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I Thought Sobriety Was Enough. I Was Wrong.

October 17, 2018 by Sean Paul Mahoney

As a seasoned drinker and a drug user, it was always “something and something.” Tequila AND cocaine. Vodka AND Vicodin. Beer AND weed. Losing my keys AND my wallet. Making out with you AND yelling at you. Even when I got sober I knew I was an alcoholic AND an addict. But for a long, long time—even sober—there felt like there was another AND but I didn’t know what it was. What I did know is that I still felt rattled, haunted and disturbed even though I had stopped using and drinking.

Programs of recovery were pretty specific—they could help me stop drinking and using drugs but for deeper, non-addiction related stuff, I should probably see somebody and I should do it sooner as opposed to later. That somebody, for me, was a therapist. But out of stubbornness, self-sufficiency or good old fashioned laziness, I put off seeing a therapist for a long, long time. “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” as my entitlement role model Scarlett O’Hara once said, became my motto. But for me tomorrow didn’t come until I had nearly nine years of sobriety.

A few weeks ago, my therapist told me, “People should go into couples therapy before there’s a problem. Same with regular therapy.” Six months into working together, now he tells me. But what brought me into his office was an urgency that I really needed it. Two decades of steady drug use and drinking were able to numb out the feelings and events of growing up in an alcoholic home.

They also did the trick in erasing several violent and explosive moments from my past. But when that coping mechanism was gone, I was left feeling shattered and I didn’t know why. Turns out, what I was experiencing was the lingering effects of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD. While it took several years to kick back in, once it did, PTSD wreaked havoc on my emotions. Depressed, in emotional pain and feeling hopeless, I Googled my ass off until I found a therapist. I will admit, his initial appeal was that his office was located juts a few blocks from my house. This probably isn’t the ideal strategy in picking a therapist. I mean there’s a Thai place really close my house and I would never eat there because it isn’t very good, despite being convenient. Nevertheless after talking to him on the phone, I decided to go for it. A therapist friend of mine advised me to give a few therapists a shot and not feel obligated to anyone unless we clicked. Lucky for me after just one session, we did.

During my first visit, we talked about my stressful new job working with other addicts as a peer support specialist. We talked my marriage. We talked about my recovery from drugs and alcohol. But mainly we talked about the AND. We hopped right in and talked about trauma approximately 30 minutes into our hour together. Upon his prompts, I unpacked a lot of baggage in a short amount of time. Tears streamed down my face. There was no question that I needed to be there and towards the end of our session there was also no question that he could help me. Which was fantastic because all of this was too much for me to handle on my own. More of a guide to a place of clarity and less of a life coach and drill sergeant, my therapist, which I could officially call him after one visit, like we were going steady or something, kept it simple. He asked what happened. He asked about my family. He asked about my husband. He asked about my job but he did all of it in a way that felt conversational. I’ve never once felt attacked or judged. But uncomfortable? UH yeah lots of that.

My therapist has a way, as I’m sure a lot of them do, of cutting right through all the gnarly things I don’t want to say out loud and then he makes me do precisely that. I’ve even said out loud, “I hate this conversation” and “All of this is making me really uncomfortable.” Which he is receptive to but then he does something awful: he asks me why I’m uncomfortable and sometimes even makes me sit in it. How dare he? Doesn’t he know I don’t sit in emotions or talk about them? I cover them up with booze and drugs until they vanish. The problem is he does know all of this and so he pushes me to tell the truth. The bastard. But the more he does, the more something even more incredible than that happens: he forces me to look at how strong I am, how much I’ve grown, how creative I am, how resilient I am. He honors that and he makes me honor that too.

It’s remarkable how well all of this works with being in recovery too. Not sober himself but with years of working with addicts himself, he’s always open to learn more and we joke that I’m making him “woke” to all things sobriety. He’ll ask about things he doesn’t know which is amazing and we become two people exchanging, not guy with fancy degree and crazy person. He’s heard enough about my program of recovery that he now asks how it’s going. He also encourages me to do the work I need to stay sober and will gently push me in that direction if I get stalled out, as I have before. In turn, I’ve told him about meetings, the 12 steps, having a sponsor and even referred sober friends to him. Mainly, there are two layers of relief I get having both a therapist and a program of recovery. They work beautifully in tandem with one another. For support that’s more specific to day to day living and my PTSD, my therapist is my guy and for all my sobriety needs, my recovery support system does the rest.

A few months into working with my therapist, I noted how much better I felt being in therapy. The things that haunted me and freaked me out were less terrifying. I was grateful to finally have both.

Surprised, he asked, “Wait. Do most of you sober people do this without a therapist too?!”

I replied, “A lot of us do, yeah.”

“I can’t believe it. That sounds really hard,” he said.

Now nearly a year later, I can’t believe I did it for so long either because it was.

Recovery Month Contest Winner #3: Music and Mom Are My Medicine

October 15, 2018 by Genius Recovery

In honor of Recovery Month, we asked you to send us your stories about the impact community, nutrition or environment has had on your life since you put down substances and picked up life. Winners are not only receiving copies of our book, The Miracle Morning for Addiction Recovery, but are also being published here on the site.

This week we have Emily Redondo.

Early sobriety found me in an emotional mess some days. I had to find new ways to handle life other than drowning it in alcohol. Aside from the hard work I put into my recovery, I still needed some sort of outlet to express myself.

Music was a medicine to connect me to feelings I didn’t yet understand. Lyrics and rhythms helped me fight for positivity, understanding, and the courage I needed to keep fighting for a life free from the chains of addiction.

Along this journey, my mom and I started a yearly trek to Austin, TX for their annual music festival, Austin City Limits. Sober since 1990, my mom might be 70 years old, but she’ll beat anyone I know with her music IQ. We stay all three days, embracing every moment. We are no different than the 150,000 other music lovers there, except we aren’t drinking or doing drugs.

Our second year we decided to make a flag. It’s a subtle reference to those of us in recovery, a triangle and the words “we are not a glum lot”, that we still have fun and act wild. Strangers have asked us about it, and we happily tell them. Other sober attendees see the flag and suddenly we have instant new friends. Some use it for a meet up spot during the day, and we just smile at each other as they drink their beers.

Last year, ACL had a booth supporting those who were there in recovery, even having meetings a couple times a day right there in the park. How fantastic. There in the midst of the wild crowds of music lovers was our sober community!

This love for music has carried over to other live venues and concerts. People in recovery are out there just like normal folks, living life and rocking out, high-fiving and fist-bumping each other when we make the connection.

Life is not over when we put down the drink or the drug. In fact, it’s just beginning. I’m 43 years old, still dancing around at music festivals and concerts, finding sober friends in my company. My mom and I are still surprising the younger generation by being an example that yes, grown-ups still can be fun, and that no, we don’t need to be loaded to be happy, joyous, and free!

Exclusive Excerpt from Amy Dresner’s MY FAIR JUNKIE

October 10, 2018 by Amy Dresner

It’s maybe 12:30 at night. I am high on OxyContin. My husband, Clay, and I are in our coldly decorated luxury condo, fighting viciously after a particularly tense and overpriced Christmas dinner with my mother at the Peninsula Hotel.

The marriage has been crumbling for a while. Clay has retreated into his work and I into my opiate addiction, but tonight, all of our hatred comes out of hiding to duke it out. I go out onto the balcony to smoke and try to calm down. Next thing I know, he’s right there, and we’re going at it mean and loud. I feel woozy, like I’m about to lose my balance. I can see the valet guys scuttling around below me, and I think, This is what a Jew gets for celebrating Christmas.

The fight moves back inside. More screaming. I shove him. We wrestle. He’s a big guy. Almost three hundred pounds. And I’m maybe 115 with premenstrual bloat, holding a fifth of scotch. Then something inside me snaps. I don’t have the best impulse control to begin with. The OxyContin took away what was left of it as well as making me unusually agitated. The marriage had become desolate and painful, and maybe on some level I just wanted to put it out of its fucking misery. I break away and stomp into the kitchen, grab a knife out of the knife block, and stomp back into the bedroom.

“I will gut you like a fish, you fat fuck,” I hear myself say.

“I’m calling the police,” he says. “You’re done.”

It was a game we’d played for a while now—me pushing him to extremes, him fighting back—and we were good at it. But tonight felt different. The ante was higher, the rage was deeper, and nobody was backing down.

“Yes, hello. My wife just pulled a knife on me,” he says into the phone. “She’s mentally ill and a drug addict.”

I don’t wait to hear any more. I snatch a bottle of Valium off the bedside table, grab my purse, and lock myself in the bathroom. I begin to panic. I pour out four pills and then shake out two more for good measure. If the police are coming for me, I need to be relaxed. Really fucking relaxed. I crush the pills with the handle of my electric toothbrush and cut thick lines with my credit card. I snort them quickly. My eyes water. Within minutes, that narcotic veil between me and reality will come down, and I’ll feel safe. Safer, anyway. “Okay,” I say. I run my finger under the running tap and stick it in my nostrils, wiping away any evidence. I catch my eyes in the mirror. They look glassy, feral, empty.

I bolt out of the bathroom, grab my car keys, and head for the elevator. Four cops come barreling around the corner of the hallway. I freeze.

The female officer among them approaches me and asks clinically for my version of the night’s events.

“He kneed me in the ribs,” I begin, trying to sound innocent, but my already deep voice is thick with anger and opioids, not the best quality for a wannabe damsel in distress. Also, I don’t feel very high, and I’m pissed about it.

The officer isn’t really listening, and it’s soon obvious to me that it doesn’t matter what I say; I am going to jail. I turn my head and see the other three officers down the hall talking with my husband. They are taking pictures of his neck and hands and writing things down. He holds up the knife I pulled. It is a large bread knife with a serrated blade and snubbed point. Whatever. It wouldn’t have done the job anyway.

Moments later, I am handcuffed. The handcuffs are tight and cold around my wrists.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against—”

“Yeah, yeah. Law & Order is my favorite show. I know the fucking drill,” I say. The Valium is starting to kick in, and it’s making me mouthy.

I am put in the back of a cop car. The seat is hard plastic. They make them like that for easy cleanup in case arrestees puke, bleed, or shit themselves. I have never been in the back of a cop car. My bony ass is chafing on the rigid seat. My hands are cuffed so tightly that I can’t lean back so I am pitched forward. I stare into the glass divider. And then I start crying hysterically.

“This is bullshit!” I scream to the cops, tears streaming.

“Tell my partner,” the cop in the front says mechanically. I go silent and then decide to change my approach.

“Perhaps I was just jousting?” I say, trying to break him with humor. I am a professional comedian, after all. Maybe if I can get a laugh out of this guy, we can all forget about this and go home.

“Hello?” I tap on the glass with my forehead. He ignores me.

I switch tactics yet again.

“Fucking shit! I can’t believe this is happening. I am a nice Jewish girl from Beverly Hills. I graduated magna cum laude…” I shake my head violently. “I’m not a bad wife, I swear! I’m not crazy. I’m not a fucking criminal. I…” And then my words are just swallowed up by sobbing.

They take me to jail. It’s all a bit fuzzy because of the Oxy and Valium. It is surprisingly quiet in the West Hollywood police station that night. It’s Christmas, and it looks like only assholes like me get arrested on Christmas.

They take away my purse and shoes and give me some dirty tube socks with orange stripes to put on. My mug shot is taken, and I am fingerprinted. Maybe it’s shock; maybe it’s the drugs; but it all feels surreal. Like I’m just watching, anesthetized, as it all happens to somebody else.

I am given a wool blanket and thrown in a holding cell. I pace around the small, cold cell in my jail socks. Numb. There is a pay phone on the wall. It mocks me. Inside that pay phone is the answer to the ominous question: Who are your real friends? I am about to find out.

I take a deep breath and call a woman I know from AA, Trina. In fact, I had been Trina’s sponsor years ago. Back then, I’d been her guide, and she had been the newbie in the program. I’d been like her Sherpa, her priest, and her therapist all rolled up into one. I had just tried to offer her laughter, stability, unconditional love, things she’d been hard pressed to find in her own upbringing. And even though we’d kept in touch, casually, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Trina was fiercely independent, sensitive, loyal. She was also a bail bondswoman. And I needed both her empathy and her expertise right about now.

“Hi, Amy. Merry Christmas!” she answers cheerily. “How are you?”

“I’m in jail.”

Trina gets in touch with my mother and organizes my bail (10 percent of $50,000, which is a hefty $5,000) and springs me from the clink herself. Trina is a pretty, busty, forty-something ex–hard-core drug addict gangster girl who’s remade herself into a respectable businesswoman. She holds her cards close to her chest but her big, brown, doelike eyes reveal a lifetime of sadness and disappointment.

She takes me to the posh hotel in Beverly Hills where my mother is staying. My mom is visiting from Santa Fe, in town for the holiday festivities. I don’t think having her only child arrested for felony domestic assault with a deadly weapon was exactly what she wanted from Santa. Despite my mother’s feeble protests, I raid the mini bar, get shithoused on tiny bottles of vodka and sneak out to smoke cigarettes. Then I pass out for the next two days.

Recovery Month Contest Winner #2: When Community Is The Key

October 8, 2018 by Genius Recovery

This week we have Terra Brooke.

Community was the antidote, for me, to the belief that something was fundamentally wrong with me and if I could just fix myself, everything “out there” that wasn’t working for me would be OK.

Community saved me when I felt most alone. Sometimes, often, I would pay people to be part of my community. Mentors and guides would accompany me into the trenches of what lay in my subconscious, and help to change my beliefs and create a new world. They gave me perspective on the confusion happening “out there.” They let me know I was not crazy and that I was pulling away from a disorganizing reality.

Divorce was one part of my transformational crucible. My community was my friend, Geri, who let me stay on her couch, many times, and listened to me when I was frantic, overwhelmed, and sad. My community was my attorney who walked me to the elevator as I sobbed and said, “You know Terra, we are going to be friends.” It was my accountant. It was financial advisors I hired who told me that I inspired them and who didn’t shame me for what I didn’t know, but guided me with respect and care.

Community was random people who connected with me. It was people I met when I began to study co-dependency. It was my co-dependency coach. It was myofascial body workers who held a space for unconscious body memories to emerge and who taught me how to be with them. It was uncles who cared for me when the core of my family and I were estranged. And community evolved.

As I continued to take classes, community became people I studied with on-line and worked with on Zoom. Community became people around Europe, Canada, and the US who offered me support and places to stay. Community became people in my exercise classes. And for sure, community became various coaches, shamans, people I met who were in recovery and recovery programs, psychics, and healers. All of them were part of my community.

But most of all, community has come to be myself. I have learned to love myself and to be my own company and to notice tender, young parts when they arise and hold them gently and with care.

As deep shame and grief arise, I don’t believe healing is possible without community. My frozen places and trapped emotions need community, a loving presence who stays through my most difficult moments, in order to re-wire my nervous system. I know I need encouragement as well and to see that at what may feel like the darkest, most challenging places, there is still a path and hope. I need people who truly care and have the depth and capacity in themselves to touch what surfaces. There is no substitute. I need community to teach me so I have the satisfaction of doing this for others.

And now I am able to stand where once, I needed to lean.

How Does Someone Go From Being in a Maximum Security Prison to Being the “Ambassador of Hope”?

October 3, 2018 by Paul Fuhr

When I first swapped contact info with Andre Norman, he happily informed me that he was on a family Disney cruise. Seconds later, he sent along a selfie to further prove the point. On my phone, I saw the relaxed stranger in his cabin: comfortably stretched out on a couch while casually throwing me a peace sign. Just over his shoulder was a bright green rectangle of ocean. I was momentarily confused. Even though he’s widely referred to as “The Ambassador of Hope,” it still wasn’t quite the Andre Norman I’d expected. Despite knowing that Norman is a sought-after inspirational speaker, it was somewhat impossible to ignore a biography riddled with abuse, crime, gang violence and a decades-long prison sentence in a maximum security prison. “Family Disney Cruise” simply wasn’t a phrase I’d prepared myself for.

It’s not Norman’s past, however, that fascinates and motivates people. Neither is it his decision to transform a deliberately dead-end life into something truly remarkable, either. It’s because Andre Norman is constantly looking ahead with an unparalleled eagerness and optimism. He doesn’t simply believe tomorrow will be brighter than today—he’s absolutely convinced that it will be. That’s the message Norman tirelessly carries all over the world, including far-flung locations like Trinidad and Liberia. He also lectures on topics such as families in crisis, leadership, addiction and prison re-entry, among others. No matter how desperate circumstances may seem, Norman argues, there’s always hope. In many ways, his Disney Cruise selfie underscores that very fact. Absolutely anything is possible—and Andre Norman is determined to prove it to you.

PAUL FUHR: You had a two-year stay in solitary confinement, where you had an “epiphany” to turn your life around. Could you describe what that epiphany actually was?

ANDRE NORMAN: It had to do with God. I was going to stab some people. But suddenly there was God. I’m like, “Why are you bothering me now when you’ve never been around before? Why are you here now?” But I decided not to stab anybody. I went back to my cell. I thought, “What am I going to do now?” All along, I’d wanted to go to Harvard and everybody thought I was crazy. But I got my GED and taught myself the law. I got out [of prison] in 14 years instead of 28. I eventually worked at Harvard.

PF: That’s amazing. Why the goal of Harvard?

AN: Well, my father told me: “No, you can’t do it. You have your place in life: you’re a criminal. And not only is this your place, but you’re really good at it.” (Laughs) “You’re really good at being a criminal. A really, really good inmate.” It’s an individual choice to be what we are. You can change the choices, but some people are so far down the line that they don’t have the strength, drive or determination to do anything else. They’ve accepted it. They’re trapped in the life that they’ve built, whether it’s a prison, a company, a family, or a lifestyle. It’s so much easier to stay.

PF: You’ve said before that you decided to become the toughest person in prison. You actually made a conscious decision to do that. Since you just mentioned being really good at being a prisoner, when did you start realizing that you’re really good at these other things, like public speaking and inspiring others?

AN: If I’m going to be in something, I want to be in charge. I don’t like people making decisions for me. People made decisions for me all my life and they were always bad. In prison, when somebody died, we’d have a memorial service and people would always go: “Dre, say something.” So I’d say some words and end it with a prayer. That happened three or four times a year. I became the de facto pastor for memorial services. We’d also have annual events for Black History Month. We’d bring in choirs, singers, actresses, speakers, whatever. Someone had to emcee those events.

Emceeing wasn’t easy because, with all of those outside people, the emcee represented [everyone in] the prison. And then you’ve got 800 guys and someone’s going to be upset or feel offended by something you said or did. They’d get trashed, absolutely crushed, after the event was over. No one wanted that job. Well, they ran out of emcees one day so they asked me to do it. I’d never spoke in front of that many people before. I kept doing it. What really got me going, though, was this program that brought kids in from the juvenile detention center to the prison. There’d be six prisoners and one volunteer and we’d all sit in a room and just talk.

PF: And that was the big moment for you?

AN: Yeah. Everyone in the youth program asked me to come see them once I got out. They said, “Most people say they’ll come see us, but they never do.” So when I got out, I showed up at the youth center and I went there, every day, for four hours. I went there to talk, to tell them some stories and to tell them what little bit of success I’ve had. Two or three hour speeches at a time. Kids are a tough crowd, too. (Laughs)

PF: Do you enjoy working with a particular demographic or specific age group over others?

AN: I’ll go from kindergarten to grad school. Little kids just want to be picked up. They need energy. You can speak their language. They don’t know the difference between 25 and 40. They just know whether you’re funny or you’re not. I teach them to ask for help; I teach them to say thank you.

PF: What’s your approach, then, with high schoolers?

AN: In high school, you’re going to be forced to make decisions about sex, about gangs, about drugs. You might be dealing with a parent not being present or somebody being in jail. I tell them that they have to get a dream and to hell with everything else. You ride that dream. I tell them that they’re making a choice right now. I ask how many people have an uncle who sleeps on the couch. Everybody’s hands go up. I ask everyone if they want to be the uncle who sleeps on the couch or the cousin who owns the house. Everyone wants to be the person who owns the house.

PF: Since you’ve started your speaking career, what changes or trends have you noticed among the kids you work with?

AN: The trends are among the parents. Not the kids. It used to be that you had to talk to your kids, but now you don’t have to. You can give your kids technology and walk away. We complain as adults that our kids never put their phones down. Well, you give a kid an iPad at age two and he plays with it every day, all day, and then at sixteen, you want to snatch it from him, it doesn’t work like that. Parents can check out now. Parents are disconnected and the kids are like, “Okay, Mom and Dad are checked out, so let me check out.” When I was young, parents talked to you every damn day. They waited to unload on you. (Laughs)

PF: What’s the most rewarding thing about what you do? What keeps you going?

AN: I get to do for people what I’d always wanted done for me. I’ve worked at Harvard, I’ve worked at London Business School, I’ve worked at the White House, I’ve worked with prime ministers, I’ve worked with presidents, I’ve spoken with top CEOs around the world. But what could I have been if someone had grabbed me in second grade and said, “We’re going to teach this kid how to read and write correctly, how to comprehend, and how to be kind.” What could I have been if I someone had raised me correctly, if someone told me that I didn’t have to beg for food, didn’t have to rob people, didn’t have to fight to get into school?

PF: You’re such a strong, commanding presence that it’s hard to imagine you might actually have day-to-day challenges. What challenges do you encounter?

AN: When the people that I’m going to visit don’t believe I’m the guy who should be coming. For example, I went to St. Louis to this private Catholic school for boys. All the fathers and sons go to this annual event. They listen to the speaker, they clap, and they go home. They decided to bring me in. The year before, it was the manager of the St. Louis Cardinals. The fathers are like, “Wait a minute. We’re all Catholic and St. Louis is a Catholic town. Why is a blank gang member coming in to talk to our kids? Our kids aren’t going to be gang members and they’re definitely not going to be black.” Most speakers come out and do their 40 minutes of speaking, then leave. I showed up and arranged for all the boys to come into another room and I spoke to them for like 45 minutes beforehand. Then I got on stage and did the whole group. After it was over, one of the fathers came up to me and apologized. He said he was one of the biggest advocates against me to speak. It made no sense to him. He read my bio and I didn’t make any sense. But the father said, “I don’t know what you said to my kid in that other room, but he came out a different kid.” Many times, though, I’ll be trying to help someone’s kid and their parents will have all of these questions and doubts about me while their kid suffers.

PF: Well, that ties back to your original comment about parents being half the problem, right?

AN: 80% of the problem. And not in the sense that they’re giving their kids drugs. But if you’re not in the conversation and you’re not paying attention, it can get away from you fast.

PF: With all that you’re doing to give back to others, do you ever stop to appreciate just how far you’ve come in life?

AN: Look, I was the boss in the penitentiary. Not kinda-sorta or halfway. Full-fledged. I know that life and I can go back to that life. But what I do now is who I am. I just want to help somebody. I’m not asking you to put me on your mortgage or to give me the keys to your car. Let me help you. Stop judging. I don’t need you to like me. I don’t need you to want me to live long. I just need to live long enough to help you or your kid.

Recovery Month Contest Winner #1: Recovering in Waves by Lynn Fraser

October 1, 2018 by Genius Recovery

First up we have Lynn Fraser. Find out more about Lynn here.

As a teen, I was desperate to escape the pain of bullying and used sugar, alcohol and other drugs. I dissociated. I considered suicide.

We medicate ourselves when we can’t stand feeling powerless and shamed. I’ve used the “bad ones”—sugar, alcohol and other drugs, and socially approved addictions like codependent relationships and over working. I stopped drinking and drugs in my mid-20s.

In the past five years, I finally healed the trauma and disconnection that was driving the need to escape.

Twenty-five years ago, I learned meditation and developed a connection within myself and within a community. I began to see how the mind worked and gradually healed the what-if catastrophic and compulsive thinking that was torturing me. I got to know myself on many levels and became kinder to myself.

Six years ago, I left an unhealthy relationship. I learned about Developmental Trauma. I began to release trauma stored in my body and I now specialize in supporting people to feel safe enough to heal. With the right support, we reach a tipping point where we no longer need to hide out or escape.

I connected with myself. I felt hopeful I could end my suffering. I stopped shaming and judging myself. I begin to have experiences of being okay. I became patient and compassionate with myself.

I connected with my sense of value through inquiring into and seeing through core deficiency beliefs of unworthiness and shame. Many of us had experiences as children of feeling unloved and unworthy, of feeling like we are being hurt because we are fundamentally bad. We developed beliefs based our experiences and these beliefs persist. They are the innocent beliefs formed when we were children and they are not true.

As I let go of the self-loathing and shame, my mind became healthier. When a negative thought comes up now, I notice it. I gently inquire into why I feel triggered into shame. My whole life and experience is workable.

Every single day I am grateful for my stability and presence and that I can help other people find their own safety and healing.

How Doing a Whole30 Helped Me Envision a Life Without Alcohol

September 26, 2018 by Lisa Bennett

A quest to eat healthier may have saved my life—not just because I stopped eating junk food, but because I discovered that I could live without alcohol.

My excessive drinking and bad eating habits went hand in hand right from the start. When I was in high school, I would come home from a night of partying with friends and make myself a box of macaroni and cheese. In college, I would consume as little food as possible before a night of boozing, and then chow down on a huge burrito at two in the morning.

Hangover breakfasts were an attempt to ingest as much greasy, carb-laden food as possible. I remember how proud I was one morning to gobble down two Sausage Egg McMuffins and two hash browns in front of a new boyfriend.

Adult life wasn’t much better. I continued to drink my dinner at least once a week and scarf down a bag of potato chips before passing out. At one job, my office was near a deli with a breakfast bar featuring cheese omelets, bacon, and mini hot dogs in a blanket—all of which I ate heartily on mornings after a few too many.

A lack of energy plus a high cholesterol reading sent me looking for an answer. I read Michael Pollan’s books In Defense of Food and Food Rules, which contain much good sense about eating natural, homemade meals. At the same time, people were talking about elimination diets, and I grew curious about cutting out sugar and additives. Then a friend introduced me to the Whole30 program in the fall of 2014, and my journey officially began.

For one month, I did not eat any grains, added sugars (or sweeteners of any kind), dairy products, legumes, or alcohol—and I felt great! But I confess that at the end of the 30 days, I couldn’t wait to pour that first glass of Pinot Grigio. Over the next two and a half years I completed about three more Whole30s and tweaked my regular diet in the process. I figured out what I could live without (cheese, bread) and what I couldn’t (ice cream, chocolate). Also, I started eating a whole bunch of delicious foods that I used to dislike (eggplant, olives, sardines).

Nearly 32 months elapsed between my first Whole30 and my last drink. But I can say with certainty that eating healthier served as a gateway toward sobriety, and it provided me with a framework this is helping me succeed in recovery.

I’m not here to recommend any specific diet; I just want to share the top five healthy eating concepts that I now embrace.

What We Consume Counts

The substances that we put into our bodies every day impact how those bodies function. I never thought about this much, but once I did, it changed my life.

The point of an elimination program like Whole30 isn’t to deny yourself, but to help identify foods that throw you off your game. I discovered that when I eat too much dairy, my head gets stuffy and my digestive system protests. A diet heavy in grain-based products makes my joints ache. And processed food makes me feel lethargic and foggy. Of course, alcohol did all those things and more.

For decades, I assumed that my gastrointestinal issues were just part of being me. It turns out that changing my diet and giving up alcohol got rid of them entirely. Living without stabbing stomach pain and mad dashes to the bathroom is truly a beautiful thing.

Set Healthy Eating Deal-Breakers

Through Whole30, I learned about “foods-with-no-breaks”—like cookies, pretzels, or nuts—that some people have a tough time putting down. It occurred to me that alcohol also falls into this category for many of us.

I had tried to moderate my drinking for years, but policing myself required so much effort that I was miserable. I finally realized that I was never going to be the kind of person who didn’t think much about alcohol. Quitting was the logical solution.

Some foods are the same for me, and some are not. I can make myself a tiny bowl of ice cream and eat only that—the pint is safe in my freezer. But I had to stop keeping bags of salty/crunchy snacks in my house because they disappeared too quickly, and sometimes they replaced entire meals, which I deemed a deal-breaker. Knowing where I needed to draw the line was key.

Prioritize Homemade Meals

This is probably the biggest hurdle to eating healthy in the US. Convenience foods are popular for a reason—they’re easy, cheap, and have a long shelf life. When I changed my diet, my grocery bills shot up, and my food prep and clean-up time increased dramatically. I decided it was worth it to feel healthier, but I do recognize the personal privilege that made this decision possible for me.

When eating at home, I try to make things from scratch as much as I can. In addition to meals, I make my own bone broth, mayo, ranch dressing and more. Not only do I avoid consuming all those chemicals, but I’ve learned that when I labor over a meal, I don’t tend to eat as much or as quickly. I no longer stuff myself, which is an incredible feeling—much like giving up on getting tanked.

Resist Snacking and Boredom Eating

When I did my first Whole30 I realized how dependent I was on snacking. I had been eating breakfast bars throughout the day because I wasn’t eating enough at meals. I was also a big boredom eater: I would go to the fridge and stare inside to see what caught my fancy, which was usually a slice or two of individually wrapped cheese.

Cut off from snacking for the first time, I was grumpy and thought it would never last. But I learned rather quickly that I could survive without the latest “healthy” chip or a late-night bowl of cereal. Now, I rarely snack unless I really need something to calm genuine hunger pangs, in which case I have a small handful of nuts or olives. I also try to avoid drinking my food—so, instead of guzzling juice or smoothies, I eat whole fruits and veggies, which are better at filling me up and less sugar-loaded.

Say Good-Bye to Dieting

After cycling on and off the Whole30 for two years, I realized that I was mimicking the dreaded “yo-yo dieting” that plagues so many of us. My history is littered with failed attempts to find the magic diet that would make me skinny and happy. I was particularly fond of cleanses and three-day rapid weight loss diets.

Much like my relationship with alcohol, I wanted a quick diet fix that didn’t require much self-reflection or perseverance. It took me decades, but I finally realized this strategy was not working in either regard.

I ended up using the Whole30 as I believe it’s meant to be used—as a tool to launch a long-term way of eating that fosters an active, vibrant life free from obsessing about food. It worked—I feel healthier than I have in a long time. And my mind is uncluttered with see-saw thoughts of drinking and not drinking, binging and fasting.

Best of all, I still enjoy a good single-dip ice cream cone now and then without any guilt.

A Guide to the Best Recovery Podcasts

September 24, 2018 by Paul Fuhr

Very early into my sobriety (and I’m talking days, not weeks), I suffered from a perfect storm of problems. Like any career alcoholic who suddenly resigns without giving their two-week notice, everywhere I turned, there was another surprise around the corner. First, there were all the fun physical withdrawal symptoms: the sheet-twisting sleeplessness, the racing-mind anxiety, the zero-appetite nausea. And then there was the shame, guilt and grief—all of which hung over me like a slow, miserable thunderhead. But more than anything, I just felt alone. When I look back on that Mad Max wasteland of early sobriety, that’s all I remember: I felt like I was the first person in the history of the world to have to get sober. I wasn’t exactly hurrying off to the nearest AA meeting, either. No, I was busy Googling things like “recovery” and “alcoholism help” and “sobriety” and “Am I going to feel this terrible forever or should I just go back to drinking because I can’t imagine a life that doesn’t involve booze?”

The whole time I searched online for help, I had the comfort and company of the podcasts I subscribed to: Marc Maron, Adam Carolla, NPR. (Even one called, yes, “James Bonding.”) Still, in all the same ways I couldn’t imagine a future without red wine and vodka, I couldn’t have imagined that podcasts would eventually save my life—but they did. I began searching for sobriety-themed podcasts and before I knew it, I found a landscape that immediately made sense to me. I couldn’t subscribe to the podcasts I found fast enough. There were enough to prove to me that not only wasn’t I alone in sobriety, but that others wanted to hear about sobriety and recovery on their own terms, too. I could put in my earbuds and hear someone share a story that filled me with hope as I mowed my lawn, drove to work, or washed the dishes. They even gave me the confidence to walk into an AA room for the first time, since I sort-of knew what to expect, thanks to what I’d heard. Sobriety podcasts quickly replaced most of the junk food I’d been treating my ears to and—especially in those first few weeks—genuinely got me sober.

In addition to GeniusRecovery.com Editor Anna David’s Light Hustler podcast, here are some recovery-themed podcasts that might guide you toward long-term sobriety:

The Bubble Hour: Hosted by Jean M., this is a lively hourlong podcast (as advertised), dedicated to breaking down the stigma surrounding alcoholism—one guest at a time.
Church & Other Drugs: This podcast is hosted by two “ex-addict/alcoholic Christians” who “tell the stories of the beatdown, up and coming, hard-knocked, and healed up.” All at once serious, funny, spiritual and moving.
Drop the Needle: A song-centric podcast that’s just like NPR’s “All Songs Considered” for the recovery community. Hosted by three friends (two who met in a treatment center and one who’s an accomplished music critic), the show welcomes guests to share songs that personally remind them of each week’s recovery topic. [PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS MY OWN PODCAST AND MY EDITOR FORCED ME TO INCLUDE IT.]
High Sobriety: Award-winning speaker and actor John Mabry is the host of this show (sponsored by Addiction Campuses), which interviews “high-profile recovery advocates” who share their stories and struggles around addiction, trauma, rehab and countless other topics.
The ODAAT Chat: Arlina Allen hosts this inspiring podcast that features interviews with a wide range of individuals in recovery from alcoholism and drug addiction—all of whom share stories that are oftentimes as revealing as they are deeply affecting.
Since Right Now: With nearly 200 episodes in the tank, this podcast has managed to stay fresh in its discussions of recovery from alcohol and other drugs, thanks to its irreverent yet thoughtful hosts Chris, Jeff and Matt.
Recovery Elevator: Hosted by recovering alcoholic Paul Churchill, this podcast is particularly notable in that it’s less interested in being a series of individual episodes so much as the gateway to a larger community around sobriety.
Recovery Unscripted: Hosted by David Condos and driven by the support of Foundations Recovery Network, this podcast invites a wide range of people from the recovery community to “share their personal journeys and firsthand experience.”
That Sober Guy: Host Shane Ramer’s long-running podcast shows no signs of slowing down, featuring interviews with individuals who share his passion for bringing awareness to mental health, substance abuse, addiction and recovery.
The SHAIR: When Omar Pinto isn’t busy as an addiction specialist, recovery life coach and motivational speaker, he’s the host of The SHAIR Podcast—a unique, engaging weekly show that interviews people in recovery with the simple hope that their stories “will inspire millions to stay clean and sober.” (Here Joe Polish on SHAIR here.)

Life Lessons from My Summer Recovery Bucket List

September 17, 2018 by Lisa Bennett

When I was drinking, I often claimed I wanted a more adventurous life. Yet there I was, sitting on the couch watching TV and downing glass after glass of wine. One of the driving forces that led me to finally ditch alcohol was a desire to climb out of my monotonous, gridlocked existence.

I entered the summer of 2018 with a year of sobriety under my belt and a list of challenging new things I wanted to try. I was eager to find out which activities would become essential parts of my life and what I might discover about myself in the process.

My summer exploits were infinitely more fun than nursing a hangover in the blazing heat. In addition to expanding my horizons, I made a conscious effort to learn an important lesson from each experience that I could apply to my recovery and life in general. In a perfect circle, quitting drinking gave me the time and energy to explore these interests, and the activities themselves gifted back tools that I am using to stay sober, awake, and present.

Aerial Yoga & Persistence

Practicing yoga at home played a huge role in my early recovery—it helped refocus my chattering mind on my breath and my body. Once I got past feeling creaky and unstable, I decided to give public classes a try, and first up was a gentle aerial class.

Aerial yoga involves a “silk”—a large piece of material that hangs from the ceiling in a long U shape. You can use it as support to get into positions that might otherwise be difficult to maintain, swing in it, hang upside down from it, and lie down in it like a cocoon. The practice is safe and welcoming to people of various body types.

In keeping with my tendency toward wild expectations, I immediately pictured myself flying through the air like singer P!nk. To avoid growing frustrated with not being an instant superhero, I scaled back my ambitions considerably.

I started taking the same class weekly, and I accepted that progress would only come with persistence. Pushing past your body’s resistance is both intimidating and invigorating—you must apply just the right amount of pressure. I plan to stick with aerial yoga for the long haul, seeking steady growth at a realistic pace.

Bodyflight & Boldness

Indoor skydiving, or bodyflight, as the sport is known, is not particularly scary. You wait around for long periods just to hover about five feet off the ground for two minutes at a time. When it’s your turn, an upward force of air suspends you in a Superman-like position while an instructor tweaks your body position.

Families with tiny kids were doing it the day I went, and watching those kids helped drive out any fear I was feeling. The biggest challenge, in fact, was the sense of being on display. The skydiving takes place inside a clear cylinder, and people sit around the tube, both those waiting to fly plus an outer circle of civilian onlookers.

For those of us who don’t like being watched, especially when we’re doing something new, this can be anxiety-provoking. I had to coach myself into getting past my emotional discomfort to locate the bold adventurer inside.

At the end, our instructor went into the tube alone and performed some fancy tricks. If I could learn those moves without an audience, I might give bodyflight another try. But for now, I’ll remain content with learning that I can overcome my self-consciousness.

Zip Lining & Courage

For years I wanted to go zip lining, but I never made it a priority until I stopped drinking. Now, I want to travel all over the world, so I can zip line everywhere.

In addition to zooming along on multiple lines, the treetop adventure course I completed involves climbing up rope ladders to platforms in the trees and maneuvering through obstacles. Much of the course is high above the ground, and I spent a lot of time hanging on for dear life to anything grab-worthy.

Tackling the Tarzan Swing was the scariest part of the course. Instead of gliding along in a semi-seated position like on the zip lines, you sort of throw yourself forward and swing like a pendulum toward a large vertical cargo net. You can choose a less frightening alternative route, but I had already taken the easy way out earlier in the course.

As I stood there terrified, I told myself that if I wanted the payoff of truly conquering my fears, I would have to jump off that darn platform. And I’m so glad I did. Being brave gives you access to feelings and experiences you might not otherwise encounter, especially on the couch.

Flotation Therapy & Patience

When I arrived for my first flotation therapy appointment, I was pleased to see that it was nothing like the sensory deprivation tanks I had seen in the movies.

You have a small suite to yourself; there is an area to change and shower, and the large tub is in a connected room with a high ceiling. The water is loaded with Epsom salt so that you float effortlessly, and the temperature is the same as your body, helping you lose track of where your body ends and the water begins.

For the first three-quarters of my session I tried to get situated and quiet my mind. Did I want the short pool noodle that they provided under my knees or not? Should I use the foam halo under my head? Was this really any better than soaking in the bathtub at home?

I withstood the instinct to write off floating before finishing even one session, and my patience paid off. During the final minutes I let go and entered a uniquely peaceful state of mind. Next time, I will book a longer session. And outside of floating, I will remember how patience is so often rewarded.

Rock Climbing & Faith

I dragged my husband with me to the introductory class at an indoor climbing center, and boy was I relieved that he came. Every climber needs someone on the ground who can “belay” for them—manage the slack on the rope, put on the brake when necessary, and help lower the climber down.

We learned to tie knots, do safety checks, and call out set commands, so I felt pretty confident that nothing major could go wrong. But on just my third climb, the instructor called out to me to “fall.” Say what?! He wanted us to see how easy it was to stop a climber from falling very far.

The instructor did have to ask me to fall three times before I finally took a deep breath and pulled my hands and feet away from the wall. Having this kind of trust in your partner and the equipment is not easy for some of us. In the end, I was so proud that I took this literal leap of faith.

Aerial yoga and zip lining may be the only two of these activities that I’ll return to regularly. But I can use persistence, boldness, courage, patience, and faith to guide me every day.

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