Working in Recovery

If there were really were a recovery center for aging former models, who still wear funky clothes, too much make-up and heels far too high for their age, I'd love to attend a short in-patient stay.  I would need extensive outpatient care, too.  Sigh....

Today I am thankful for working in recovery.  

It's no secret that my parents died from addiction.  Well they didn't die from addiction, per se - they died from the stupid crap addicts do. 

My mother was beaten to death by my step-father on Valentine's Day 1984.  He was drunk.  The paramedics brought her back but she died two days later on her 36th birthday. 

This would play out in my life as a love would nearly kill me with a hammer on Thanksgiving Eve 1991.  I was 21.  

My father took off when I was five.  I tried to find him numerous times but the Social Security office told me that he was dead.  He wasn't.  I've only recently learned of 15 half-siblings.  The number gets bigger each time I open my Facebook messaging center.  I now know of 13 sisters and 2 brothers. 

Sexual promiscuity.  That's a part of addiction.  

My Native American step-father killed himself Christmas 1986.  He couldn't live with the guilt of killing my mom.  He was an alcoholic, too. 

My sister and I witnessed mom's death.  My sister witnessed my step-father's suicide.  My step-dad tried to kill my sister that night, thankfully he was a lousy shot. 

I grew up to be a therapist. 

My sister grew up to be an RN. 

In thinking about it, I'm shocked that we didn't become addicts.  All the ingredients were there. 

I know my friends, love of music and the propensity for every dollar I earned to buy guitars kept me safe. 

I wonder what my sister's protective influences were?

My sister was a model.  One day when she was publicly ridiculing me as ugly, one of the model scouts offered me a job. 

I hated it.  

I only modeled twice: once on a runway for a department store and once for a charity fundraiser.  I didn't follow through on the other two gigs I was offered. 

Who wants to dress up in uncomfortable clothes and stand in a store display for hours on end? 

Not me.....

*****

It was a lifelong dream to work with people in recovery.   I wanted to work on my own sh*t first and had hoped to put off this goal until I had earned my doctorate. 

The stalking forced me out of private practice.  It took awhile but I realized my mayoral campaign scared my ex-husband - he was terrified that he would lose me due to my growing independence. 

Maybe beauty is a curse.  

Luckily, I'm growing older and my looks are going quickly. 

*****

I finally, after many years, was given a chance working with women in recovery in the town my mother lived in with the very people who tried to help her. 

I don't make very much money but I live to see people, slowly but surely get the light back into their eyes. 

Why did I make this switch? 

It seems that every week or so, someone I know loses a friend or family member to opioid addiction. 

In fact, this morning a friend of a friend died because she got heroin laced with fentanyl. 

I'm feeling numb and had better get my bearings before driving down to the mental hospital so I can be present with my patients. 

****

There is one thing that I never anticipated. 

I get picked on by my colleagues because it is obvious that I never had an addiction problem. 

That's not true.  I once owned more than 30 musical instruments.  Who needs four clarinets?  Seriously....

Yes, I was in a staff meeting and a voice in the back called out "come one, we can see the one person in here who has never struggled with addiction, can't we?" 

Several fingers pointed at me. 

My retort was that "no one has been freed of the pain of seeing someone they cared about suffering the throes of addiction." 

We've seen people we love lose themselves, their personalities, their hopes, their dreams and everything to addiction. 

We've seen people we love blamed for their addiction. We've seen beautiful, kind-hearted people use substances to cope with unbearable human suffering and pain - not understanding that the substance will make it worse. 

They don't understand that bodies and brains are changed by the substance - that they grow dependent upon it.  They become slaves to the substance. 

The substances extinguish the light in their eyes.

I live for the moments the beautiful light comes back. 

*****

The hardest part for me is realizing why men I've known do crazy endorphin producing things like drive race cars, jump out of planes and things that are the stuff of my nightmares. 

They do this because drugs have damaged their dopamine receptors.

I get it now.  

The death defying stunts helps them ensure they can still feel. 

Man.....I promise from this day forward to keep my squeamishness to myself. 

*****
I should say more but I can't.  My thoughts are with two children who lost their mother to fentanyl today.  She wasn't a patient.  She was a friend of a friend.  

Their father was lost to heroin just two months ago. 

If anyone asks, this is why I carry Narcan.  

Colorado laws allow good Samaritans to administer the substance without fear of lawsuit.  I need to create time to lobby more state governments to do the same.  

Please.....seek to understand others rather than condemn them.

Love ya,

S.