I got clean. Isn’t that enough? Why do I hafta do service?

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“Why do I have to do service? I got clean. Isn’t that enough?”

This quote comes from an internal monologue that was rolling in my brain a couple years ago when I was first trying to straighten out my life. While I knew better than to ask it out loud, I was fortunate enough that more authentic folk in the meetings I attended didn’t. They did ask. And did get answers. While the replies were numerous, the one that stuck with me most was this one:

“We keep what we have only by giving it away”.

I think it socked me deep in the ventral viscera for a couple reasons: 1.) Because I’m selfish, and the first half of that stipulation involves the safety of my recovery. And 2.) Because deep down, I knew it was true – even though it made zero sense at the time. So, I started to serve within the program. And then – outside of the rooms.

But I feel like I’ve been losing sight lately. Meetings have been far and few between and I can’t remember the last addict I helped. In fact, I find myself even losing touch with the dark side of addiction. Failing to relate. Like when I recently asked someone I know and love – still in active addiction – how they planned to spend their Saturday. Their reply?

“Watching T.V. from 1 P.M. until sleep,” they said, casually.

Immediately I went silent (and simultaneously into judgment mode). From one until bed, I was going to work, run, paddleboard, get groceries, clean, read, run errands, and run again. I loved this person and wanted more for them. I was angry. How could you just stay in bed and watch mindless shows and drink all day? When it’s summer? And gorgeous out? How utterly disgusti-… Wait. Wait. Wait an effing second… That’s when I remembered something that made me go nauseous (and probably look like the equivalent of a computer freezing up with the blue screen of death):

This was exactly what I used to do in my downtime bordering being a functional junkie.

Granted, I had back problems. Still do. But instead of getting off my ass and handling them head on back then, I refused. I “deserved” torpor back then, I reasoned, because I didn’t ask for back pain. And, if I didn’t ask for reality’s worst, then I didn’t have to handle it (#logic). I deserved to stay sedentary, surf the net, and design a faux life online instead of living out an authentic one with flesh n’ blood folk. The matrix is a lot more appealing (and a bit more like Wonderland) once you’ve crushed and insufflated both’a Morpheus’ pills simultaneously (plus the ones he probably had hidden in his pocket which you stole off’a him). From the reality T.V. shows to a me shaped dorsal groove in the mattress – I’d done the same damned thing – except more isolated. And it was quite some time before that changed for me.

How’d that ever happen?

Because someone else was doing a service for those like me.

It started with (and was later continued by) Russell Brand – who’d done a documentary on addiction and recovery.

That film changed something in me.

Like, you know how in those thriller films, a breeze will come through the window during a séance, and some unlit candle will suddenly light up? It was kinda like that. And it was scary – the prospect of ever quitting – of ever leaving my chemical cradle. But the compassion and solution seeking mindset I saw – all coming from someone who’d gone through where I was – gave me this sort of hope. Hope not just that I could change my sitch – but that maybe it’d be worth it. He’d made it – not just through addiction – but made it, made it. It made me think of others who’d done the same. People I actually knew – like the amazing Kyle Krieger. So, maybe I needed the help of others. But I was afraid to ask. Addiction can be pretty embarrassing to share when you’re a hubristic bish like me. So, I started with something more basic: the physical pain. And, after doing water therapy and trolling for good therapists at the P.T. clinic for several months, I found this amazing shaman level doctor with mystical tentacle hands. I stuck with him. And, slowly, I noted a thoroughgoing improvement as he taught me how to play marriage counselor between my mind and body – which had gone all War of The Roses on each other many moons ago. It helped. A lot.

So much so that I actually left home one night. I left my laptop with my fake life installed on it. I left my television. I left my whole alter reality and reality shows in that dingy apartment for actual reality – to go see Mr. Brand himself perform stand up, live in D.C. And when I was told I’d get to meet him backstage, I did something totally out of character for me. I skipped my nerve-calming dose of Valium, in hopes of harnessing some clarity – so as to recall every passing moment of such a phenomenal experience later.

After we hugged, he looked in my eyes – and read me like a book.

“Are you going to meetings?” he inquired.

I wasn’t. I said so.

After a long conversation, he left his email on one of the pages in the center of my (his, really) “Booky Wook” along with his hairstylist’s email. And, to my surprise, when I emailed him a couple days later… he replied. Aside from his encouraging words, he had something of even more value to offer: good, clear direction on where to go, who to see, and exactly how to help myself… by getting help from others going through various stages of the same thing. The amazing thing? When I got to my first meeting, I noticed something fascinating. There were far more people than not who’d had years upon years of “clean time”. That means they’d kicked their habit, gotten glittery gigs in the city, and still showed up at 7:30 on a Tuesday evening in their perfume and Prada to tell newcomers how much better it can get. If they just keep coming back. And they always came back, the old timers. Even when they probably just wanted to be home, decompressing, and recharging for tomorrow. And, to my shame, that’s where I’ve been for a bit now – doing that selfish latter thing. I think Russell said a quote about that once – “Pull the ladder up Jack, ‘cause I’m fine.” I hear it, sardonically, in my head now and then (louder than the usual miscellaneous voices we won’t discuss). I really need to show up and drop down that ladder to eff-knows-who. ‘cause there’s something kinda lonely about a self-serving lifestyle. (Plus it makes me lose my empathy superpowers that help me make people like me better. #validationseeker) Granted, I’ve gotten into a service profession – and I love it – but none of the service I’m doing now would’ve been possible without the program that laid that foundation. I owe it at least a modicum of my aid.

If nothing else than by just sharing my journey from insanity to… managed insanity.


“…Thank you for sharing…”

But, you know, if meetings aren’t your thing – maybe that’s now how you even got clean – this still applies to all of us. Service is crucial. I can’t even call any service I do “selfless”. Because – through the filter of my eyes – every old man I help with his groceries or little old lady in a motorcart reaching for pancake mix on the shelf inevitably comes with a twinkling video game karma coin atop their cranium. Each good deed is a seed that blossoms into an intrinsic winning tree. Finally, I’m relieved, briefly. Relieved from the shame flavored interrogation light I swing onto myself. Relieved from the nagging sense of purposelessness. And relieved that at least someone today seemed to like me. If only ‘cause I did something nice for them. Might sound egoic, that last thing, but when I compare all the superficial shiz I used to do to get people to like me… I feel like this thing’s maybe better. Especially since it’s a symbiotic relache – between you and whatever unfortunate bastard needs your assistance today.

Yes, service is about more than showing up early to a step group to make coffee.

(Or the second service of not finishing it before everyone arrives. Because: addict.)

As much as I personally need to work on that, I also need to remember that it’s what you do outside of any kinda support group, too. Service is the little stuff. Asking a tourist family if they’d like you to take their picture for them. Sharing a meal with that homeless lady who ironically sets up shop outside a shop called Home Depot. Showing up to your family’s home when vibes are low – to try and raise them (though you might wanna make sure you’re in a jolly enough mood to not just get sucked down yourself). Because, while we may have learned some of our bad thought-habits from our fam, we can appreciate how we collectively can rise above them. Versus, ya know, remain arseholes and point fingers for the rest of our lives. Personally, I feel like it’s my task to at least try to light the way to others still suffering in darkness. Empower them. Remind them how they can start telling themselves a better life-tale. After all, that’s what was done for me – when someone rich, famous, and all-loved descended from his pedestal to aid a polluted, pain stricken, pill popper like me. He puts service into his work. Likewise, for all of us, service is about how we are in our professional lives. It’s why I’ve opted to work in the health care field – in physical therapy – healing people. I could be earning more doing something like working in a lab. (And, honestly, in any job – you can adhere to service-mindedness by how much you’re helping others in those seemingly meaningless day-to-day kindness acts.) But the good doctor who did a spirit and spine renovation on me made me certain I have to pass that gift along to other poor suffering saps like myself.

And, finally, yes: going back to meetings – just even being there to speak – is service and a half. It’s important to be there, at least occasionally. One, because it reminds me of where I came from. The fact that I’ve started judging other addicts recently is a sign I’m forgetting what active addiction was like. And forgetting what active addiction is like means I’m but a couple steps away from sending out gold bordered, calligraphy adorned invitations for my relapse party. Contrarily, being around others like me – acknowledging addiction out loud – reminds me to relate and be humble enough to know where I might return if I’m not cautious.


(Good intent, but I say: don’t judge unless you’re using other flaws to judge yourself.
Which you don’t do with clean fingers – but ones that’re dirty from the work of service.)

And what do others get from it when you or I return to help?

We can offer a palm to someone sick and tired of being sick and tired. Someone sitting around, numbing their feels and watching D list celebrities live their lives on T.V. versus living their own. Just like it was done for me a couple years ago…. when I was doing exactly that. I may not be able to change the beautiful person I mentioned at the start of this article. (Not by dragging them to meetings, anyway.) But maybe – just maybe – if I return to meetings to help others, something will change in me all over again. ‘cause that’s what service is really about. Recalling the idols and resources that once saved you, coming back, and being that resource for someone new. We never know who we’re helping. But we’re all 100% capable of embodying that same role of a positive life-changer. So, maybe I can level up. Be a better example than I’m being now. And maybe it’ll light that wick-like switch in my loved one the way Mr. Brand (who’s never stopped attending meetings since he began) did to mine.

As mine dims, I wonder:

Maybe giving what’s left of it away is the only way to keep it at all.

People, places, ‘n things (Oh my!)

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You wanna know what the hardest part about recovery’s been?

For this chick, it’s not been the desire to use. Not for a while now.

Thankfully.

But long after the cravings for chemicals subsided, the hole that once demanded them remained. It still required some sort’ve answer. Something was needed. And, in recovery, we begin to notice just how quickly other addictive things – like food, sex, sitcom reruns, or actual runs (which I myself do twice a day because: addict) can start to fill up our time and brain space. If you’re lucky, you’ll generate the awareness to notice that. And once you do, you’ll try to manage all of those areas of your life so that they don’t put you back in habit-forming mode. Yet, still, the chasm calls from deep within. Why? Because we need to feel connected. And immediately, we begin thinking of what used to bring us comfort. Our former people, places, and things. While those we meet in recovery are often wonderful, it’s tough to break ties with the comfortable familiarity of the people, places, and things we once kept close. However, they can potentially destroy everything we’ve worked for if we’re not careful. With some old pals, it can be a blissful reunion. With others, it’s more like inviting a mud covered mutt back inside right after you’ve cleaned the carpet.

I myself have made a shiz load of mistakes already in my recovery. None that made me use. But enough to cringe at my own mad actions (which is actually worse when you’re sober – ’cause there’s no excuse now for your behavior). And I think, because of that, I tended to sequester myself away from friends for a good, long time – knowing that if we found ourselves anywhere with drugs or fine wine, it’d make me at the very least uncomfortable. I might relapse. And even if I didn’t, I might feel awkward without something to calm the nerves of life-long social anxiety. And – knowing that my buddies knew all of that – I didn’t want them to have to walk on eggshells around me, either. I hear it all the time: “It’s okay – I don’t even drink much anymore.” And then, the weekend that same someone tells me they can’t meet up, I see ‘em tagged on Facebook with half a cocktail in one hand and half their eyes open.

So, I worked my way up to facing “places”.

After rekindling friendships with “people” from my past.

Following a few benign outings – like coffee, art projects, and outdoor activities – I finally made the move. A karaoke bar seemed ideal. A good place – because while there’d be drinking, there was also this fun, interactive entertainment going on. (Also, doing sober karaoke was on my bucket list for a fear-facing task.) Why not? So, off we went. Singing all the way there to tunes from our younger years was fantastic. We had this fun vibe going, my anxieties were mitigated, and I realized she was (obviously) the same friend I’d always adored. Nothing to fear. This “person” was a safe one for my recovery. But, once we arrived, something fascinating happened. While seeing them drink (the other patrons), didn’t make me want to drink myself, it did make me feel left out – but not in a way that made me want to join in. It made me feel left out in that Platonic-cave-escapee-coming-back-to-free-everyone-else kind of a way. ‘cause it’s not until you’re completely sober around drunk folk that you realize how cruel, thoughtless, and idiotic the sauce can make people (I should know – I used to be one ‘em). Loud. Unreasonable. Nerve-grating. And – at the same time – it was mesmerizing, watching them as an outsider. It felt like being behind the lens of NatGeo meets The Kardashians. I couldn’t judge, though. Mostly because was like holding up this nauseating mirror into my past. Showing me the vexing person I used to be. Most drunk people are bothersome when you’re not imbibing yourself.

But, to be fair, I was on their terf.

So, I’m sure they found sober-me equally annoying.

So, I opted to take the experience like I used to take tequila – with a grain of salt.

(And infrequently.)

Because, as we left, I felt validated with my fear conquered.

But I also realized something.

I’d had more fun singing with my friend in the car than on that stage.

And I guess that’s just what it’s come to be all about for me. Connection. Now that you’ve spent some time elevating your consciousness, evolving as a person, and fortifying your foundation…. do you still connect with the people, places, and things from your past? Does each still jibe with your new life? I myself find that there’s no blanket answer. My friends who I used to drink with don’t have my condition – and they can enjoy sober activities too. I still find connection with them. Being around crowds of intoxicated show offs? Less so. I can tolerate it – but I won’t go out of my way to try to fit back into that world any longer. And I think that’s what the work you do in any decent recovery program will attempt to help you do: find the facets in your life that aren’t worth recidivism and weed ‘em the eff out.

For me, that’s an ongoing Odyssey that demands honesty from myself.

And my clean crew.

How do I stay clean with chronic pain?

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Sometimes it’s hard not to compare ourselves to other addicts.

I mean, I know they suggest seeking that whole “similarities not differences” thing.

But some days, I just feel like I’ve got it worse somehow.

“But I have real, *physical* pain!”

Admittedly, this thought’ll pop into my mind. Herniated disc. Fibromyalgia. All the other stupid diagnoses that make you about as bored to read as it makes me to type. (Or to hear when other people say they’ve got it). But, since my daily opiate dependency began thanks to legit pain (coupled with the wrong answer from a white coat who had his own ideas about the meaning of “keep coming back”), I’ll occasionally fall prey to this line of thinking. Even though I’m proactively managing my body misery these days. And, you know what? I’m not gonna lie: once you nix the pills, the pain doesn’t go away. Not on its own. I’ve seen people relapse thanks to it. So, I’m not here to paint pain relief miracle fairy tales for you. But I also realize that comparing my real, physical pain on top of intrinsic sadness to others solely looking to alleviate the latter… helps no one. Least of all me. It’s just a reservation our brains try to implement. A go to excuse that’ll make us feel better the day we decide to relapse.

I, for one, don’t wanna sit in that statistical percentage.

So, how’d I manage? How do I manage now? Well, since half of my pain is structural (the other half fibromyalgia – a disease I resent because it adversely affects me even though I kind of don’t believe in it), I got serious about a plan the moment my “moment of clarity” came. Before I’d even think about quitting for good, I had to get the pain under control and make a commitment toward divorcing the drugs. Thus, I did two things. First, I told someone who I trusted that I had a dependency that’d gotten outta control. This, I knew, would hold me accountable. Then I devised a plan. That plan included several months of physical rehab: water therapy, traction, land therapy. Meanwhile, I was performing chemical-comedown therapy of my own: weaning down slowly from a dose that could’ve put a pack of African pachyderms into a coma. (This was slightly dumb in retrospect; I should’ve had a doctor’s aid earlier but had become a tad paranoid about anything rocking medical garb. Including the stethoscope wearing pterodactyl hovering in the corner of my room who I was now seeing thanks to my incorrect incremental choices for a Valium taper.) And, to my credit, I did great at following through with that plan. Until it came around time to quit for good… Even with the support of a personal hero turned mentor and friend, I still found it tough to enact that final leap. What would life be like on the other side of this thing I’d come to trust as a means of comfort? Could I do it? This was where I knew for sure that it was more than just a physical dependency. There was something deeper going on.

And once that final step was made, it wasn’t going to be easy.

There’s nothing I can say to make the actual act of quitting any easier. It’s this window of willingness you find yourself suddenly shoving yourself through – against all odds, nausea, vomiting, sweats, hallucinations, paranoia, and body racking chills. None of that matters when you consider where you’ve just been. And while that was (a Cliff’s Notes version of) my experience detoxing from opiates and valium simultaneously, it’s different for everyone because everyone’s physiology varies. The common denominator? When we mutually reach the bottom of the bottle, bag, or whatever vial you got off the medicine wagon and truly realize there’s gotta be a better way. We realize that, despite the pain, the relief of the remedy we’ve been trying isn’t worth the cliff it kicks us off once the come down kicks in and tolerance lowers our pain threshold. Our remedy’s betrayed us. It’s made the problem better for a moment, only to make it far, far worse for far, far longer.

For me, that meant it was vital to have a plan.

Still, it was one I could not have carried out alone.

I’m made to understand that a lot of others have survived the same way.

But I wouldn’t have survived had I not started with willingness. Without being gifted the willingness to do some sort’ve low impact exercise – something reasonable to make my body feel good as a replacement – I wouldn’t have lasted. (Even though it’s ridiculously hard when you’re going through withdrawal – it feels worlds better after.) I also wouldn’t have lasted without preceding it with a mapped out taper plan. Or telling a person I knew would care enough to hold me to my task of backtracking out of the inferno holiday I’d been on for far too long. Or the next one who talked me into making the final hop back into reality using some new tools. And those tools – the internal ones – might be the most important step. They set a crucial foundation. Because when you’re still using, the landscape of your mind is naught but your drug of choice, the desire for it, and the pain that both using and not using it comes with. What a trip to a program meeting or the self help section of Barnes ‘n Noble’ll do is swing the binoculars around on that internal landscape and show you a better scenery to work with. It’s there. The trick’s just to redirect your focus by inundating your brain with new people, places, and things that reinforce an improved reality and the hope that you can create one for yourself too, one day at a time. Having those intrinsic tools – be they meditation, yoga, or your daily spiritual practice of assaulting a bag suspended from the ceiling of your gym while pretending it’s your supervisor from work – are so important. In fact, they’re just as important as your daily commitment to eschew using chemicals to ameliorate all pain – from a blown disc to a commute that blows. Every day since my decision to find a better way, I’ve kept a plan that’s kinda like an amplified version of what I began with: something for my brain, something for my spirit, and something for my body – both to feel good and maintain health. For this chick, that means jogging and physical therapy, learning and creating, and doing some yoga while occasionally checking in with others about our shared disease – to make sure I’m not treading over some camouflaged trapdoor back into my old ways.

Staying active and proactive has been the best answer to pain for me.

However, I can appreciate that doesn’t necessarily address every kind of pain that happens in recovery.

There’s endometriosis. Hernias. Internal, gut wrenching stuff that wakes you in the night and isolates you. I’m so lucky that, while my pain is daily and miserable, that I can at least wake up at 4 A.M. and spend four hours coaxing the aches out of my body. That’s a long time (which I complain about often), but some of us in recovery cannot perform a self fix no matter how hard we try. And this is where it gets tricky. Because some addicts will say that it doesn’t count against clean time if your doctor is prescribing the narcotic. Then, there are others don’t believe that. Now, you might be thinking that since I don’t your specific “can’t stretch or mobilize it” kind of chronic, visceral pain (though I do begrudgingly admit I have that fibro thing which I can’t stretch out either) , that I might not have a right to speak on this. However, having gone through two twelve hour long kidney stones stone cold clean and sober, a mere three months after getting clean, I can tell you: No it’s not easy… but, yes, there are alternatives for pain relievers that can help. I learned this when I rushed into the ER, hyperventilating, blacking out, and dreading having to use Torredol instead of the hard stuff. As my body started going into shock, the patronizing male nurse told me to calm down. I thusly informed him his mother could calm me down. Needless to say, I was not being my highest self. But I did manage to apologize not a few hours later. Why? Because soon after my Exorcist level episode, that Torredol worked effing wonders. (And TBH, so did that “calmer breathing” thing I did sorta kinda need to be reminded of by Gaylord Focker.) And what about when I went home? Tramadol. It’s better than Motrin, but sans that serious case of the nods that narcos give you. For non-narcotic, long term pain relief, meds like Tramadol and Celebrex are said to offer non addictive analgesic properties.

However, this is where we revisit that whole spiritual element again – on the whole human-connection level.

Because anyone dealing with chronic pain knows how isolating it is.

And, though it’s the easier option, we can’t just abscond in agony to our home and pill bottles (narcotic or not) 24/7 after fulfilling our adult obligations. That’s imbalanced and a soul sucking ladder climb back up a slide into the junkie pool. As I try to put myself in that position of chronic non-fixable pain (hard, because empathy’s my weakest muscle), I think of those days when I really believed I couldn’t get better or those days now when I refuse to do all the stretches I have to in order to be functional (“I don’t want to! I didn’t ask for this! OTHER people don’t have to do this every day!”). On such days, I float through this ache filtered haze that morphs into confusion and then builds into rage. By midday, I just want to crawl back to my hovel like a wild dog aware that he’s dying and considerate enough save his pack the discomfort of seeing it. The best way I make it through these nights is by rechanneling my brain. Watch or read some inspirational tales from others who’ve suffered similar dark hours and made it to the other side better for it, find some motivational stories about others who deal with chronic pain but remain badass, and try to do something creative while I sip some calming tea. After all that, I’m generally more willing to go to bed with the intention that, yes, tomorrow I’ll wake up and do better. And I usually do, starting with those effing stretches. Because it’s better than the alternative.

Finally, in my defense (and to relate to you better), I will say that there are still many days where my stretches fall short and I still hurt all over. This’s where those hippie tools like meditation or yoga become super helpful. And Catherine Bushnell of the American Pain Society can help us understand why. Because she and other experts have learned that using mind-body techniques such as yoga or meditation can actually change your brain’s relationship with pain – in the reverse direction.

“Practicing yoga has the opposite effect on the brain as does chronic pain,” said Bushnell

Fascinating…. I mean, that’s the whole problem with pain, isn’t it?

The unpleasant response we have to it?

In sum, I encourage anyone suffering mystery pain and trying to recover to keep seeking new medical opinions when you reach an impasse. Do not accept the first person who tells you it can’t be managed without drugs or ever healed. Keep swinging your mind’s viewfinder in the direction you’d like your life to be and hone in on the hopeful answers. Find people who’ve successfully recovered or are managing your same condition while keeping clean. It took me a while to find my sober role models or a medical expert who knew how to marry spirituality with science seamlessly, but it sure as shiz was worth the wait. So, when I say “keep trying”, I’m not trying to pour flower child sugar over your very real problem.

I’m just sayin’, ya know: don’t give up.

Because the years I spent finding a fix are immaterial compared to the value of discovering it at all. So before you reach for your next dose, let me gently remind you: you don’t have to wait for some moment of clarity like I did. You can be better. You can start now. Get honest with your doc, design a pain management plan, and look up a supportive program in your area.

Best of luck, friend.

Who are your inspo-vation dealers?

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What’s your inspo-vation?

(Why, yes, this is another Ashleyism. Let’s go with it for now, shall we?)

For me, inspiration and motivation are like those two components of ayahuasca – when separate, they’re cool and all; but mush ‘em together and they’ll blow your mind. While I tend to think of inspiration as being something intrinsic, that bubbles up within you (not unlike passion or creativity), motivation seems to feels more external when it hits me. I tend to think of being motivated toward a goal because others either rely on me – or because I really want it due to what it will mean for me in my place in society. And why do I need both? Well, inspiration can hit me – but I can ignore it or only half act on it if self doubt or apathy hit me as I’m about to indulge it. That’s where motivation comes in. But motivation needs inspiration just as much as inspiration needs motivation. Motivation can prompt me to act – but then, once I do, I might execute the task poorly or not get the most out of it (if I’m only motivated out of fear instead of inspiration.) That’s why I’ve found it’s important in my own path that the two synch up like a music eating ipod (but hopefully faster than the archaic one I own) so that I can belt out a beautiful, metaphorical melody of mellowness in reply to reality as SHTF (AKA the moment I step out the door).


(Which is, incidentally, the opposite of my factory default setting.)

Now that you know what inspo-vation is, can you think of anything you’re currently doing that fits that bill?

Maybe you’re doing both parts without realizing it.

Maybe only half.

For example, I’ve come to notice that more than a handful of folk (including myself) I’ve met have a favorite book or insight-source they use like a spiritual magic 8 ball. You know what I mean? Open up a book randomly and – whatever page it’s on – the message scrawled across it was the one you were meant to get today? For some that’s “Just for today”. For others, it might be that one book Jesus’ pals wrote. And, for others yet who I’ve met in recovery, I’m pretty sure it must be the Necronomicon. For that matter, you might have a favorite show – from SuperSoul Sunday to In Deep Shift (a title I kinda love almost as much as the affably anxious grizzled host of the series.) Or maybe it’s a few channels you subscribe to online. Finding Gabrielle Bernstein was my early sobriety days’ life raft – not just because of her amazing wealth of helpful tips and tricks to hack your own ego, but because of the plethora of other related channels that hers led me to.

But my mind is tricky. It’ll try to delude me into thinking all this DIY stuff’s enough.

And before you know it, I’m isolating again.

That’s where the external motivation comes in – the push from the outside. The meetings. Your sponsor (if you’re in a step program). Or even just that one friend or mentor in your sober network you really connect with. Service work’s another optimal way to connect, too. It’s when we connect with others that all those trust and self-affirmation hormones start ping ponging us out of solipsism so we can remember what our place is in our tribe. Or that we even have a place, for that matter.

Whatever floats your sober boat, says I – so long as you have a recovery raft that’s built from the right kinda material. And what am I sailing away on lately? Well, for literature, one of my all time favorites from the step program is: “Living Clean”. The thing I like about this book is that while it offers good advice, it doesn’t feel like finger wagging advice. It reminds me of talking to my sponsor or one of those older wiser folk with lots of clean time under their belt (which they’re no longer using as a tourniquet) capable of leading me to self discovery in fewer than five minutes via nada but a line of heuristic inquiries. And the most surprising thing is that – while it’s not a giant gospel long novel – it manages to hit on most of the problems we face in recovery using good clear direction and sans the didactic stuff. That’s not to say that the other literature does the latter of the two, but somehow this book’s just different. Maybe it’s because of the copious quotes from those who are also going through it. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to listen about program traditions like I’m about to be inducted into the most boring sorority ever. Maybe it’s just because it applies to most of the areas of my life and every time I crack it open to a page, it fits jigsaw style into the problem puzzle that is my life that day.

Likewise, Gabby Bernstein’s modernization of “A Course In Miracles” is an ideal way to apply timeless concepts that make sense into our social lives. Many times, it feels like spiritual how-to’s don’t jibe with our tribe, work circles, or family. What Gabby manages to do, is to offer personal anecdotes about how she breaks out these inner tools to hack the external world when it starts caving in on her. It’s for this same reason that I’ll watch TED talks on motivation, creativity, consciousness, and inspiration (and even a few airy fairy ones – just to etherize my rambunctious child side.)

Then, obviously: find folk like you to connect with.

Why the books, videos and human connection? I know; I know – I wondered this initially too. And I suppose that – aside from the hormonal and neural rearranging connection imparts – it’s kinda the same reason they say not to do the steps alone. Self-deception is a pretty powerful foe that feeds off your self-sequestration. You can pick up a book or hear a video and receive a message to mean anything you want.


“Be present? Well, at present I’d like to reenact my favorite Requiem For a Dream scene. Thanks, Eckhart Tolle!”

It’s not till you’re open and willing to hear real life other humans – and take their tips with a grain of molecular symbol Na – that NA or AA or even Oprah’s latest platitudes will start to make any meaningful, applicable sense.
That’s what a good recovery raft should comprise. When it comes to sailing away from desolation island, IMHO, a super important life-saving synthesis is going to include both what quenches your inner thirst for comfort while simultaneously motivating you forward so you don’t look back. How’s that one quote go? “There’s no favorable wind for a sailor who knows not where he’s headed”, I think? Is it enough to look at the oars and be glad you have them? No. You’d better row your ass to safety, girl. Thus, I definitely champion getting that inspo/motivation combo. And getting it via as many manifestations as you can: meetings, networking, books, videos – the works. Preferably before the squall of chaotic-but-comfortable familiarity that was the soundtrack to your addiction era finds you first instead.


“YOU get some inspo… and YOU get some inspo. And YOU get…”

‘cause having a favorite DIY reminder is definitely a fantastic tactile way of connecting with spiritual direction when you’ve got nada else. But maybe take it to a meeting or lunch date later and pass it on to a living breathing companion – and then exchange thoughts on it. Because if we really, really want to change, we have to inundate our brain ipod with the replacement habit as frequently and diligently as we spent listening to that same old song whose lyrics were almost our early epitaph. And we must do it with the same ardency we executed while focusing on the getting and using of our former fixation. And what did we do when the fix ran out? We sought more.

So what’s your inspo-vation?

What serves as the serene beat to the backdrop of your days?

And where will you score more of that beautiful musical score today?

Jogging withdrawal’s my Achilles’ heel.

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If you’re a jogging junkie like I am…

…you might wake up some days feeling like that scene from Hostel:

Ah, the cantankerous calcaneus tendon.

It wasn’t until I started working again in the P.T. field that I realized how bad I’ve let it get. Or how deep in denial I’ve been about it. Why? Because I’m a running fiend. And, like most forms of fiendery, when you’re in love with your drug of choice – entertaining the thought that its excess might be causing a given issue just isn’t an option. You row right on through the Egyptian De-Nial river, and straight to a sanity bereft sarcophagus – running all the way there, of course, if you’re anything like this chick. Because why wouldn’t you turn to your drug of choice for comfort when something as upsetting as the fact that you’ve an inability to moderate that drug of choice has come to light? Why wouldn’t you be the one horror flick style dicing your own heel cord for another dose of feel good?

Yes. My proverbial Achilles’ heel is the dreaded rest day from running.

And that might be alright if I were moderating better. I used to run an hour or more, once, every day. Then I split that into two half hour jogs. Then I started fitting in a third workout at the gym. Then I started increasing my morning run’s time. Calories and weight loss concerns are a thing of the past. I’m officially in it, every time, for that full body ubermensch feeling high that permeates your essence and makes you wonder where your cape is by the time you cross that sweaty finish line. While in a state of sprint, I’m Spiderman. Within moments back in my parked car, I’m Peter Parker sans the wrist silk. And I check that wrist for my watch, ignoring the ache in my ankles.

“How soon can I go again?”

Recently, I read about a fellow addict – a famous person – who’d gone through nearly the same.

Eminem (You might know of him. From rap. And being Caucasian.) went to rehab circa 2007. Emerging on the verge of obese albeit clean, he took to the gym and rat-wheeled himself straight into hip flexor hell (surprising we’ve never met, since I own a summer home there). Granted, he ran a bit more than I did (17 miles a day), did so on the treadmill (versus trail like I do), and probably listened to gangster rap (while I reveled in being a hilly tierra trotting hippie) – but our stories are still the same: that endorphin seeking addict within each of us leads us to our own detriment if we indulge it. And since it’s not in a shot glass or getting shot up it seemed fair game. Right? (Wait… can you rail a jogging trail?)

That’s all rhetorical, judging by where it’s landed us each. But what’s the fix?

If the only fix were to quit running – even for a while – it’d be inconceivable. I’d be right back in my Egyptian reality refusal pontoon, sailing off into my own body demise. But, I suppose – what I could ask myself is – could I at least drop down to two runs instead of three? Could I decrease the time I’m doing? Part of why I’m not willing to rest is because my body gets stiff when I’m non-aerobic for too long. So, could I at least try – in between my shorter runs – to find other forms of exercise I don’t hate?

That’s what Marshal did.

Much like I have, he saw that his new means of staying Slim was Shadies of his past habits of the chemical variety.

Just… healthier:

“It’s easy to understand how people replace addiction with exercise. One addiction for another but one that’s good for them. I got an addict’s brain, and when it came to running, I think I got a little carried away. I became a fucking hamster.”

And, also much like myself, that self-awareness moment wasn’t enough to hamper his hamstery tendencies.

It actually wasn’t till his body began rebelling that he gave it another thought:

“I ran to the point where I started to get injured. All the constant pounding from the running began to tear up my hip flexors.”

And what’d he do?

“So when I was starting to dial back on the treadmill, I tried out some of those workout DVDs you do at home. One of the first ones was Shaun T’s Insanity workout. I know a lot of these DVD guys are wacky, but I’m alone in my gym; I need someone on the TV yelling to motivate me. Besides, some of this shit is entertaining. When I first started the Insanity workout, I alternated my routine, running one day and doing the Insanity the other. Then I stopped running altogether because it was too much to do them both. The Insanity won. After a while I started plateauing on that, so I mixed it up. I did the P90X for a little while (and I still do that ab workout because it’s the most challenging), but then I moved on to the Beast.”

Now, this is normally where lazy me would say “But I like being in nature – not listening to some person’s recorded image yell through a screen while I’m stuck between four walls and glancing wistfully outside like a third grader wishing she could go out and play instead of learning fractions”. And, who knows, maybe you are too. That’s where we put on our creativity beanies and brainstorm up a custom fit plan. For me, I know I’m not giving up trail jogging – I’m just going try and taper down the amount. But when I do, I don’t wanna go through withdrawal from outdoorsy aerobics, so I could I supplement that?

And… how?

(Read on here for part 2)

Jogging withdrawal’s my Achilles’ heel (part 2)

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On a recent post, I shared my (and Eminem’s mutual) addiction to running.

And how our bodies (his hip flexor; my Achilles) both have suffered as a result.

(Hashtag: comparing myself to famous people helps me feel relevant.)

And… to be honest… I wasn’t sure whether to post this here or on a fitness related site I write for. But, seeing as exercise addiction has become a serious-but-not-prescription-habit-level-serious reality for me, I opted to at least address it here. Why? Because if I don’t broadcast it out loud, then I’ll carry on with that whole “denial is just a stream near the Sphinx” thing which does dos cosas: A.) me a disservice and B.) deprives you of the opportunity to say “Holy soleus, Batman: I’m guilty of this too.” You see, Eminem humbling himself enough to realize he had to back off (and being kickass enough to share his story about it) helped shed a little light on the matter for me. So, I’m trying to do what I’ve been taught about good insight: keep what you have by giving it away.

See, Mr. Mathers did the math and realized he’d hafta find a good non-impacty shoe in for his shoes smacking the belt of a treadmill for more hours he spent awake than not. I, on the other hand, have been a tougher sell – even when held as a captive audience to the constant carnival of pain permeating my ankles. Thus, I’ve begun asking myself: Could I at least try looking at other cardio options that I can do outside? (That’s my thing – outdoor exercise). Things that don’t make me wake up walking like an alien that just overtook a body and isn’t sure how to ambulatorily conduct it yet?

Surely, there’s something out there for me…

Well, for one, I see other people taking their bikes out and they always seem pretty happy to be doing what they are (or are they just grimacing?) Plus them Schwinners are winners of slimness, typically with a body karate of a level black belt. Not a bad side effect if the high’s as good as it seems (they always look so determined unpacking their two wheels from their 4-Runners and blissful by the time they return). What’s the benefit of biking? Well, there’s less impact for one. I hate the idea of my toes not touching the ground… but I’m totally open to it.

Or I could kick it old school with the roller blades. In the park I frequent (most of them, really), there’s a nice pedestrian/bike lane shaded by a cathedral of tree foliage and low traffic (on the weekdays, at least). The nice thing this has over biking is that A.) It’s cheaper. B.) It’s a happy medium where at least my feet can kinda feel the ground beneath me. C.) It’s a total arse and thigh workout that could potentially land me buns and gams of the Brazilian Barbie variety. Not bad.

Then again, I could mix up what I’m doing during my actual run. What if the whole thing wasn’t just impact stuff? What if I spent five to ten minutes at the middle or end of my jog doing forward lunges toward my destination? Bounding plyometrics? Squats even?

And, finally, adhering to the old acronym R.I.C.E.R. would probably do me some good: rest, ice, compression, elevation, and referral for therapy. Because, in the end, you’ve gotta find what works best for you… by seeking out the help of someone schooled on the subject of ouchery and how to solve it. Granted, I’ve got the advantage of working in a health field. But up until recently, I’ve been like that one cancer doctor who knows better but sneaks out for a smoke every fifteen minutes anyway. Not practicing what I preach. Had I sought some advice earlier, I might’ve rowed right outta that water body of “whatever, I do what ah want” with pyramids on its periphery and been enjoying my moderate jogging routine. I’d also be feeling less like a Hostel abductee and more like my superhero self.

So, if you have the wherewithal to halt your habit, great. Go create a personalized plan with a professional. (That’s always the first step, isn’t it? Reaching out for a hand with your heel, hip, or heroin habit?) But if you’re a jogging junkie like I am, there’s a chance I’ll be seeing you at la casa de calf cast. ‘cause we both know I’m a cautionary tale who may or may not adhere even to my own good advice. This is normally where I’d say good luck to you and sign off. But for now – let’s just say it to each other, agree to try making better decisions, maybe phone a fellow fiend about it, and definitely phone that guy with the white coat to check it out.

6 things to do in lieu of picking up…

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When the compulsion clouds roll in, everything else fades away.

Before you know it, you’re in the eye of its tornado. Even if you’re not using (yet), the whirling, howling walls are all around you – blocking out logic and everything you’ve been working toward. Your goals. Your loved ones. All the good stuff that’s come with getting clean and exorcising that monstrous thing you let take up residency in your essence for however long you opted to press pause on life, not realizing it was actually a fast forward button into hell. So what do we do when this happens? Sure you could give in and become one with the funnel’s edges, but one good implied piece of advice I once heard about “thinking that thought through” might show you how that doesn’t work out well for anyone in recovery. But sometimes even thinking of our “future self” isn’t enough. We need clear direction right now. What can I do? What else can I do to avoid these attack thoughts? So, mayhaps we can review some alternatives in lieu of picking up. And where can we start?

By picking up… the phone:

1. Call a friend who “gets it”.


“No worries, honey… we all are here. Wanna know what I did last time I was in your sitch…?”

This would be where the whole “go to meetings and connect with people” comes in handy. It’s tough to put yourself out there, but that in itself – meeting and interacting with new people about something personal – is a thoroughgoing first step itself in rattling the core of those cravings. But why a stranger? Well, they won’t be strangers if you keep showing up and striking up experience, strength, and hope convos with ‘em. And why not your “I’ve never touched pot in my life – except that time I was drugged with hash brownies” mom? Well, sometimes that’s good as a short term solution. (Like if you’ve not yet met like minded people who can empathize.) But not necessarily for a long term go-to. ‘cause if she’s half as insightful as mine is, even she will admit that when SHTF, she can’t truly help because she’s never been there. She knows it’s awful, but doesn’t know on a personal level enough to offer the kinda advice those who have can. And if she’s half as awesome as mine, she’ll tell you she’s happy to listen – but ask you to call up one of your friends from whatever program you’ve chosen to help you out. Because maybe, just maybe, they’ve been in this exact scenario before and can throw you the same rope they used to exit it.

Got neither a fam or fellowship?

Dial the hotline – or try a chatroom (yes, they have those!)

2. Just do nada.

It’s like Nike – but with a finger to the lips “Shoosh” instead of “Swoosh”.

There are a ton of different types of meditation. But when you’re really going through the crankiness a hankering brings, sometimes the best thing to do is the simplest form there is: cease activity, shut your eyes, and focus only on your breath. It’s almost like the anxiety in your body gets self-conscious about you pointing it out with your awareness and then tries to subsequently jump ship.

But unlike Phoebe here, it does so sorta serenely – allowing your respiration and heart rate to normalize anew.

3. Music and cardio

This is gonna sound a bit out there, but I’m tossing it in the mix anyway because it worked for me. During my first three hours of being off opiates and valium, I was in a furious sweat and muttering to myself like Rainman. I didn’t like the idea that I was making noises to no one and sweating for no reason. And since I couldn’t find a way to stop doing these things, I decided to find a function to all the noise making and sweating. Now, had I not titled this point, you might be thinking the obvious right about now. But the thing about withdrawal is that sex seems like the opposite of a good idea (for me at least, it did).


More like, “Try to put anything in me and I’ll reciprocate – with this knife!”

(That said, if it works for you – I’m all for it.
In fact, we’ll add it here as option #3 article A.)

So, instead, I hopped on the elliptical, blared Deftones into my ears, and emitted sounds (not unlike a feline being defiled with with a barbed phallus) along with Chino for a long time while sweating out the bad juju (is that how you spell it?). When a few hours had passed, I was disgustingly dirty – but still clean. I was also a bit proud. So was the kindly British comedian who’d selflessly helped me get here even though he has a revolution to worry about.

4. Art (making it or enjoying it) of any kind

Draw. Read. Sit down at the dusty piano. Sing out loud.

Sculpt a mashed-terpiece like Richard Dreyfus did in that one movie with the aliens.

Write. In fact, leave me an eloquent comment about how terrible my advice is.

5. Make some tea

When I was first getting clean, I treated the Yogi tea aisle of Wegman’s like my own personal, self prescribed herbal pharmacy. From Kava to Soothing Caramel Bedtime Tea, it was an ideal shoe-in for the thing I was still missing. Maybe it didn’t do much. But just knowing I had some sort of substitute that didn’t include relapse made me feel like I was satisfying that craving on some level.


See? If it’s a genius’s solution, then it must be right. #SitcomWisdom.

Which takes us to the last one:

6. Mindless, entertaining distractions

Watch something dumb and funny – Normally I wouldn’t champion indulging the free ignorance that is your T.V. set. But we’re not talking about a long term cure for addiction. We’re addressing those inevitable, occasional “I need a substance to suffocate this stress immediately” moments. The thing about laughing is that it – much like your former drugs or even stimuli that remind you of them (from mere thoughts to paraphernalia) – it also produces dopamine. The thing about dopamine is that it focuses your attention on whatever’s causing it. Not a bad deal when it comes organically – ’cause even if that’s paired with a drool inducing 20 minute bout of one liners, it’s still better than picking up. And while it won’t quench the intrinsic demon’s demands forever – it definitely clicks down his volume knob enough right now for your reality based side to maybe be heard once again.

Whether or not you choose to listen to it is up to you.

Best of luck, friend.

Can you get addicted to anything?

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When Russell Brand left sex addiction rehab, it wasn’t because he’d graduated with honors.

(Insert eyeroll-worthy “Magnum Cum Loudly” pun here.)

He left, as he’d go onto explain in interviews, because sex rehab is really not much different than one you visit for drugs or alcohol; addiction is addiction. The proclivity toward any manifestation of it comes from the same place. And you can get addicted to pretty much anything. If you do something to excess in such a way that it’s detrimental to your life physically, spiritually, or psychologically – then that’s an addiction. So, yes. Whether it’s women, beanie babies, or bags of smack – you can get addicted to pretty much anything.


(Otherwise all’a these and probably at least a few unlisted fellowships wouldn’t exist.)

I had my own experience with it this week.

After getting bitten by a Lyme ridden tick and suffering a rash so itchy that I think it bore down into my soul, I finally went to the doc. And she gave me this pill called “Hydroxyzine” – which is basically Benadryl… if Benadryl went to boot camp, came back, and then clocked you in the face with its fist so that you passed out by 7 in the evening. (Really. Couldn’t keep my eyes open.) My feelings about this? Utter confusion and super charged cognitive dissonance. On the one hand, it was nice to wake up sans the usual panic attack and without gasping for air for the first time in almost two years. It was nice to feel like I didn’t have to remind myself to breathe in those moments before giving into sleep. It was a nice departure from my usual cerebral assault from which I’m never free. But – that last one – was coupled with a terror and hatred. My mind might be a sadistic bastard, but it’s overactivity center is also the place from whence all of my creativity and curiosity and passion come. And the second I felt that slipping away into some foggy gutter, I knew something wasn’t right. Especially when I took the pill again the next night. After getting zero work done, cutting one of my runs short, and yelling at my dog so loud that she shat on the floor (sorry, Minnie.) I already didn’t like this person I was becoming; but by night three, I was sure I was in danger of losing myself for good… when I turned on (hides face shamefully in palm)… a Nicholas Sparks flick. And cried. And then cried about the fact that I was crying: “This isn’t me! I don’t DO this!”

Right about now, you might be thinking “this doesn’t fit into the ‘addicted to anything’ genre” – because it’s not a non-drug like my jogging addiction (thrice a day) my ex-boyfriend’s gaming addiction (constant), or something like Mr. Brand’s addiction to “the ol’ in-out” (dunno; I generally defer asking people about their freak frequency – but you’ll get a good idea if you read Booky Wook 2). So, let’s pause for a moment and acknowledge that – yes – from Skyrim to skirt chasing, studies seem to show anything can be addictive – if you’re an addict. Any new cure for the unbearable intrinsic misery that chronically haunts you can feel like a missing jigsaw piece to which you’re entitled for suffering said pain.

But the reason for my prescription bottle anecdote shines a spotlight on something relevant and important for anyone in recovery: the info on the bottle. Because while I’d go on to look up this med and see the readout insist it was not addictive, I knew that my experience ran counter to what they were telling me. It’s like I could feel the gears of my grey matter winding to a low roar, then whimper, and eventually the only audible sound was that of a flat line. And, sure enough, when I opted to jettison the drug and just deal with the unbearable skin tickling phantoms haunting my hands and feet, it was like going through a light version of opium withdrawal. (Which I also feel when I skip a jog felt that one time I skipped a jog. About a year ago.) But it was worth it to get the shiz outta my system.

And I’m grateful for that little experience.

It was a perfect arm’s-length revisit to another angle of the same terrible prison I never plan to return to.

That’s the nice thing about working any kind of all-encompassing program while you’re trying to recover. If it’s any good, it forces you toward perpetually honest introspection so that you’re granted an invaluable awareness during times like these. Any new experience is an experiment. For example, when you’re given a med and don’t like it, you can take mental notes on the experience regarding how your mind and body’s responding. Maybe it’s too familiar. Maybe things around you you’ve worked so hard for are beginning to suffer again. Maybe if you can acknowledge that, you can stop before you start justifying why you should keep popping soporific pills long after a rash is gone. (And, yes, this also goes for willfully giving yourself a nether rash if you realize you’re overdoing the sextracurricular activities that land you in derriere detox.)

In the end, labels of any kind don’t always have your best interest in mind – whether it’s the kind of addict you are or what you can or can’t get addicted to. We spent too much time in active addiction letting outside forces tell us how to feel. But we don’t have to live like that anymore.

’cause nobody but you can discern what’s truly addictive or not.

Think that thought through… the wormhole

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Months after I stopped missing pills and pinot noir, my other addictions had remained.

In fact, they’d kind of transmogrified into this plethora of other strange outlets: my Sephora makeup compulsion increased. My Netflix binges. The bulimia obsession. I’d binge, I’d purge, I’d feel awful, and then I’d comfort myself by repeating the process. Finally, I told my sponsor about it one day when I really wanted to commit oral homicide on everything living in my fridge and then fountain it from my face in a stream of bilious glory. (Are you turned on yet?) It was if I’d completely forgotten what the glistening prize after the culmination of the vomit marathon truly was. I needed to speak with someone like me. Stat.

Her advice?

I’m totally kidding (but that was the advice my own brain was starting to give me).

No, her advice was… nothing. That’s what I love about a good sponsor. They don’t tell you what to do. They infer suggestions via personal experience anecdotes and Socratic inquiries. What she asked – not told – was “And how’s that look afterward?” I tried to comply and envisage this scenario she was suggesting. After you’ve binged and barfed and are laying in a pool of acidic drool and streaming mascara, I won’t lie: there’s the initial satisfaction. There is indeed an element to bulimia that deals with the vagus nerve (whether it’s stimulated by the binge-purge cycle, I dunno). But like anytime you hack your well-being centers by doing something unhealthy, you’d better be ready for a big comedown. So, she asked me to tap into that feeling. The thoroughgoing hopelessness you feel once the high is gone. How the loneliness resumes. The shame.

And, for once, something about this clicked in me.

I’d been gifted this view of my future self – bathed in a more realistic light. I remember reading this article once in Psychology Today about how we tend to have these idealized views of how much better our “future selves” are gonna be. You know? When we say “I’ll start my diet and yoga practice tomorrow” or “I’ll do my chores when I get home” or “I’ll buy a new car in a year”. It’s as if future-you is going to magically be more willing, better at financial planning, or all around less of a dumb whore than the one who’s raining bills on the organic section of Wegman’s like the bins of dried tart cherries are actually tarty strippers on a pole. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. And that day, with my sponsor on the line, I finally got a glimpse of an aha moment about that. Fast-forwarding into the mental time capsule she’d just provided me, I had an epiphany. The insanity-belief I was subscribing to (like most obsessed folk) was the old hopeful-about-something-that’s-never-happened-any-other-time-I’ve-done-this one. My logic? “Why, I’ll shove this in my face, barf it up, and then Tanning Chatum will come in with a mop to clean it in his banana hammock while complimenting me on my girlish figure. Obviously.”

But f’real me at the end of that ritual was miserable. I could feel my teeth starting to hurt. I already was starting to want to do that thing where you free up the blade from your Venus appliance and start scrawling out sanguine dermal etchings into your arm during bath time. And I hadn’t even bought my binge fodder yet, much less eaten it. This was just based on some hybrid abstract lovechild born of introspection, creative fortunetelling, and a phone call I almost didn’t make.

But for those not born with my Stephen King lite imagination, there was one bit from that Psych Today article I mentioned that might help you access that future-self without having to generate all these imaginative brush strokes about how you’ll feel tomorrow. What is does, is ask you to think of your future self as a totally separate entity holding now-you accountable:

A good way to think about how to do this, then, is to imagine our future selves as separate people whose interests and desires matter to us, perhaps as members of our immediate family. This might make it easier for our now-self, when he’s confronted with a choice, to summon up concern for any number of his future selves. (For many of us, it’s easier to feel concern for others than for ourselves.)

If I’m being honest, I take this take on the approach with a grain of salt. While I do believe it works, I don’t necessarily agree that it does so because it’s easier to feel concern for others more than ourselves. Let’s be real here. What I believe is that we educe a motivational fear to do the right thing when we remember that others are going to be holding us accountable at some point. We’re afraid of disappointing them. They may not like us anymore. And if we can remember that both our future self might despise us along with the people we’ve let down because future-self looks bad, it makes the present-moment bad habit suddenly less alluring. So, let’s go from there. Where do you have to be and who do you have to answer to later? Will the other people in your life be disappointed if the bad decision you make now has a domino effect of pissing them off? If future you is sitting there with naught but your shvantz in your palm and an empty apology dribbling from your jaws? (Note, however, that this separate-you-in-the-future concept only works if you comply with good present-moment decision making. You can’t just lambast past-you later and get a pass: “Ah, yeah, boss; blame yesterday-me. What a vapid trollop. Let’s fire her from this company, keep me, give me a promotion, and… a company card. Oh, we don’t have a company card? Alright. I’ll settle for the promotion. Good talk.”)

So, this is where I was in the midst of my chat with my sponsor.

Remembering now how future me would feel even more agoraphobic than usual. Remembering how future me would feel even more insecure, and compulsively apply cosmetics – slathering on glue and faux eyelashes just to walk the damned dog. And the interesting thing – especially since this comes on the heels of an article about “being present” – is how even though this practice seems paradoxical when coupled with the advice regarding remaining in the moment, it really isn’t. When you’re accessing a realistic future because it will help you resolve a present conundrum, you’re not ruminating about some un-solvable problem or regret. You’re just accessing another facet of yourself. One from a place that hasn’t happened yet. In fact, you could almost see it as there being two you’s down the road. One’s miserable and has premature wrinkles. The other’s got a line to toss you to help you outta this mess. The one happening right now. After chasing after the emotionally crippled recluse-me for long enough, I managed to find the one with the line – after getting my sponsor on the line.

And I think that’s the full-bodied answer to doing this successfully:

Split yourself into quantum entities to hold yourself accountable.

And find actual others to hold all two (or three) of you accountable too.

Why “Just for Today”?

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There were so many snarky things I wanted to say out loud when I first came to my first meeting.

“Why’s this d-bag preaching directly at me during his share?”

“If it’s not religious – why do you anthropomorphize a maybe genderless God and call it a ‘he’?”

And, best of all:

“Why ‘JUST for today’?”

Just for today? Just for today?! What? So I’m not meant to have a five year plan? I just wade through life like a hippie and pretend like it’s all gonna work out? Of course, at the time I was just arguing for the side in a battle I wasn’t even technically part of yet. I still had to get off meds. I still had to get my back problems sorted out. I still had to go through the ninth ring of hell that is prolonged benzo withdrawal before I could even consider a steady gig, much less career. But – wait, wait, wait… Let’s backtrack and be honest here. I had to be able to even do my own (and this is all very embarrassing, so bear with me here) grocery shopping and leave my own home without having an agoraphobia induced panic attack first. So, obviously, these snide House of Cards style asides I was having with my imaginary audience in the meeting rooms were all just my ego launching caustic, defensive phrases as the honesty I was receiving via a miscellany of human vessels was trying its best to compassionately assassinate it.

Yes, we make plans. Yes, we have a future. But the idea, I suppose, was that – when we’re in the throes of psychogenic sanity rape – we’re meant to press the pause button and remember keep in the moment. Not obsessively regret about what a bumbling fool you were yesterday. Not agonize over tomorrow’s work presentation. How do you get through this moment? The one happening right now? Scientific American’s take on staying present draws on a wealth of folk who’ve benefited from mindfulness and present-focus, which is the essence of “Just For Today”:

Originally an ancient Buddhist meditation technique, in recent years mindfulness has evolved into a range of secular therapies and courses, most of them focused on being aware of the present moment and simply noticing feelings and thoughts as they come and go. It’s been accepted as a useful therapy for anxiety and depression for around a decade, and mindfulness websites like GetSomeHeadSpace.com are attracting millions of subscribers. It’s being explored by schools, pro sports teams and military units to enhance performance, and is showing promise as a way of helping sufferers of chronic pain, addiction and tinnitus, too. There is even some evidence that mindfulness can help with the symptoms of certain physical conditions, such as irritable bowel syndrome, cancer, and HIV.

Everything from addiction to a faulty fecal factory? Why not give that a try? Sometimes a concept like “Just for today” can seem too long. And taking aside a present-focused moment can help your fragmented thoughts come together enough to cope your way through the angst about it. Then, you can remember things like how if you want to use, maybe you call your sponsor. Or if you’re hyperventilating, maybe you remember some of that rhythmic breathing stuff that lady you met at the G street meeting taught you two weeks ago. Once you’ve taken that mindful intermission and calmed down, frequently the answers on how to cope this moment and get through today reveal themselves to you. In other instances, a little extra help’s still needed. When I’m going through that (which is still more often than I’d like), sometimes I just siphon the anxiety in my head onto paper – which is one form of mindfulness. (And others the dishware gets embedded in the wall #notadvisingthissolution.) Other episodes culminate in my having to call whatever unlucky buddy I think of first and confide in them my plethora of first world woes so they can drag me back to reality and remind me of how preposterous I’m being.


(And I thank you for it.)

But none of that can happen before I get outta my thought cycles and back into the now.

“Great, so why ‘just for today, though’?”

Because today is all we have. It goes hand in hand with another idiom of “Keep going”. If we wanna get technical, “right now” is all we have. Both mantras – about being totally present – are helpful. But it seems like there’s something about a 24 hour increment of time before I power down on a pillow again that generates a real sense of accomplishment by the time I survive it. It’s just enough of a goal to reach without overwhelming myself. Which is why I guess they stick with the “day” increment. Carry on, though, and one day you’ll look down the rock cliff you’ve scaled and realize you’re not surviving anymore. You’re thriving. But you know from experience that you won’t be if you pause your inner work for too long.

So, keep going. Just for today.