Tag: sober

Rehab Snapshots

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica

I really wish I had a camera was a thought that lived in my mind the entire time I was at one of the treatment facilities I stayed at in 2020. 

I spent five weeks in this facility, and though my memory of my arrival there is spotty, there are several snapshot moments of this experience I hope I never forget. 

This is one of them. 

“Karaoke? Here in a rehab? No way. You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I laughed while chatting with my friend Andy. Andy is this massive 6’5″ radiant personality I still get to text with to this day. We were in line for lunch at the cafeteria after finishing one of our group therapy sessions. There were eager murmurs among fellow residents that one of the staff members said she would bring in a mic and speaker set if we, the people who miraculously hadn’t killed themselves in recent weeks, were willing to do karaoke during her shift supervising us on Friday night.

It was early summer in 2020. After flipping my car upside down on Bardstown Road in Louisville, KY, I ended up in this treatment facility. The idea of going from barely wanting to be alive to singing into a mic in front of other people without a single drop of alcohol in my body was wild. I mean, I had to be locked away in a treatment facility because I couldn’t bring myself to stop drinking safely. Now, these people want to get me to sing along to a song on a microphone? 

So many thoughts ran through my mind in response to this idea: What if I’m not fun to others and I just bore them? I’m not good enough to get up in front of others and just be. I like my singing voice, but I’m scared it’s not good enough to be a strong voice and that I can’t be silly enough to be comically bad for karaoke. Is there even such a thing as fun without alcohol? I’d like to watch others try. I love karaoke, but me? Sober? I’ll have to pass.

As we sat down to eat, Danielle, the staff member the buzz was about, approached our table. As usual, she was beaming, “Did y’all hear about karaoke on Friday? You ready, Jess?” She looked me in the eyes and smiled, which slowed the racing panic of my detoxing brain.

Danielle always put me at ease because her lived experience instilled hope that this repetitive cycle I found myself in would one day stop. In Drowning in Shallow Water: Chapter 1, I share how I learned that Danielle had also lost her partner to a drug overdose. Despite this loss, she was sober and working with others. Danielle gave me hope that I could find joy and love after losing my boyfriend, Ian. Her lived experience and confidence in how she conducted herself made me think, Maybe I can try this karaoke thing on Friday night. 

I turned my face to Danielle, smiled while hesitantly shrugging my shoulders, and said, “I really don’t want to do it, but since you’re putting it together, Danielle, I’ll try it.” 

“You won’t regret this, Jess!” Danielle declared.

And dammit, she was right.

On Friday night, Danielle came in for her shift. She decorated the residential lounge area, turned the overhead lights off, and connected her karaoke machine to her phone. As the music started playing and I felt the bass of the music vibrate a little bit, the sensory experiences began to take me back. The thumping with the darkness and the flashing lights from the machine took me back to being at a bar or club. 

But I wasn’t at the club. I was in treatment. 

One of the younger residents, Elly, got up to do a song. In our therapy groups, she was often disengaged and rarely used her voice. I assumed she did not want to take up space, so I remember my curiosity when I saw her awkwardly standing before us, her hand on the mic and the other on her hip. We waited for what felt like ages, and then the words came. Elly took a deep breath, closed her eyes, gripped the microphone with both hands and came to life. 

I wish I could remember the song, but I don’t. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. What mattered was that Elly was freed beyond the walls of the treatment facility in those few moments. As she danced and performed as if she was on stage somewhere else, I elbowed Andy next to me, and I held up my hands as though I was holding up a real camera and took a snapshot of Elly. 

So, what happened afterward? 

After letting herself be seen, Elly started to speak up more in groups. And me? I did eventually sing, too, just not on that day. 🙂

On the left, me doing karaoke in my active addiction. On the right, karaoke sober.

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Spoiler Alert: Guilt Remains When You Set Boundaries

Posted on by Jessica Dueñas in Current Recovery Challenges, Written by Jessica

“The goal is not to stop feeling guilty, but instead, to turn down the volume and not let guilt control your decisions. It means seeing the guilt not as a giant red flag but as a faulty “check engine” light–something that’s always there but operates primarily in the background. You don’t want to let it take up extra energy or have you running to the mechanic in a panic. Sure, it means something–but it doesn’t mean everything.

In other words, guilt does not need to be our compass. It can just be a feeling in the background while we learn to reframe the discomfort as a signal that we’re taking responsibility for our own emotions.”

Dr. Pooja Lakshmin, discussing the discomfort of setting boundaries in Real Self-Care, page 101
Photo by Melanie Wasser on Unsplash

I’m currently facilitating conversations around The Book of Boundaries by Melissa Urban to the Reframe App’s Book Club. Though we’re primarily focusing on Melissa’s writing, I had to bring this excerpt into our conversation from a different author, Dr. Pooja Lakshmin, because I LOVE how she frames dealing with guilt. 

It’s just a faulty check engine light that is always there.

I wanted to add to this idea and connect this “guilt as a faulty check engine light” concept back to drinking and alcohol recovery. For years, as active problem drinkers, when we felt guilt, it often made sense. The Oxford Dictionary defines guilt as “a feeling of having done wrong or failed in an obligation.” So when we drank and felt guilt due to our alcohol-fueled decision-making, like when we promised our loved ones we wouldn’t imbibe only to embarrass ourselves hours later, or when we said we wouldn’t drink only to drink ourselves sick and have to spend a whole Sunday recovering instead of enjoying our weekend, the guilt we felt made sense, and it was such a terrible feeling that we often were triggered to drink more to numb it.

We feel emotions in our bodies, too, so when you felt guilty all those times, where did you feel it in your body? How did it feel?

For me, it was a rapidly sinking feeling in my stomach, similar to how you feel going down on a roller coaster. That’s how I felt guilt. It is still how I feel it today. It’s a graspy type of feeling where my arms want to reach out and hold onto something to ease that internal feeling of falling. 

Here’s the thing, now that you’re sober, when you practice setting boundaries, as Melissa Urban and Dr. Pooja Lakshmin state, you’re going to feel guilt, 100%. So for me, when I set a boundary, I already know I am guaranteed to feel that sensation of going down a roller coaster I just described. However it is that you feel guilt, it will come up for you too. Be prepared.

In recovery, we must understand that guilt for doing the RIGHT thing will feel the same in our bodies as when we drank. We have to pay attention to the fact that now the shift is that the guilt is not a signal that we’re doing something wrong. It’s a sign that we’re doing something right. 

In The Body Keeps The Score, Bessel van der Kolk states, “In order to change, people need to become aware of their sensations and the way that their bodies interact with the world around them. Physical self-awareness is the first step in releasing the tyranny of the past.” So with that being stated, when you start to feel the guilt manifest in your tightening chest when you tell your friends you’re not drinking this weekend and that if they try to push it on you that you will leave, your tight chest is letting you know that you’re doing something right. You just have to remind yourself of that as soon as that sensation comes up. 

Your brain will interpret your chest tightening and start to scream, “Something is terribly wrong here! You need to drink to avoid feeling this uncomfortable sensation!” That’s how we get triggered. You can stop and tell your brain, “I’m safe. I’m not making any bad choices. I’m setting a boundary. I hear your panic, but we’re good. I’m taking care of us. You can relax. We’re safe.” 

Doing the right thing takes work. Growth is uncomfortable, but as the authors mentioned in this piece state, it’s also difficult to remain where you have been and be unhappy. 

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Español

“El objetivo no es dejar de sentirse culpable, sino bajar el volumen y no dejar que la culpa controle sus decisiones. Significa ver la culpa no como una bandera roja gigante sino como una luz defectuosa de “revisar el motor”, algo que siempre está está ahí, pero funciona principalmente en segundo plano. No querrás dejar que consuma energía extra o que corras al mecánico presa del pánico. Claro, significa algo, pero no significa todo.

En otras palabras, la culpa no necesita ser nuestra brújula. Puede ser simplemente un sentimiento de fondo mientras aprendemos a reformular la incomodidad como una señal de que estamos asumiendo la responsabilidad de nuestras propias emociones”.

Dr. Pooja Lakshmin, discutiendo la incomodidad de establecer límites en Real Self-Care, página 101

Actualmente estoy facilitando conversaciones sobre El libro de los límites de Melissa Urban para el club de lectura de la aplicación Reframe. Aunque nos estamos enfocando principalmente en la escritura de Melissa, tuve que traer este extracto a nuestra conversación de una autora diferente, la Dra. Pooja Lakshmin, porque ME ENCANTA cómo enmarca lidiar con la culpa.

Es solo una luz defectuosa del motor que siempre está ahí.

Quería agregar a esta idea y conectar este concepto de “culpa como una luz de control del motor defectuosa” con la bebida y la recuperación del alcohol. Durante años, como bebedores activos con problemas, cuando nos sentíamos culpables, a menudo tenía sentido. El Diccionario de Oxford define la culpa como “un sentimiento de haber hecho algo malo o haber fallado en una obligación”. Entonces, cuando bebimos y nos sentimos culpables debido a nuestra toma de decisiones impulsada por el alcohol, como cuando prometimos a nuestros seres queridos que no beberíamos solo para avergonzarnos horas después, o cuando dijimos que no beberíamos solo para enfermarnos. y tener que pasar un domingo entero recuperándonos en lugar de disfrutar nuestro fin de semana, la culpa que sentíamos tenía sentido, y era un sentimiento tan terrible que a menudo nos incitaba a beber más para adormecerlo.

También sentimos emociones en nuestros cuerpos, así que cuando te sentiste culpable todas esas veces, ¿dónde lo sentiste en tu cuerpo? ¿Como se sintió?

Para mí, fue una sensación de hundimiento rápido en mi estómago, similar a cómo te sientes al bajar en una montaña rusa. Así fue como me sentí culpable. Todavía es como lo siento hoy. Es un tipo de sensación de agarre en la que mis brazos quieren estirarse y agarrarse a algo para aliviar esa sensación interna de caída.

Esta es la cuestión, ahora que está sobrio, cuando practique el establecimiento de límites, como afirman Melissa Urban y la Dra. Pooja Lakshmin, se sentirá culpable al 100%. Entonces, para mí, cuando establezco un límite, ya sé que tengo garantizado sentir esa sensación de bajar en una montaña rusa que acabo de describir. Sea como sea que te sientas culpable, también te surgirá a ti. Estar preparado.

En recuperación, debemos entender que la culpa por hacer lo CORRECTO se sentirá en nuestro cuerpo igual que cuando bebíamos. Tenemos que prestar atención al hecho de que ahora el cambio es que la culpa no es una señal de que estamos haciendo algo mal. Es una señal de que estamos haciendo algo bien.

En The Body Keeps The Score, Bessel van der Kolk afirma: “Para cambiar, las personas deben ser conscientes de sus sensaciones y de la forma en que sus cuerpos interactúan con el mundo que les rodea. La autoconciencia física es el primer paso para liberar la tiranía del pasado”. Entonces, dicho esto, cuando comience a sentir que la culpa se manifiesta en su pecho apretado cuando les dice a sus amigos que no beberá este fin de semana y que si intentan forzarlo, se irá, su pecho apretado está dejando sabes que algo estás haciendo bien. Solo tienes que recordártelo a ti mismo tan pronto como surja esa sensación.

Tu cerebro interpretará que tu pecho se contrae y comenzará a gritar: “¡Algo anda terriblemente mal aquí! ¡Necesitas beber para evitar sentir esta sensación incómoda!” Así es como nos disparamos. Puedes detenerte y decirle a tu cerebro: “Estoy a salvo. No estoy tomando malas decisiones. Estoy estableciendo un límite. Escucho tu pánico, pero estamos bien. Me estoy ocupando de nosotros. Tú Puedes relajarte. Estamos a salvo.

Hacer lo correcto requiere trabajo. El crecimiento es incómodo, pero como los autores mencionan en este artículo, también es difícil permanecer donde has estado y ser infeliz.

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What cultural or family norm(s) do you need to release to survive?

Posted on by Jessica Dueñas in Current Recovery Challenges, Written by Jessica

I am at a conference in New Orleans, and one of the questions for discussion at a session I attended was, what cultural or family norm(s) do you need to release to survive?

My grandmother, Sofía, was a child bride who was taken from her family in Nicaragua at 14 and brought to Costa Rica. Her abuser claimed she was his daughter at the border in order to traffic her into Costa Rica, then married her there against her will. For years, he beat her as she had child after child of his. Abuela Sofía couldn’t speak up because for her to speak up was to risk her safety and that of her children. She was in a foreign country with no rights and no resources. Recognizing and advocating for her mental health needs was not an option, and the day she finally summoned the courage to take that risk, her abuser threw her and their children into the street, leaving them to survive without his support.

My mother, raised in the aftermath of my grandmother’s choice to speak up, migrated to the United States from Costa Rica years later. From my grandmother, my mother learned that speaking up for herself could lead to grave consequences, and being an undocumented and unwelcome immigrant in a foreign country where she did not speak English, she too avoided making many waves. 

Most of my family who migrated to the United States followed suit. As they arrived, they carried silence with them into this country. 

We did not discuss many things, mental health being a topic not up for discussion. Sure, if someone drank too much, they were labeled a “borracho” (drunk) or a “vago” (lazy person), but that was where the conversation ended, at a label: no discussion, no digging, no examination, no reflection.

So when I found myself in the throws of addiction, I continued the family tradition of silence. However, the silence was stifling, and I slowly lost my breath. I was suffocating. Silence may have worked as a tool for survival for my mother, grandmother, and the women before them, but it was killing me.

For years, I didn’t step outside of myself to examine my situation and realize that I was not in my mother’s shoes or my grandmother’s. I was born here in the United States. At the peak of my addiction, I had a job with access to medical benefits that I could use to help me treat my yearning for alcohol. No one was putting me in danger but me. 

The longer I carried the weight of the cultural tradition of silence, the farther I distanced myself from help. Rapidly, I was starting to drown in the midst of my alcohol use until suddenly, in November 2020, I opened my mouth. I used my voice and stopped comparing what I needed to do to live to those before me. 

I tapped into the power that my family’s silence had stifled for generations and asked for help.

I had to release the norm of silence to save my own life, and now, I’ll make it my mission to always speak openly about this journey because I know that silence can be deadly.

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What Does Someone in Recovery Look Like?

Posted on by Jessica Dueñas in Current Recovery Challenges, Guest Submissions, Recovery Stories
Audio of the text for people who prefer to listen.

November 2, 2022 marked 11 years since I last drank alcohol.


I celebrated by posting myself on Instagram holding a sign that read, “I am 11
years sober today!”


Discussing my past relationship with alcohol is a task I struggle to do because I am
still coming to terms with my experiences.


Nonetheless, I’m committed to adding a face to mental illness and encouraging
others to prioritize healing.


So, I hit the “share” button on Instagram, stepped out of my comfort zone, and
virtually stood in my power as a woman in recovery.


Several sobriety-centered accounts kindly reposted my picture. Many of their
followers congratulated me and shared their sobriety anniversaries.


Amidst the support, several followers in the comment section downplayed my
sobriety, suggested I pick up drinking again and accused me of not being sober.


My age came up as a topic by supporters and skeptics alike.


Depending on who you ask, I present as a teenager or someone in their early
twenties. My teenage years and early twenties are far behind me.


Let’s be clear, I appreciate aging like Benjamin Button and am thankful for my
Ecuadorean and Nicaraguan genetics.


I welcome compliments about my youthful appearance. I do not welcome
comments weaponizing my presumed age to undermine my sobriety.


“Sooo you stopped drinking when you were 10 years old? Not impressed,” said one
Instagram user while another wrote, “I don’t know what 11 years means coming
from someone probably in their mid 20’s…..” said another.


In reality, I stopped drinking during my junior year of college after several years of
binge drinking that started in high school.

Priscilla over 11 years ago, before recovery.


I tried hard to convince myself that my relationship with alcohol was normal during
those three years.

In hindsight, holding my drinking to a normalcy standard was too subjective.


Self-destruction would have been a more objective and helpful standard.


Objectively, repeatedly blacking out, vomiting, and jeopardizing my education,
health, and safety were self-destructive behaviors.


But, for many, those are considered normal drunk behaviors for a college student.
I was less motivated back then to challenge stereotypes surrounding alcohol abuse
because I hid behind these generalizations and social norms.


I rationalized and deliberately avoided “red flags” that mental health providers look
for to diagnose patients with alcohol dependency.


For example, I would go partying by myself and drink because I knew mental
health professionals considered drinking alone a warning sign for alcoholism.

No, I was not alone but I was lonely inside a club full of strangers.


Who decides how someone with an alcohol use disorder looks or even acts? The
truth is no two people with a drinking problem look or behave the same way.


Actress Drew Barrymore underwent treatment for alcohol and drug addiction at the
age of 13.


Supermodel Naomi Campbell is in recovery from alcohol abuse and does not
resemble the fictional alcoholic Frank Gallagher from Shameless.


Yet, Drew, Naomi, Frank, and I are all legitimate representations of alcohol use
disorder because we fell on the spectrum of alcohol abuse.


According to licensed mental health counselor and author Sarah Allen Benton,
alcohol use disorder is “a condition that ranges from mild to moderate to severe.

And it’s all still problem drinking, even if you think it’s ‘mild.’”


An alcohol use disorder diagnosis is rarely a straightforward process and involves
self-reporting answers from the alleged alcoholic.


Reacting to someone’s disclosure about the intensity, frequency, and consequences
of their drinking with disbelief or ridicule could obstruct their diagnosis and
treatment.

Respond with compassion when someone discusses their relationship with alcohol
instead of comparison.


It is very likely that the person sharing struggled to realize their problem let alone
share their experiences with others.


I am unsure whether those that downplay my sobriety are trying to make me or
themselves feel better.


I am sure that invalidating someone’s relationship with alcohol does not provide
relief or empower those in recovery.

Priscilla in 2022. Provided by author.


Our community is healthier and stronger when we do not buy into misconceptions
about alcohol use.


Stereotypes fuel secrecy, stigma, and ignorance around alcohol recovery.


My name is Priscilla and I am what somebody in recovery from alcohol abuse looks
like.

About the author: Priscilla is a certified trauma recovery coach and
mental health speaker. Contact her directly at www.priscillamaria.com

Letter to Your Younger Self: Matt

Posted on by Jessica Dueñas in Guest Submissions
Audio of text if you prefer to listen.

Writing Prompt: If you could write a letter to your younger self, what would you say?

Dear Matt @10 years old,

I want to tell you about what life is like now, but actually to let you know it’s ok to just be you. 

Be open with yourself about how you are feeling. It’s ok to admit things are not right for you in your life. When you get to the age I am now, you will have some regrets about not being able to speak to people. You will also not have as many people who want to speak to you, but one day you will find those trusted souls who are there for you and you will talk. If you do get just the smallest windows of opportunity to tell people how you are doing, take that chance. 

Young Matt, submitted by author.

You will find an amazing teacher in your life who will be your inspiration and someone you think back to often when you finally end up being a teacher. You are super funny and kind, but also can be quite stern and expect a lot of the children you teach. You keep them safe and nurture them, but you are fair and disciplined when you have to be. 

Know that it was ok to lie to people about not having a dad. That it was ok to make stuff up, because that was your way of dealing with the difficult life you came to have, because of your dad dying. Be kind and forgiving of yourself. You knew your dad, you absolutely did. Understand that he was there for you more than you realised. He shaped you for 2 and a half years. 

Know that it’s ok to not have to be like everyone else, that you are ok just the way you are. That it’s ok to not to have to be “one of the lads.” That you don’t have to force yourself to like alcohol and to have to go out. 

Matt today. Submitted by the author.

Right now, you are very much in me. You are a 46 year old man at heart, but you have a zest for life and for fun, which shines out of you. You are a child still who does what people would say are crazy. For instance right now you are dying your hair blonde and you’ve got your ears pierced! Imagine what your grandad would say about that! So funny! You like surfing and músic and play bass guitar and ukulele. You are determined and desire for everyone to be happy. 

Tell your family you love them. Please ask about your dad and don’t feel you are upsetting people talking about it. They will want to talk to you. You may think you didn’t know your dad, but you are him and he is in you.

Enjoy your life. It’s going to be great. 

Follow Matt on Instagram at @soberyogadad

To submit your own letter to your younger self, email your letter and photo(s) to jessica@bottomlesstosober.com.

“Sober October” Looking Rough? You Might Need More Than a Hashtag

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Current Recovery Challenges, Written by Jessica
Video with audio if you prefer to listen.

This is for you if you are anything how I used to be. 

Maybe you said you would stop drinking after September 30th for “Sober October,” except that it’s only October 2nd, and you are already drinking.

Maybe you woke up yesterday morning and eagerly wrote a note in an app or on your calendar marking October 1st as your “day one” because you got tired of saying, “one day I’ll stop drinking,” except that now you’re at day zero. 

Maybe you’re looking at all the fun posts with the hashtag #SoberOctober, wishing you could post something just as festive and equally as inspiring. Still, you feel like you can’t because you’re the farthest thing from sober on this October day, and the most spooky thing you’re doing right now is feeling anxiety sink your stomach because you said you were going to stop drinking and haven’t. You lied to yourself, saying, “It’s just a month, right? Anyone can do that,” and now, you’re drunk on the internet.

I know because that was me. 

I can’t tell you how often I would look at myself in the mirror, promising that I would stop, only to drink hours later. Alcohol was more than something I liked to do. By the end of my drinking career, it was something that I needed to do. It was the only way to avoid becoming violently ill with withdrawal symptoms such as shakes, seizures, vomiting, and so on.

Suppose you have genuinely tried your best to stop drinking these past few days, and you have this unbelievable compulsion to do so, to the point that you regret it and hate yourself just a little bit more with every gulp. You complicate your life, day in and out, just to drink even after you firmly promised yourself or others that you wouldn’t. You might have more than a problematic relationship with alcohol. If you are like me, you are fully addicted, and something as simple as putting the bottle down because everyone else is doing it on social media is not enough and, frankly, probably not safe for you to do on your own. 

Everyone’s journey is different, and what worked for me may not work for you, but when I could not physically pull myself away from the bottle, going to treatment helped. It did not resolve all my problems, as my own story includes many relapses, though now I have been continuously sober since November 2020. However, treatment gave me a space to stop safely, which was impossible for me to do on my own in the privacy of my home. Medications that doctors administered allowed me to safely go through what can be a deadly withdrawal process.

If you’re where I was, and you’re already struggling with “Sober October,” seek medical advice. If you do not have a physician who can assist you, SAMHSA, the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, has a treatment referral line open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Call them at 1-800-662-HELP (4357). 

I recently read the poet Rumi’s words, “The wound is the place where the light enters you.” If your “Sober October” is turning out to be incredibly painful, then this is the opportunity for the breakthrough you need to make space for the life you deserve. 

Teachers, back to school is here. If your drinking got worse over the summer and you feel it’s too late to get help, it’s not.

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Current Recovery Challenges, Recovery Stories, Uncategorized, Written by Jessica
Audio for those who prefer to listen.

If you’re a teacher, you are working in a climate that has gotten exponentially more challenging with time. Summer was likely a great relief for many, but the lack of structure can lead to more unhealthy behaviors. If you already had a questionable relationship with alcohol, you might have been using your time off drinking even more than you did before. Now that it is time for many of you to start getting ready to return to your school buildings, you may be worrying if your drinking is a problem. Is your alcohol consumption at the point where you may need help but are scared that it’s too late to do anything about it because you can’t miss work? 

Photo by Luis Villasmil on Unsplash 

It is not too late.

“But, I’m a professional. I do well at work and take care of all my responsibilities (finances, kids, family, pets, etc.).” None of that is relevant. When it comes to alcohol abuse, what you accomplish despite your drinking does not negate the fact that your relationship with alcohol is a problem. 

The National Institutes of Health (NIH) uses guidelines to determine if a person falls on the spectrum of alcohol use disorder. It is essential to highlight the word spectrum because one person’s problems with alcohol may look drastically different from another. Identifying alcohol abuse is not about comparing your drinking to someone else’s and being tempted to say, “Well, I am not as bad as her, so I must not have a problem.” This analysis is about your health and your life. This reflection needs to be about you solely. Examine what your thought process is and what your behavior is when it comes to drinking. Is it an issue? 

Here are some questions the NIH provides to ask regarding drinking. 

In the past year, have you:

  1. Had times when you ended up drinking more, or longer, than you intended? More than once wanted to cut down or stop drinking, or tried to, but couldn’t?
  2. Spent a lot of time drinking? Or being sick or getting over other aftereffects?
  3. Wanted a drink so badly you couldn’t think of anything else?
  4. Found that drinking—or being sick from drinking—often interfered with taking care of your home or family? Or caused job troubles? Or school problems?
  5. Continued to drink even though it was causing trouble with your family or friends?
  6. Given up or cut back on activities that were important or interesting to you, or gave you pleasure, in order to drink?
  7. More than once gotten into situations while or after drinking that increased your chances of getting hurt (such as driving, swimming, using machinery, walking in a dangerous area, or having unprotected sex)?
  8. Continued to drink even though it was making you feel depressed or anxious or adding to another health problem? Or after having had a memory blackout?
  9. Had to drink much more than you once did to get the effect you want? Or found that your usual number of drinks had much less effect than before?
  10. Found that when the effects of alcohol were wearing off, you had withdrawal symptoms, such as trouble sleeping, shakiness, restlessness, nausea, sweating, a racing heart, or a seizure? Or sensed things that were not there?

If, after reading this list, you are uncomfortable with the fact that you may have a problem with alcohol, I first want to say that you’re not alone. I taught successfully for thirteen years and won numerous awards, and at the end of my drinking career, I drank a fifth of bourbon a night and excelled the next day at work. I’ve been sober since November 28, 2020, so I promise you that it gets better and that knowing you have an issue can only serve your higher good. 

Maybe you have tried to stop drinking only to find that, for different reasons, you really could not control it on your own. You’ve heard of people going to treatment facilities, but now that school is around the corner, you feel like your opportunity to get assistance is gone. You think that you might have to wait for another break in the school year to come.

“Who is going to cover my classes?” “I don’t want to/don’t have the mental capacity to write these sub plans.” “I worry about my classroom.” “Will this go on file against me?” “I’ve never been to rehab. I’m scared to go.” “I don’t want to leave my kids at home.” “What if I lose my job?” “What if no one watches my children/pets at home?” 

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash 

I, too, have said most of the above, but it is important to note that eventually if you don’t stop drinking, many of the fears listed will materialize anyway. You will decrease the likelihood of experiencing significant losses and consequences by going to treatment for a week or several weeks.

There are many resources and avenues for getting help outside of a treatment facility, and you can find those here. However, for those considering going into a facility, please be aware that if you have worked in the same district for over a year, you may be eligible to take advantage of the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) program with the U.S. Department of Labor. This program also applies to employees at agencies at the local, state, and federal levels. The specific line of the act that would apply to entering a treatment facility is “a serious health condition that makes the employee unable to perform the essential functions of his or her job.” Mental health IS health, so a problem with addiction IS a serious health issue. In my personal experience, I used FMLA as a public school teacher when I needed treatment. 

So what is FMLA? It is a federal program that, upon approval, allows individuals to take up to twelve weeks (or twenty-six, it depends on the circumstances) off of work to take care of different medical needs. This time off is usually NOT paid time off (not ideal, I know). However, the employee keeps all their benefits, and their job is guaranteed for them when they return. You are also protected by confidentiality, so your employer cannot disclose the nature of your absence to others. 

When I used it, my employer was only allowed to say that I was “on leave,” my accounts, such as my school email (your district may do something different), were put on pause until I returned. Also, when I say employer, I mean your human resources department. If you disclose your situation to your school principal, that is your choice, but the HR department cannot tell your principal why you are on leave. In my case, I did not write any lesson plans, either.

I share this information about FMLA because I was unaware I could use it when struggling with alcohol. I learned about it when I ended up in a hospital and the doctor on call recommended that I enter into treatment. My first reaction was, “No. I can’t. I’m a teacher.” He proceeded to explain FMLA to me, and when my family contacted my district’s human resources department, the HR staff confirmed that with the proper documentation, I was eligible for it. 

Many teachers have lost their jobs due to drinking, and if they haven’t lost their jobs, they have suffered other consequences, too. When I taught, I built my schedule around alcohol so that I could teach, lesson plan, grade, drink, pass out and get up only to repeat the same cycle every day for years. Alcohol dictated everything for me, and it made me physically very sick, yet I still successfully put up appearances of doing well. I was quietly letting it kill me. You don’t have to spend another school year suffering if you are still teaching. I let my problem spiral to the point where I had to leave, but you don’t have to. 

Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash 

The content in this blog piece is not a replacement for advice from an individual’s human resources department, nor is it legal advice in any form.

Drowning In Shallow Water

Posted on by Jessica Dueñas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica

Chapter 2: Surrounded and Alone

Listen Here

“Well, the funny thing is I didn’t tell him that I have the Holy Trinity.” Natalie cackled while talking to some of the twenty-somethings in the courtyard.

Off to the side of everyone chatting, I was sitting in a beat-up camping chair trying to mind my business and enjoy the sun and its warmth on my skin. Natalie’s voice carried over to my ears and I could feel them perk up. Holy Trinity? I wondered. Even though I initially wasn’t listening, her gleeful energy in between cigarette pulls caught everyone’s attention, including mine. 

Photo from Unsplash.

“You know,” she said as the smoke slowly floated up from the side of her mouth, “Hep A, B, and C!” 

Immediately my jaw dropped with a slight gasp and laugh. What? Then I had a flashback to the night before when I saw some of the “young ones,” as I like to call them, scurrying around the facility. They were trying to distract the techs from supervising so Natalie and some other kid could run off to have sex. What was another conquest for Natalie to brag about was about to become a really uncomfortable situation for that kid. Days later, he came back to us saying that he tested “positive.” Originally I thought it would be for hepatitis given Mother Teresa and her “Holy Trinity,” but it turned out to be some other STI. So maybe the joke was on Natalie? I don’t know. There were no condoms around because, of course, no one was supposed to have sex. Except they did, and clearly it was not safe. 

I remember one morning coming back to my room after brushing my teeth. As I approached, I noticed that the lights were off. Hmm, did I do that? Our doors didn’t lock, so as I leaned on the door with my arms full of toiletries, I heard heavy breathing from the other side of the room and saw shuffling under the covers. It was my roommate with a particularly creepy man who made my skin crawl. I cringed when I heard him moan then loudly whisper in her ear. He definitely was not a twenty-something. 

Do I interrupt? Do I tell a tech what’s happening? I knew the rules, but I didn’t know what was considered right and what was wrong. I was quickly learning during my stay that it wasn’t about the rules, it was about what I needed to get through those 35 days in peace. It hit me that my five weeks would quickly feel like ten if I had a conflict with anyone, so in that moment, I decided that I hadn’t seen or heard anything. 

Before they noticed that I had walked in, I stepped out and took a seat in the common area. I exhaled, putting my face in the palm of my hand to wait. It only took a few minutes for him to come out of the room. I was not surprised. 

While the techs occasionally played Whack-A-Mole trying to control the twenty-somethings, I found myself entertained in my own way thanks to another patient. No, I did not have sex with this man. I didn’t even touch him. But I still found myself distracted in his company. Our connection brought me comfort at a moment in my life when I was grieving the man I knew was permanently gone. He was no replacement, but he took me away from my pain. If I couldn’t have alcohol while in treatment, at least I could have some male attention. He was exactly what I needed for those five weeks.

I always looked forward to early evening when we could work on crossword puzzles by the tech desk. We chatted with each other and the techs, who, like Danielle, were all in recovery and helped remind us that getting better was possible.

Photo from Unsplash.

As it got close to 9 PM, I began to dread my nightly trip to the nurse’s station. As soon as I took my night meds, the clock started counting down. Slowly my eyelids got heavier and my head started to nod off, which annoyed me. It was a nice change, for once, to actually want to be awake, but those meds sapped my energy. I was finally laughing with others after not having done so in over a month, and even more surprising, I was smiling again. I didn’t want the meds to take that little bit of joy away from me early every evening. 

As we worked on the crossword one time, I looked at him and wondered, why isn’t HE sleepy? It was then that I learned from the others how to “cheek” my meds. So that night I went into the nurse’s station, took the little paper cup with my medications, emptied it into my mouth and said “ahhh” like a little kid as I stuck my tongue out so the nurse could take a look. All the while, I tasted the bitterness of the pills hidden between my gums and cheek as they started to break down. I rushed to the bathroom to spit them out before they disintegrated, wrapped them up in tissue, stuffed them into my bra, and saved them for when I wanted to go to bed. Back to the crosswords!

I rapidly fell into the daily routine. I was so wrapped up with therapy, groups, and classes that I started to forget about the world outside, the world that treatment was shielding me from. 

I was vaguely aware that it was a world that seemed to have fallen apart. Every now and then, someone would flip past a news channel while looking for another episode of Botched. I remember hearing snippets of COVID’s numbers going up as the TV abruptly switched to Naked and Afraid or some other reality show. I remember being allowed to watch TV briefly while the protests broke out around the country and just miles away from where we were. Then, as soon as gunshots rang out live on TV, it suddenly became silent. TV off. A part of me was relieved to be away from it all. Away from one unprecedented event after the other as well as the alcohol that waited patiently for me.

Every week I got thirty minutes to speak to someone from the outside on video chat. I always chose my sister, Sophie. It had hurt her so much to see me struggling that I wanted to show her how good I looked the longer I was in treatment.

“You have no idea how much at peace I feel knowing you’re safe. I’ve been taking the family support classes, and I’m learning a lot,” she’d say. The facility provided classes for both families and patients on addiction and how it is a disease and not a failure of character. 

I still felt like a failure, but I didn’t have to think about that in treatment. Instead, I could just relax, like I was at a summer camp for dysfunctional adults. I knew what was waiting for me on the other side of the fence. It was the people outside, those people and their opinions, that ran chills down my spine. 

“Mami doesn’t know where I am, right?” I asked.

Photo from Unsplash.

Each time I spoke to my sister, I asked if people had figured out where I was, fearful that my secret would be revealed. I just wanted people to think I was taking time for myself and “unplugging” after the loss. I didn’t want a soul to know that I was locked away in a treatment facility, that I was institutionalized.

The very idea of anyone knowing where I was made my heart race and my stomach sink fast, like a free fall with no end. I’d seen people get ripped apart publicly because of their secrets and I didn’t want that to be me. As I watched my sister chat on the screen about her days and what things have been like for her, my mind wandered to thoughts of how I would rather die than have others know where I was. I mean, how could I, this teacher loved by the community, be an alcoholic? How could I be such an extreme case that I couldn’t be trusted with my own life and had to be locked away? How could I be a good person but be hooked so badly? 

It. Just. Didn’t. Make. Sense. 

I didn’t tell my sister that those thoughts raced through my mind while we spoke. I didn’t tell my therapist when I looked her in her eyes across her desk. I didn’t tell anyone in my group sessions during those heavy pauses when I could have said something. I did not tell a single soul how torn I felt inside.

Even in those moments, surrounded by people just like me, I was alone.

Originally written by Jessica for Love & Literature Magazine.

Read the previous chapter, chapter 1 here.

Read the next chapter, chapter 3 here.

Drowning in Shallow Water

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica

Chapter 1: Racing to the Bottom

Audio

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said, narrowly opening my eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening while hanging upside down. It was the morning of May 25, 2020, and I had just gained consciousness after wrecking my car on Bardstown Rd in Louisville, Kentucky. I vaguely remembered that my dog Cruz and I were on our way to meet a friend for a walk. Instead, I found myself suspended in the air by my seatbelt, realizing that everything was upside down and feeling the pressure of blood rushing to my head. Awake and still alive, unfortunately. 

Stock image of a flipped car. Mine was flipped in the same manner.

“Wait, my dog….” I started to mumble when I looked out, and there he was, tail still as if he was holding his breath waiting for me. Relief. 

Then the waves hit my body one after the other. Not pain, but first fear. “What is happening to me?” Next, anger. “I shouldn’t be okay…I don’t want this!” Lastly, shame. “I’m awful. How could I want to die with my dog in the car? What kind of sick person am I? I deserve to die. I’m fucking hopeless.” 

I wanted to walk away from the scene to escape the best way I knew how, racing to the bottom of a bottle of cheap bourbon. Still, first things first, these damn first responders weren’t letting me go if it wasn’t in an ambulance. I hadn’t even realized that I lacerated my elbow and had pieces of glass embedded throughout my skin like some sort of glittery decor. 

“I don’t want any Goddamn help,” I muttered under my breath as I got into the ambulance. I had to answer the same rote questions I’ve responded to many times in ambulance rides. “Wait, how do you spell your last name?” “D for David, u, e for Edward…” until getting to the hospital.

Though I was furious and incredibly resentful at going to the hospital, there was one positive: Pain pills! My favorite mind-altering drug has always been alcohol, as I never had the “oomph” in me to work as hard as people do to get illicit drugs. However, I certainly wasn’t going to reject a nice prescription, either. I could already feel the euphoria just before blacking out with burning splashes of Evan Williams. I couldn’t wait to escape my misery and get away for a day or two. 

“Here’s your prescription for Ibuprofen 800s.” 

“Excuse me, IBUPROFEN?!” I felt myself clutching my nonexistent pearls. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“But, I just flipped my car over. I just got out of a terrible wreck.” 

“Sorry, you aren’t experiencing enough pain for anything stronger.”

Wow. Immediately I wondered what the fuck someone would have to do to get a pain pill around here; I mean, lose a limb? Welp, there went any slight, “on the bright side,” feeling I was starting to have. My stomach started sinking again. I rolled my eyes and groaned. 

Getting home from the hospital, I knew I would have to tell my sister what happened. I had already been hospitalized several times since April 28, when I found my then-boyfriend dead from a drug overdose. Ever since, I was trapped in what felt like a never-ending bender from Hell. In less than a month, I had already gone twice to detox. I had several emergency room visits with dangerously high blood alcohol levels. So to prepare myself for this call, I got a few liquor bottles dropped off thanks to alcohol delivery and opened one of the bottles. No need to pour it in a glass, I drank it like water.

“Jess, you’re dying. You need help. Please, go somewhere. I can’t handle this. Every time the phone rings, I’m terrified,” Sophie cried. I sighed and thought to myself, Damn, I don’t want to be hurting her like this. So I picked up the phone and called a local treatment facility inquiring about their five-week program. Deep down, I was hoping they wouldn’t have a bed open. Deep down, I wanted to just keep drinking and shut down. I was already dreading the feeling of detoxing and withdrawals. The woman on the phone said, “Yes! We can take you. How about we pick you up later today?” I went to clutch my imaginary pearls again. 

“TODAY?! but I’m not packed.”

“That’s okay. Someone can drop clothes off for you.” 

I tried to deflect. “I can’t come tomorrow?” 

“Well, sweetheart, you CAN come tomorrow, but WILL you make it ’til then?” I sighed. 

“FINE. But can you come in the evening?” 

“Yes.”

Rubbing my hands together, I realized I had a few hours so that I could give myself one last hurrah before I went into this place. I couldn’t imagine five weeks without drinking. I dreaded the idea of having to feel everything, of only being unconscious to sleep. So I swallowed hard, I drank fast. I threw the Ibuprofen 800s in the trash. I vaguely remember a friend coming to get Cruz, and then everything went dark and silent. I couldn’t feel a thing. Things were exactly how I wanted them to be always and forever.

Intake picture from treatment. May 2020.

I came-to on a couch in an unfamiliar space. I looked around. There were people watching TV, others were playing games at a table, someone was writing in a notebook while reading out of what appeared to be a Bible. I could tell I needed a drink; my head was starting to throb, my hands were beginning to shake. I looked down. As I examined the dried blood on my clothes, I suddenly felt like my elbow was being stabbed. There were some rough stitches in there. The thick, black surgical thread stuck out of my elbow like a porcupine’s needles. I got up only to feel the room start spinning, and a woman, to this day I don’t remember who it was, grabbed my good arm and walked me to a room. She pointed me to a plainly dressed bed. Immediately I got in. Back to black. Relief. 

I finally woke up with a clearer head in that same bed and walked out of the room. It looked like I was in a college dorm setup of some kind. I saw people sitting in a courtyard, cigarettes and vape pens in hand surrounded by a cloud of smoke to the left of me. In front of me, standing at the desk, a young woman looked at me and smiled, “Hi Jessica! How are you, love? I’m Danielle.” Danielle was a tech, so she was introducing herself to let me know that she, alongside the other techs, supervised the area to make sure that all was in order. She was also a few years in recovery from all kinds of drugs, and she just glowed.

Medical Bracelet while in treatment in Louisville, KY where I was hospitalized May-June of 2020.

As she walked me around the facility to give me a sense of where I was, she ran down basic things like the schedule, rules, and our responsibilities. Yes, we as the patients, had chores. Some people eagerly waved “hello” as we passed them. Others looked like they had just gotten there, too, and moved about like zombies. 

“You know, my boyfriend died two years ago from a drug overdose, too.” I was immediately caught off guard. First, I wondered how she knew, then second, I felt a surge of relief. It had basically been a month since Ian died, and I had yet to hear that there was another soul on this earth who also had a boyfriend who died from a drug overdose. She sat me down and shared her story with me. There was so much I related to. I had to ask, “But, how did you live through it? How are you still here?”

In my mind, I thought this life experience was supposed to come with some sort of death sentence. That I would just bide my time until I killed myself or died of alcohol poisoning. But Danielle, here she was, joyful, glowing, and with some solid continuous sober time under her belt and proving me wrong.

“Oh, trust me, it was the worst experience of my life to date, and my heart is still broken. Eventually, you start to find your way in this world with grief. I promise you it gets better. I’m a testament to that.” 

Immediately I felt a tiny shift in me, a butterfly in my stomach. Maybe it does, in fact, get better. I mean, if Danielle did it, perhaps I can, too. She gave me a hug, which also surprised me, and went off to finish her shift. Before leaving for the day, Danielle came back to find me and handed me a sheet she pulled from the tech desk printer. The paper read:

Page from my journal where I pasted the printout. June 2020.

People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.

A soul mate’s purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master…

― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

I knew then that although it was going to be a long five weeks, that maybe this was exactly what I needed.

Originally written by Jessica for Love & Literature Magazine.

Read chapter 2 here.

Coming Out to Myself Through Sobriety

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Guest Submissions, Recovery Stories
Audio Provided by the Author

Guest Submission by Adrian Silbernagel

Transgender. Recovering alcoholic. Both labels carry stigmas. Coming out as each would change the way people viewed me. Both developments were positive, even cause to celebrate, in their own ways. There were also key differences, like the fact that I understand alcoholism as a disease, which transness definitely isn’t. But reflecting on the similarities between these parts of my narrative has helped me better understand why I stayed in the closet—in both senses—for as long as I did. 

The first stage of coming out—as anything—is coming out to yourself. For many people, this stage is the hardest, because it means facing your internalized biases, your denial, and grieving the loss of a life you thought you’d have, or the person you believed yourself to be. For me, one major obstacle I faced in coming out to myself as trans—namely my tendency to avoid dealing with my own problems by comparing myself to others—was also a major obstacle on my path to sobriety.      

I have a journal that dates back to six years ago, when I was first trying to get my drinking under control. Every other entry contained a new resolution. For example:

I will only drink x number of drinks per day

I will not start drinking before x o’clock

I will not drink alone

I will not drink more than x days per week

Two or three times a week I’d invent a new rule, because I’d break the previous rule by day two or three. The fascinating thing about these journal entries, is how blatantly obvious it is, looking at them now, that I was incapable of drinking in moderation. 

But even though my alcoholism was right under my nose—and I was the one documenting it—I couldn’t see it. Hence, I just kept writing new resolutions, none of which involved getting sober. That was something only alcoholics did, and I wasn’t an alcoholic. I mean yes, I’d been trying unsuccessfully to moderate my drinking for years. Yes, I became a monster when I drank, who did and said awful things, then blacked out and woke up sick with remorse, only to do it all over again. But I knew real alcoholics, who’d gone to jail and rehab multiple times, and whose organs were literally shutting down. I wasn’t like them. They had a problem. They needed help. I just needed to learn better self-control. 

That same notebook also documents the period of time when I was first trying to make sense of my “gender issues”: the feelings of discomfort I experienced when I looked in the mirror and saw a woman’s face. Or when I took off my clothes and saw a woman’s body. Or when someone would refer to me as “ma’am” or “miss.” Or when anyone tried to touch my chest or genitals during sex. It didn’t occur to me in any of these journal entries that I might be a trans man—after all, the trans men I had read about had always known they were trans. My story was not like theirs. It was not as linear, or as stereotypical. Those were trans people, people who actually had a reason to transition. I was just troubled, weird about gender, and would have to find some way to live with that weirdness. 

So rather than allowing myself to name my true desires—i.e., the desire to transition and to claim a male identity—I drowned them in booze and sought external validation by sleeping with straight women, adopting toxically masculine traits, and hurting myself and a number of other people along the way. Looking back I wonder how much of this damage would have been prevented had someone told me that you could be trans without having a textbook trans narrative, that transness, like alcoholism, looks different on everyone.

There are so many obstacles that stand in the way of our growth, self-acceptance, and healing as queer and trans people: fear, stigma, guilt, shame, and social pressure just to name a few. The same goes for us addicts, alcoholics, and folks who struggle with substance abuse. The last thing we need is to make the journey any harder, or prolong our suffering by comparing ourselves to others. There are infinite possible trans narratives, gay narratives, and recovery narratives. None is better or truer than another. They all just are. And the sooner we can claim ours, the sooner we can heal, and share our light and hope with others.

Originally published at QueerKentucky

Adrian Silbernagel (he/him) is a queer transgender man who lives in Louisville, KY. He will have 5 years of continuous sobriety on September 28, 2022. Adrian is a writer, speaker, activist, and founding co-op member at Old Louisville Coffee Co-op: a late-night sober coffee shop that is opening soon in Louisville, KY.