at becoming well, and pushes forward out of active addiction, that their lives will begin to change, and their behavior will begin to change, and there is even the hope that one day the addict will recover. That to me is the greatest hope of all.

Thank you to JW for letting me share this here, for writing daily and sharing your experience, your strength and your hope. Reading that post from months ago, and reading everything you have written in the past several months has been exciting for me. Watching you deal with with the trials and tribulation that addiction causes and seeing you triumph and grow in the process, has been a huge inspiration to me.

Thank you to all that participate here, who write posts, and those who comment, and for all of your wonderful personal blogs. It is comforting when I am having a down day, or scared, or worried, to be able with a few mouse clicks, to find someone who is either going through the same issues, or someone who has recently gone through them, and to be able to read their experience...it's just something that is so empowering, so endearing, and I am very grateful for you all.

My take on addiction as a disease.

Please forgive me for blowing off all the posts about whether or not addiction is a disease and then dropping my own...I have my own arrangement in my head about this, and I find it to be unhelpful to battle it out now that I"ve gotten my position settled. So here's my thing:

In life, you get to choose which narrative you want to explain what's happening to you. I can choose to think, "My husband is a criminal, a liar, a son of a bitch, a damn fool, a sociopath with no redeeming qualities." These thoughts would then lead to, "What the fuck is wrong with me? Why don't I drop this sorry son of a bitch on his ass and move on? When will I ever learn my lesson? Why am I so broken? Fuck?" and et cetera.

Or, I can work with the idea that addiction is a disease. It might only be a metaphor, but it sure is a powerful one. It transforms those thoughts about my husband into, "He is very, very sick," and my thoughts about myself into, "I am strong for supporting my sick husband."

There is a danger, though, in that line of thinking in that I might start to feel like I should give him things that I don't want to give or accept behavior that I don't want to accept. I have to be vigilant against that tendency to "help."

But in the end, if I'm just going to stay with this man anyway, and I am, at least for now, it's the only way to justify our lives and our behaviors.

So that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

This is a Dope

This is a Dope.

” The propaganda, assiduously spread for many years now, is that heroin addiction is an "illness". This view serves the interests both of the addicts who wish to continue their habit while placing the blame for their behaviour elsewhere, and the bureaucracy that wishes to continue in employment, preferably for ever and at higher rates of pay.”

The dope is Dr. Theodore Dalrymple, he is the author of this article entitled Heroin addiction isn't an illness... and a book on the same subject. Other than to say his findings are based or casual observations and figures he has derived from Mao’s revolution (I’m not kidding), I will withhold my comments and let someone far more qualified than myself debunk his baseless findings.

This is your brain on dope. ------->

Let me introduce you to Dr. Nora Volkow, the director of the National Institute on Drug Abuse whose brain imaging research (see picture at right) has broke new ground in the science of addiction illness. I found a great NPR Fresh Air interview courtesy of WHYY with Dr. Volkow in which she explains her research. It’s thirty minutes long, but its both informative and entertaining. I would suggest that maybe Dr. Dalrpimple should listen, but I have a feeling he is more interested in garnering media attention to sell books than he is in discussing facts.

The Object Of My Attention

I think the unhealthy aspect of addiction and codependency is how it demands that people dealing with it not act in their own best interest and that they ignore their own desires. It is whether or not we are maintaining our own health and paying attention to the fulfillment of our desires that is the pertinent question as opposed to whether one stays or leaves. The answer to that becomes academic if we are taking care of ourselves. Because if one is healthy and fulfilled, they are stronger and more tolerant and more apt to make decisions that will be best for both themselves and those they love.

The other point I want to make is I truly believe that this talk of sickness is not the answer. Instead, talk of health and fulfillment... talk of the solution would be a better focus. We do need to be aware of the problem but we must remember to give the majority of our attention to the remedy, to what we want and to what is best. Otherwise we will continue to define the problem more and the solution less.

Cutting the Strings

I can honestly say that I don’t think I would had ever gotten sober if I had stayed close to those that loved me. They were always there to buck me up or bail me out. Food, medicine, and a sense of belonging that only a family and loved ones can provide- especially the way I treated people. No matter how bad things got, I could always run home for relief. I eventually did become homeless, not so much that I was out of options but more so that I was too embarrassed of the trembling wreck I had become to face those that knew me. I didn’t really love them because every thing played second fiddle to my addiction; I just knew I needed them so I played the game.

In reality, they never did cut the strings, I did. Then it got real bad, and I had no relief or sanctuary, no place of temporary solace. You can call it rock bottom, I think Scout and I would probably call it more of a surrender. But it wasn’t until I had no place to run, unable to acquire drugs and alcohol, and I was out of all options that my addiction was at the mercy of my health and resolve. I just physically and mentally couldn’t go any further and my addiction began to starve.

Once in recovery, I did learn to love again. My relationship with my family is now part of the bedrock of my existence. But if I never would have cut the strings, my family might very well have remained the enablers of my destruction.

Just because the strings have been cut doesn’t meant they cannot be retied.

The Relapse Days of Summer

This is a cross post from my site, but I feel the content is timely and appropriate for this site.

Everyone knows about how dangerous the holidays can be for alcoholics and addicts. Time off, stressful family situations and just the plain availability of alcohol and drugs during the months of December and January can often play a role in relapse. Sometimes I think the warnings you here ad nauseum from the recovery community and even the public at large have half us “expecting” a relapse! But you don’t here much about the hundred days of summer that start with the Memorial Day weekend and end with Labor Day weekend.

Speaking with others active in the recovery community including the director of a methadone clinic and an AA eternal we came up with some observations for this time of year. Meeting attendance, treatment retention, and new members for both groups tend to be low in the summer months. People usually have more time on their hands during the summer and for addicts and alcoholics this is not always a good thing. Especially dangerous for alcoholics; the summer sun, fun, and vacation activities of our society are traditionally intertwined with alcohol beverage consumption.

So if the heat has got you down in the dumps go find an air conditioned meeting. If you are out on vacation, take a chance and meet a new recovery group. If you have too much time on your hands… well you can come and mow my grass!

But seriously, keep the summer fun and your recovery strong.

The Discovering Alcoholic

The lost warrior...

I was happy when my copy of the movie "300" arrived at my work today. I ordered the Blu-Ray version of the dvd to play on my 50" flat screen monitor with all the glory of 1200 watts of 7.1 surround sound. I am a man, I beat my chest and let out a mighty warrior call that my ancestors would be proud of. Of course I saw the movie once before, on the big screen in all of it's blood thirsty glory. But now the comic I cherished, which became the movie I worshiped, now belonged to me in its spectacular 1080p of high definition clarity. The walls rumbled, as the first battle scene rocked the sub-woofer, and in that moment I knew my true self, and...felt such sadness at what I have been reduced to as a man.

Sounds silly I know. But it's not. It's sad that the definition of a man is determined by the car he drives, or his home stereo system owns, or the money he makes. Say it's not true, tell me that only some judge men this way, by the number of women he sleeps with, by how good he looks? Yes I know I am reaching to the far end of the spectrum, but the point I am trying to make is that as a man I have lost my warrior heart. I have lost the sense of conquering, my sense of adventure, and most of all the desire to save the damsel in distress.

As a boy I had little boy dreams, big dreams, dreams of being the hero, of beating the bad guys, of doing daring feats and rescuing the damsel in distress. What happened to those dreams as I grew into a man? I am not sure where those dreams have gone, but I can tell you that without them I am simply bored. So the question is how to recover the masculine heart, the secret ti my soul where I am a MAN, where I can delight in my own strength and wildness.

Where is that spirit of the Spartan Warrior? Who was bred from the age of 7 to become a Warrior, to become a true man; taught that there was no greater honor or sacrifice than to die in battle for the State of Sparta. Where the woman too have the warrior heart, after all it is Spartan woman who give birth to Spartan men. Where love is simple, and the passion is overabundant. Men loved as they fought, and loved to fight.

I want that passion, I ache for the sense of adventure, for the dreams of my youth; to explore and conquer, to battle and win, then come home to my wife and make love to her like there is no tomorrow. But I fear that like the rest of the men of the world, and even more so a weak addict, that I have become a pussy. Especially as an addict, where not only do we feel weak but we are looked upon and told we are weak; weak minded and weak willed.

But that is not the case, not for this man, this man is strong, this man is all man, all heart, and all soul. This man is awakening from his slumber, for I have been sleep walking for way too long. The world is soon mine for the taking, and take I will, conquer I will. First the fear, then recovery; I will fight, and I will rage, and I will never ever say die, and when that sweet taste of victory begins to drip from my brow, and I taste the salty sweat of my achievements, I will find my lady, and remind her of what it is like to be a woman. Something that she nor I will ever forget.

Shagged Either Way

I am going to make a meeting tomorrow. I am going to help pay the rent. I will do my fair share around here. That’s not mine! I love you, but just not enough to carry through with anything that I have just said. When it comes to gullible, codependents have got this category wrapped up hands down. Now before you get all defensive, remember that I have the unfortunate pleasure (?) of being cast in this great movie called Life in both the role of an alcoholic and codependent. It’s kind of like being Austin Powers and Dr. Evil, but getting shagged by both sides.

It seems strange that people like me and others who have been tempered by the repeated lies and shenanigans of our beloved yet diseased counterparts would be so easily fooled, especially with my PhD in evil! I guess if you want something bad enough, if you long for more than anything else that this time will be different, in the end you will allow yourself that inkling of hope that things will work out. Hope is not a bad thing, but being unrealistic doesn’t help anything either. Sometimes it’s not so much that we really believe the lies, it’s more that we just don’t know what else to do or have the courage even to do it.

Even armed with this knowledge and experience, there are never easy answers when dealing with addictions. Paradoxically, a loving and caring environment just worsens the situation. What am I trying to get at? I guess that when it comes do alcoholics and addicts you need to accept the fact that as a loved one you will be repeatedly “shagged”. Without a strong program they are capable of little else, but hang tough, because unfortunately you will be the only one capable of hope.

The Discovering Alcoholic

Make Your Mark With Magic

In response to JW's magic, I think girls are magic in ways that have nothing to do with their anatomy. I mean I have to believe this because that aspect of them holds no magic for me. None-the-less, I love all girls, women, dames and gals. But most of all, I love moms. They don't make babies; they have babies. And they have them for the rest of their lives despite having to take a bad rap for growing egg-less with age and whether or not the kid ever grows up. Even a gay guy can appreciate the enormity of that. This might make me a mamma's boy but girls have magic in spades as far as I am concerned.

But then, so do boys. Boys are sometimes wistful creatures whose petulance knows no bounds. They are tolerated in doses because that kind of magic is short lasting—very, very short if you ask me. Other times, boys are dedicated power mongers who cannot seem to live life unless they are winning... at everything, even if they have to cheat. Hence the reputation for angriness, stubbornness and sheer audacity. Perhaps this is because they can make babies but they cannot have them. (This is not about any gender's ability to buy babies. That does not count) Perhaps it is because they cannot always see the big picture no matter how much they distance themselves. Regardless, boy magic is often cheap and lasts much less longer than their virility.

The abundance of choices for boys, guys and dudes seems ironically tied to their following a predestined path when, many times, it's the girls who end up with more choices because they have more problems to solve from said lack there of. Is that magic or what? Yes times have changed and the choices are a little more equitable in that area of distribution—at least in our part of the world. But boys still seem have to win even if they have to fake it and girls still seem to have to see the big picture and sometimes fake something a little differently (or so some say). Otherwise we all seem to lose. And that's not magic at all.

Beating our addiction is a hard thing to do. It's also a hard thing to help the one's we love to do. But not using is not nearly enough. Not for me. I didn't give up my early death to be saddled with a life I cannot enjoy. And at this stage in my life, it's going to take some magic for that not happen.

Mark my words. I will have a magical life.

Angry is Plan A

Watch an episode of Intervention or read a codependent’s blog and you can be rest assured that half the content will relate to yelling, screaming, and fighting. Why? Is it the overpowering angst of the struggling alcoholic or addict desperately trying to stay straight? Is it the transference of anger from a problem they cannot handle or understand to a more concrete subject (victim)? Is it just understandable result from living in a dysfunctional environment?

Well sure, it could be any of these. But before this old alcoholic yells surprise and throws a pity party for those poor suffering souls let me tell you that some of the time it might just be “Angry is Plan A”.

As a practicing alcoholic I often found that I had woven a web of deceit so complex that with my degraded mental capacity I just couldn’t keep my stories straight. Always intoxicated, I would also have a hard time performing simple tasks under close scrutiny by those who knew me without it becoming obvious I was drinking again. The answer to these dilemmas was to make sure that things got so hot around me that drinking was the last thing anyone thought of. Yelling, screaming, and just generally burning down the house assured that whatever I had set on fire garnered all the attention… not my drinking.

The angry Plan A had an added benefit that if I played the part to the hilt and began believing that my originally feigned pain and indignation was justified, that it often served as the rationalization to continue drinking. After all, nobody cared nor could even understand how I felt.

In fact, I was going to make sure they never had the chance!

Blind Transparency

Photo Credit: Rafa From Brazil

Any one who has ever dealt in a consequential way with meth will appreciate not just the sadness of this photograph but also the utter hilarity of it as well.

When I used, I did not have the need to hide it. I had isolated myself into an environment where everyone used. The lines of responsibility for one's use, for one's life, were not blurred because in the end, I used alone. I was using alone in an environment of people who all used meth. It only served to exacerbate how isolated I was and how lonely I felt. That feeling made me mad and I then, in turn, did my best to make other's feel badly about my self imposed exile. A clever act that got me the drugs I wanted so I could maintain my isolation and maintain my loneliness. A vicious circle of the highest order. What I did hide was my desire for a better life. I submerged all thoughts of something better and that allowed me to act out on the self hate I felt. That was behavior that lent itself to wanting more drugs, getting more drugs and perpetuating a destructive situation of my own design that was easily forgotten as long as I was high.

The memory of how lonely I felt serves me well today. It is my first line of defense against picking up. Still, I feel excruciatingly lonely. I am desperately searching for a place in this world and battle depression, it would seem, constantly. The difference, though, between now and then is a measure of hope that did not exist before. That and the few moments of joy and clarity that I had denied myself while using.