Another National Something Day

Today is August 31. There’s a “National EVERYTHING Day” isn’t there? It’s almost laughable. You can’t throw a stick without hitting some national day. Talk Like a Pirate Day is my personal favorite. Shiver me timbers and such. Avast me hearties.

Today is National Trail Mix Day. Why? I have no idea. I enjoy a good trail mix as much as the next guy but, really? We need an honorary day for it? Trail mix. Really it should be about education. Eating an entire bag of trail mix is not good for you, dude. Yes, there’s nuts. Yes, there’s fruit. Yes, it’s all grains and healthy shit. Portions, people. Portions. And if you just eat the M&M’s, you’re missing the point.

I’m really ADD today.

In addition to National Trail Mix Day, it is National Overdose Awareness Day. As I said above, I really enjoy me some trail mix. However, I feel like it’s a bit more important that I talk about the other national day happening today.

Everywhere, people are dying.

Let me just say that again.

Everywhere, people are dying.

We can blame doctors. We can blame parents. We can blame pharmaceutical companies. We can blame dealers. We can (and usually do) blame the addicts themselves. There is no blame here. There is an epidemic here. It’s devastating. It’s heartbreaking. If I knew what the solution was I’d give it to you, but I don’t. I wish I did. All I have is my experience.

I started blogging because of a post I wrote on my anniversary a few months ago. Some of this may be repetitive, so I apologize in advance.

From the jump, I felt like I didn’t belong on this planet. It was as if each day, before school, there was a meeting and everyone was there. They all talked about what was going to happen that day and how they were going to act and who they were going to be. Each and every day I missed that meeting. I spent each day simultaneously trying to figure out how to do those things, and trying to pretend that I was at that meeting. I couldn’t let the collective you know that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. And each and every day it got worse.

Until the day that I discovered drugs. For the first time in my life, I experienced what freedom felt like. I never comprehended how uncomfortable in my skin I was truly was. I mean, if you always feel the same way, you don’t recognize that there’s any other way to feel. Until I got high. All of a sudden I was relaxed and funny and charming. I felt attractive and likable and connected to other people. I felt like I belonged on this planet. I felt like everyone else looked like they felt. Why wouldn’t I want that? All I ever wanted was to belong. To have people love me and accept me. Drugs broke down all the barriers of insecurity and fear and let me be present on this planet. For a time.

Fast forward 20 years past two recoveries and relapses and a whole lot of good and bad life experience.

I had been sober 9 years but was only going to a meeting once a year to pick up a medallion (oh how I used to judge THOSE people). One day my back was bothering me. A coworker handed me a non-controlled pill off the shelf and said “take this. It will help.” That feeling exploded through my chest. Happy. Joyous. Free. I was bouncy. I was talking too much, too loudly. I was laughing and playful and excited. Manic. I was manic.

I don’t call that day my relapse. I believe that I could have recovered from that day, had I only had some sort of a network in place. (Some would argue that had I network in place, I never would have taken the pill, but that’s a chicken egg type thing). My relapse occurred the next day when I took another. Chasing that feeling.

I had a home. I had a job. I had a car. I was, for all intents and purposes, successfully living life. And my (not so) dormant addiction had been lit on fire. That day started the vicious cycle that only someone who has been addicted to a drug can truly understand.

I need that feeling.

I need to use to get it.

I have to use more to get it.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

You need to stop.

This thing happened. I have to use to get through it.

You must stop.

Why can’t you just suck it up.

What are you, a pussy? Just stop!

Well, just today. I’ll just use today.

They’re going to find out.

You’re going to lose everything.

I just need to use to get through today.

A plan is what you need. A taper plan. Follow the plan and you’re golden. You’re free.

I can’t. I simply can’t. I cannot stop.

For 18 months I fought the fight. I. HAD. TO. USE. I went to work. I functioned. I lied, I cheated, I stole.  I did what I had to do to survive. I had to use to survive. I did things that were against my morals and values. I did things that I don’t want to admit to you. Things that I want to be able to be “the kind of person who wouldn’t those things.” But I did them. I had to do them. I am an addict. When I am in active addiction, the only certainty is that I WILL use.

Towards the end, I had started having seizures. My body was falling apart. I was committing suicide on the installment plan. One pill at a time.

Why did my story not end with overdose? I don’t buy into the “I’m blessed” system of thought. Nor do I believe that I was somehow “chosen” to make it. To believe in a God like that (and this is only for me. If those beliefs help you, I’m glad you have them) would mean that at any given moment, some clash of the titans god could point at you and say “now you die” and could point at the guy down the street and say “now you get recovery.” I believe that I was very, very incredibly lucky. Had my supply dried up, had I been caught before I staggered my sorry ass into Narcotics Anonymous, I do believe I that would be dead today.

Opioid addiction is very hard to maintain. In a lot of places, heroin is cheaper and easier to get. And we’re dying. Addicts are dying. Left and right. From overdoses. Good people who in so many cases just needed something to help them feel ok. And who among us hasn’t at some point just needed to feel ok?  I wonder how many people that we’ve buried because, many years ago, they made one decision to turn left when they should’ve turned right. And it was over for them before it began.

There HAS TO be a solution.

There HAS TO be an answer.

More of us are dying than are living.

I truly am one of the lucky ones. 

I am a writer.

There’s a yoga and writing retreat happening the weekend of my 42^nd birthday. Two lovely young women whom I have mad respect for are hosting it. I remember when I saw the post on facebook about it I thought, “I LOVE them!!! What a great idea!! Too bad I don’t write. I’d like to go to that.” Because I don’t feel like a writer. Not me. I can’t write. You see, I have a brain that tells me that everything I try to do isn’t enough. That I should be better. I watch you do something and it’s significant. YOU can write. YOU can cook. YOU can paint. YOU can do yoga. And the same eye trained on myself says “You Can’t.”

In a conversation with a friend recently, it was explained to me that oftentimes the mere act of doing something qualifies you as someone who does that thing. Go ahead, read it again. I tried a bunch of different ways to word it, and that’s all I’ve got. Example: If you go to the gym, you are someone who goes to gym. If you vote, you are a voter. If you paint, you are a painter. If you murder someone… not a good example. So, the simple fact that I have written – I have put pen to paper or fingers to keys and put down my thoughts – makes me a writer. So my argument (as is usually so) is invalid.

I am a writer.

A few weeks ago, my dear friend posted about why she writes and she asked me to do the same. I was surprised and honored that she would want to hear my thoughts. See paragraph one - *I’m not a writer.* Except that I am.

I felt pressured to write something really profound and powerful. You see, all the people she asked are REAL bloggers. They take these beautiful words and send them out into the universe and they touch people’s lives. And she did ask them. But she also asked me.

Why do I write?

I write because sometimes the words in my head pound like a drum until I let them out.

I write because it feels good when someone thanks me for my courage and for my words.

I write because pain shared is pain lessened.

I write because joy shared is joy multiplied.

I write because, like each of us, due to my experience I am uniquely qualified to carry a message of hope to someone.

I write because sometimes I get very angry and the words want to explode from my chest and putting them down eases the fire in me.

I write because every now and then, I see myself as funny and charming.

I write because it counters the voice in my head that tells me that since I have a GED and no college diploma, that I’m not intelligent.

I write because I have something to say.

I write because I want to celebrate something with you.

I write because sometimes my higher power and your higher power conspire together to help us both.

I write because when I get the nudge, I have an obligation to act. Many different pieces had to fall into place to ensure I was able to get to where I am today. Who am I to decide that what I’m being led to say isn’t worthy?

I write because sometimes I like to hear myself talk.

I write because maybe, just maybe, my experience will resonate with you.

I write because when I hear you share openly and vulnerably, it gives me courage. Your words can and do help me so much. I want to pay that forward.

I write because fear is very tall and it’s very wide – like a giant wall. When I look at it, it fills the whole horizon. But fear isn’t very deep. If I try, I can push right through it. Someone had to teach me that. What if you never hear that message because I’m too afraid to say it? And how else can I prove to you the truth in those words than to push through myself?

I write because sometimes the words get stuck in my brain like a song that won’t go away.

I write because I want you to like me.

I write because my whole life I’ve never been able to practice authenticity. I needed you so much that I sold myself to be the one I thought you needed me to be. I needed you to stay and love me. I have found authenticity through vulnerability. My greatest expression of that vulnerability is through telling you the truth, even when it isn’t pretty. Even when you may not like it. Even when I’m afraid. Even when it might mean I’ll lose you. Through that, I have found me AND I have found you.

I write because I’ve found myself surrounded by amazing women who love and support me. These women encourage me to be the best me that I can be. These women want to hear what I have to say. These women look at me and see me as enough, even when I can’t do that for myself. Through their eyes, I’ve begun to see a woman worthy of respect. Someone who is funny and charming and kind. Someone who is worth loving. So, I write. For them. And for me.