If your family’s anything like mine, that might be tough.
Ah, yes. The ol’ holiday triggers. Now, some might say I’m still a baby with my sobriety. Sure, I’ve only got four years under my belt. But I’d say I’m doing pretty well for someone who used to look at Valium as not just a crutch – but a social organ she vitally required to survive any sort’ve interaction with fellow species members. And how’d I do it? Just like they say – one second, one breath, one day, one craving, and one calamity – at a time. I listened to people smarter than I am. I did what they did. And, seeing as I did all of that (and got – and stayed – sober) right around the holiday time frame, I’m perfectly equipped to offer a few tips on what got me through during my first clean holiday. And those things’ve continued to serve me to this day.
The first thing I did?
Exercise. When? When I didn’t wanna go to meetings. When my skin felt like it was falling off. When every muscle felt agitated. When the “kicky legs” set in. During any and all’ve that, the elliptical became my best friend. Because I was suffering from a bad back I’d done nothing to help improve (save for popping pharmaceuticals), this low impact cardio was all I could tolerate. But it was perfect. Being able to sweat out the toxins was one reason. The endorphins were another. But, also, I on a psychological level, it also allowed me to feel in control of something when I felt like I’d lost the oars in my life canoe.
(Speaking of oars, rowing’s a great exercise too… Find the right workout for *you*)
And when my head was restless, but my body – not?
That’s when I found yoga and meditation.
Yoga came first. If you’re new to getting clean, you might be able to appreciate why. Ever notice how much simpler it is to move around… than to sit in silence with a not so silent mind? Trying to delve straight away into meditation was downright painful. I’d fidget at the slightest uncomfortable thought, memory, or sensation. That’s why yoga became an ideal segue into it. I’d formerly thought the whole thing was B.S. But, once I gave it a solid try, I came to realize something pretty awesome about my obstinate thoughts – I could make peace with each when they’d arise – in a very physical way. It’s like what that cognitive shaman, Tony Robbins, always says – about how motion generates emotion. The thing is, unlike other forms of activity, yoga helps you focus on facing ‘em down like a warrior – versus running like a li’l bish from them.
So, I did that.
And then, when I’d made peace with them enough to sit with my silent mind, I started doing exactly that. On the regular. Whether it was 5 minutes or 20, I’d take some time each day to just focus, with closed eyes, on nada but my breath. Sounds dumb and easy, right? Right. I thought so, too. But guess what? We’re both wrong. Because evidence based, peer reviewed research shows that both your brain and body can undergo physical (not just woo-woo in-your-belief-system) changes from a simple meditative practice done daily. That’s half of how my back pain began to improve. And it’s 100% of how I came to be able to deal with people and life triggers alike without reminiscing about my pill caddy.
That said, when I did reach for something external, it was in the holistic tea aisle.
A lot of what spurred active addiction for me was disconnectedness.
I mean, if we’re being honest, it still spurs my bad sober behavior.
You know what I mean? The feeling that you’re oh so separate from everyone and they’re judging you? That they’re out to get you? That maybe even life is out to get you? It’s so easy to get to that place. (I’m there at at least one point, every day.) Once you get the scolding voice from your childhood following you around, serving as the somber soundtrack for every step you make, it’s tough to silence it. It’s tough to even remember that it’s there. We just come to convince ourselves that our dismal inner voice is us. That it is truth. (Versus the Frankensteinian monster it is – of opinion pieces someone else issued us when we were more impressionable.)
After a time, we come to expect that everyone – not just the people who said it in the first place, outta their own self-loathing – is thinking those negative things about us. Then again, some of us get that voice via horrible happenstance. Things we incurred long the way. Sure, there are innumerable ways to gain that same, malevolent inner voice. But – whatever it was – when you’re programmed to believe something, it’s an easy mentality to rest on. No matter how destructive it is.
The problem with getting comfortable with that mindset, though?
Well, once you enter the world, that person (the self-loathey unhappy one) is the person who interacts with others. And half the time you don’t even realize you’re acting cold. You’re just trying to survive these social interactions unscathed. But you know how that comes off to others? Cold and callous. See, they don’t know about your deep seated insecurities. Or that that’s why you’re kinda standoffish. They don’t know that you were emotionally victimized early on. That you survived an assault or war. They just see your hackles raised and respond in kind. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that when you seem either scary faced or scared, the natural reaction’s to feel scared, too. Your expression represents a threat. So peeps unconsciously reflect it back.
The problem is, when you don’t even realize the vibe you’re giving off, you just assume they’re being douchey to you. The truth? They’re actually mirroring your snarl. A lot like those above dogs. (It happens unwittingly a lot of the time, via these things called “mirror neurons”.) In fact, speaking of dogs, this happened to me the other day. I was in the midst of grieving my shih-tzu’s death. And, in an effort to go through the motions of living, I left home and did my daily routine. Now, even though I wasn’t crying, I had a social zone of inhibition around me like an antibiotic pellet plopped in bacterial agar. No one wanted near me. And, sure, part of me wanted to say “The whole world’s against me; why are these people such arseholes when I’m having such a bad week?” But another part of me realized something, too. (Granted, not til I caught my own reflection in the loo moments later and wondered why a disheveled, escaped war prisoner was staring me down.) People weren’t confirming my worst fears about life and humanity being after me. They weren’t mean mugging me. They were mirroring me and my crazed, dazed, and distant countenance. And that led to yet another epiphany.
This was me. This was me on my worst day. I – who’ve become generally jovial once around strangers – now look like the bad guy. I look like the douchebag who just barks out his coffee orders without making eye contact with the cashier. I look like the self centered snob with a bad case of RBF. And, to my mom, I looked like the kinda arsehole who yells at the woman who gave her life because her dog’s is over. We never like to remember these moments. We want to forget them. Bury them away. They’re not representative of our “best selves”.
But, you know what?
These things are crucial to cling to.
Why? Because the next time you’re getting yelled at or patronized or dehumanized in some form, the tendency’s gonna be to say, “What an arsehole.” Which is fine. He or she’s being one. But he wasn’t born one. That’s not who he is every day. He has a whole life. There’s just a thorn at the center of it ATM that’s making him take it out on you. And, haven’t you done that before? When you lost someone you loved? When you beefed it out with your boss and got fired? Haven’t I? When my dog died? When the school of my dreams I worked so hard to get into rejected me?
“Wasn’t that me?”
It looks so different on the outside, doesn’t it? When someone else is wearing it?
It sho’ nuff does. But it’s been all of us at some point. And the idea’s not to run away from these facets of ourselves – or other people when they’re displaying them. It’s to lean into both’ve them. That said, I’m not saying that the key’s to tell Hulkasaurus Rex, “I know how you feel.” (That’d piss me off. It does every time, in fact. All it tells me is that A.) you’re a know it all and B.) you think you know me.)
No. It’s not to tell anyone anything. It’s to ask.
Ask the question:
“Are you okay, man?”
The trick is, you have to mean it. How? By relating. First, internally. (Which is a lot easier to do when I remember those touchtone phone robots that put me on eternal hold and misinterpret everything I say and piss me off just thinking about them.) And then, externally, by asking the person what’s going on. (Without going into your own sob story.) And that’s the difference between some feigned, saccharine pity party and genuine compassion. With the former, you’re trying to get something out of it. You want them to either stop being a douche or maybe you want to feel superior or make them like you. With compassion, contrarily, you’re trying to connect by relating.
Quick protip aside… Make sure it’s more like this:
And less like this:
And why the eff should you want to connect with D-bag McGee?
Good question. Here’s the answer: Because D-bag McGee’s not always warranting that moniker. He’s not that way all the time. He’s still human, born from the same star sharts as you and I were. He’s got pain. Somewhere in his brain or body, that dude’s straight up suffering. Just like you do sometimes. And if that feeling of disconnectedness from humanity – of loneliness – is a top contributing factor in active addiction or any of the bad habits that make any of us cling to unhappiness, then guess what? Connecting’s an optimal way to help quell it. We must just remember. By remembering that we too have our douchey moments, we can recall that that broody mood we see on someone else is just a mask. And we can ask a compassionate question that just might get the connective convo ball rolling.
Anecdotal case in point to end this already too-long article?
I do this all day long in my P.T. clinic with pissed off people in pain.
(Put me on that recumbent bike again and *you’ll* need therapy!)
Granted, I get paid for it – but I do it all day.
And I always thought they obviously left looking mentally better than when they walked in because, duh, were a place of healing. They’re working on healing injuries and stuff. But the more I work there, the more I realize that’s not so. People without any painful injuries come in there too. They’ve got Parkinson’s or balance issues or whatever. No pain. But they’re still pissed off. Because dysfunction sucks. And you know what? Even they leave beaming. Why? I didn’t know for a while. All I knew is that I went home at night happy. I was tired, but happy – because they were, and I played a part in that transformation. Despite my fatigue after a 9 hour day of work, I don’t want to use. I don’t feel like giving into abusive bad-habit behavior, either. I feel fulfilled because I make grumpy people happy all day – that hadn’t been when they hobbled in. Then, one day, it hit me. I get why these people egress P.T. with grins. It’s because that clinic’s probably the only place where they have someone genuinely look them in the eye all day and ask in a non-perfunctory fashion, “Are you okay today, Bob?”
Imagine if we did that with every douchey mood we encountered.
Maybe we could all go home happy, clean, and serene – instead’ve disconnected.
No matter how solid my recovery is, shiz is gonna test it.
Like, for instance, this week when I lost my shih-tzu.
(Not literally, but because: old).
And what’s a recovering addict’s answer to that? How do I stay both sober and sane? What do I do to not slowly slide back down the spiral like a smack addled toddler descending a chemical playground slide? Well, as illustrated in an earlier article, there are the serious things. I can recall the good times. I can help out others in my life. I can cry when I need to. Write, like I am now, to let it out creatively. Make sure to take care of my brain and body (yoga, running, and nature). And I can let others be a supportive shoulder. (Instead’ve isolating, as I tend to do). But you know what? It’s… exhausting. Don’t get me wrong. I feel far more accomplished by the day’s end than if I’d languished in bed, hugging the last toy my dog slept on. But, still.
There’s no joy in any of the things I used to do.
(Like running.
Not, ya know, sitting dejectedly under a tree while ticks rain on my cranium.
Which is what I end up doing most’ve the time now.)
Why?
Is it subconsciously intentional? Is my brain telling me not to enjoy anything or else I’m mourning poorly? Could’ve fooled me with my attempts to engage the barista at the coffee shop I don’t wanna be at. Could’ve fooled me, as I put on workout music in an in-vain effort to pump myself up for a run I’m reluctant to do. Could’ve fooled me as I sit to write when I feel anything but creative. I’m legit trying here. So, what’s missing?
I got my answer when I allowed myself to finally do something today.
Laugh.
Yes, joy – however fleeting – is what’s been missing this week. And this is why, I think, a lot of addicts end up returning to using. Here, we’ve worked so hard to make yoga or mediation or exercise or whatever pleasure provide us with safe, intrinsic endorphins. We’ve worked so hard to supplant our synthetic, former highs with more organic ones. But what happens when the joy’s suddenly sucked out of them by the grief demon? Where can we find it?
Today, as I sat in my car after a run I’d been putting off all day, I found it here:
And, of course, here:
And especially here:
(You’ll hafta click that one to enjoy.)
I say “especially” on that last one because I haven’t been “treating” myself to comic calories this week. At all. And what I love especially about Chris C. and the F-bomb riddled guided meditations alike, is that they typically both have a message that resonates… but without being too serious about it. That same theme’s actually what brought me to recovery. Russell Brand’s capacity to laugh at the madness of a serious thing like addiction made it easier for me to address it head on. The nice thing about life-applicable laugh-snacks like these (versus sitcom comedy) is that I don’t feel like I’m escaping my sad feelings when I enjoy them. It’s relatable. Yet it’s also funny. So, when the chuckles subside, I don’t feel that disconnected emptiness of reality closing in.
You know, it’s tough to take advice from anyone when you’re grieving.
They mean well, but what I wish they knew is this:
Even just functioning – what’s generally second nature – now becomes a list of tasks. You have to actively make yourself do the stupidly smallest of things – like brushing your teeth or taking a shower – all against the resistance of the emotional mud you’re trudging through. Those have suddenly become daunting things on the to-do list that formerly featured more important things like paying bills or running errands. And, as said above, they’re exhausting.
So, hearing another “what you need to do” just takes one from bereavement to belligerent.
Now, that high pixelated poem-graphic (sorry bout it) sounds kinda dickish. I concede that. Especially when your friends are just trying their best to feign compassion for five minutes so they can get back to their life’s good vibe (whose buzz your bad mood’s harshing) without feeling guilty for ignoring your pain. But it’s true. That said, I realize I can’t change how other people comfort me. I should just be glad they’re trying. They’re not mind readers. Much like compliments, I should accept condolences for their intention – not the specific nature of them.
Which is why I kept the eyerolling solely internal those first fifty times I heard “Remember the good times – Minnie wouldn’t want you to be sad!” I know people were trying to help. But I’d be lying if I said my first thought wasn’t, “Um… She’s a dog. My dog. You dunno that bish. You ain’t know the eff she wants” But then, last night, after the eleventyhundredth time hearing it, suddenly my mind opened a little. (Probably because the person who was saying it to me seemed more genuine than 90% of the people who’d come before him.) And I realized something. I knew that bish. I knew her really, really well. We had a telepathic level connection. And while they didn’t know her, I know – from experience – that Minnie really wouldn’t want me to be to be sad, panicked, or Hulked out.
And I know why.
See, all of those emotions were the moods that used to directly precede using (which only amplified those moods) years ago. They meant Jekyll was about to go Hyde, so she’d go hide. The guilt of my angry yelling or neglect inasmuch as other dogs spent more time rump huffing furry strangers at the park than sat in an apartment, will always haunt me. Yeah, I had back problems. But so do a lot’ve folk. I could’ve done far, far better. And, even though I spent years spoiling her rotten to make it up to her long after addiction, she’d still scoot the moment my voice raised in anger. She’d still let out a heavy sigh and look up at me the second stress rose up in my chest. She knew when I was panicking – and would pant, pace, and get equally aggravated right along with me. Minnie’d match my moods. Always. In fact, sometimes she’d do me better than me.
(Not Minnie.
But an epic reminder of what a perfect reflection her moods always were of my own.)
Even after I’d been clean for years, she wouldn’t come to cuddle next to me unless I was calm or happy. So, when I felt that silly twinge of guilt today – giggling at a simultaneously ridiculous and brilliant video – I paused. And I remembered how her little tail wagged like a breeze blown palm made of glee filled silk when I myself was happy.
And I kept on laughing.
This doesn’t mean the end of tears. I’ll still cry. Get angry. Probably throw some fine china at the kitchen wall again. Yes, I’ll still take time. But what I won’t do is feel bad about indulging those fleeting moments of fun when they come to me like my former fur baby bringing me a bone to throw. Because I – any of us addicts – need that to keep going and remain sober and functional. We require our days to be punctuated with some sense of spiritual well being. Something to take the edge off the existential gravity of reality. Some sort’ve natural Valium to keep us from considering letting the chemical enemy back into our lives. Today, I found that in these silly videos. Tomorrow, it might be playful banter with my barista.
(Or a dad-joke level too-soon dumb pun someone says.)
The point? It could be anything. And all I know’s I’m gonna try to be open to it.
Not just because it’s what Minnie’d want.
But because this pain’s got me entertaining things I never said I would again.
And I owe it to my loyal, forgiving companion to never revert.
I’ve spent a lot of time trolling addiction message boards of late.
Well, not trolling, per se. More like “scrolling”. Scrolling and commenting. Because, a lot of the time, I’ll hop on the comment section and encounter a wealth of outta-their-element people pontificating on addiction. It’s not always clear who has addiction. (Seeing as it’s a self diagnosed disease.) But it is always clear who definitely doesn’t – based on their grave misunderstanding of it and total lack of empathy for the sufferer.
But I get it.
To be fair, it’s tough to be empathetic to an addict.
When we’re in the throes of it, we’re shaky, pasty, pale, clammy.
And we don’t care about anything but what we crave.
We definitely don’t care about you.
So, why would you care about us? Why should you?
That might be best answered by asking those who do – for whatever reason – care about us, why they do. Ask any mom who’s watched a chemical shred her child alive, and she’ll likely pull out and dust off the high school photo album, the framed collage from Olan Mills her daughter had done after winning an academic excellence award, graduation snapshots of embraces with companions. The smile before a permanent furrow hijacked the brow of her baby girl. My point? That – all evidence to the contrary – there’s a person underneath the flesh we see, possessed by dependency. Those who love them know this. Those who’ve been through it “get it”. That’s why, though I’m recovering well (no one who’s met me in the past couple years would ever guess where I’ve been), I’m always up for extending a hand and educating those who don’t get it. Example? Today, I read a fellow addict’s musings about hitting up the pill mill and how he can’t use these drugs reasonably. His entry resonated so deeply that that dormant demon within me stirred a little himself.
Then I saw the following comment:
And, to be honest, it’s not a distant whimper from a lot of non-addicts’ logic.
Which is fine. It’s just ignorance (and I don’t mean that in a rude way) born out of lack of context. Lack of understanding. It’s never easy to identify unless you’ve been there yourself or experienced it for yourself. So, for anyone nodding in concurrence with John’s comment (or any addicts loathing themselves for lack of “self-control”), I encourage you to read my own reply to Mr. M.
It went thusly:
Yeah, I hear what you’re saying.
Indeed, drugs don’t make decisions. But they do often affect different brains differently. I too believe that maybe Clark could stay stopped after getting and being clean for a while – after allowing that ritual, habitual, neural connection that goes hand in hand with using (or any habit, really) to weaken and be replaced by healthier ones. But I think what he may have meant was that once he *starts* taking those drugs – while he’s still in the grasp of dependency and addiction – they affect his brain in such a way that he cannot make the rational decision to quit.
In other words, he can’t “reasonably use” them.
And that’s totally believable. Every brain changes on drugs. There’s a reason we’re told not to drive cars or make big decisions on scheduled substances. And, on top of that, if we’re affected by chemicals differently, it’s entirely possible that once it’s in our system, some of us hunger for that continued mitigation of emotional or physical pain the way someone drowning craves a gulp of oxygen. For an addict, once you try to listen to the halo toting voice on your shoulder, over the horned one – even if you heed its angelic advice – that doesn’t stop the horned one from screaming into your every thought. That’s when you become so distracted and dysfunctional that work performance, relationships, and activities of daily living begin to suffer. The addiction finds another release valve. Overeating. Drinking. Exercise anorexia.
(Let’s don’t forget Tinder binges, too.)
That said, addicts don’t have to live in a victim mentality. While reasonably using may not be an option for an addict, where I do agree with you is that you *can* get out of it. Enduring that thoroughgoing sensation of spiritual and physical suffocation for a while, paired with the supplanting of the right program for you (you, meaning whichever addict’s reading this and rolling their eyes at the thought of a 12 step being the only answer) is worth the ephemeral suffering.
And when it comes to the Pagliacci reference, it’s easy to see why.
It may seem strange that the likes of Robin Williams or Mitch Hedberg – people with this almost alien ability to summon chuckles from us – could ironically suffer such sadness off stage that they’d take drugs, take their own lives, or both. This, however, is the ugly skull that sits under the face of addiction. Depression. Bipolar disorder. Whatever your DSM categorization of it might be, mental illness comes in many forms – and it often goes hand in hand with an inability to put down a drug once you pick it up. And the difference between Mitch and Williams isn’t so great. Mitch, still in active addiction, tragically overdosed. Robin, on the contrary, had gotten clean – but the demons remained. This is why they say that addiction’s not about the drugs, but the unresolved monsters that haunt your cognition.
In a way, I couldn’t help but think of these guys in light of the string of suicides I’m seeing in my region recently. Some of them have been overdoses. Some of them have to do with unchecked mental maladies. But almost all of them have something in common with the comedians I’m seeing: that addiction to externals. We often joke about social media, but the common denominator that keeps popping up in the online obits is akin to this: “She seemed to so happy on Instagram” or “He was always posting jokes on Facebook”. It brings to mind another applicable cliche: “Methinks she doth protest too much.” Whether it’s a slew of inspo-graphics and motivational quotes or a cascade quips and one liners, sometimes we overdo it try to cover up the pain of merely being. (Guilty myself.) No one knows that better than an addict – active or not. Recently, I find myself refreshing apps far too frequently. Who am I making laugh? Who can make me laugh? Who likes this string of words I just birthed from my brain? Who approves of my newfound commitment to yoga? To self affirmation? To Starbucks? In a way, it’s no different than trying to prize guffaws from an audience. It seems benign enough. An OD on laughter needs no Narcan revival. Yet, it’s a rush – that approval. Until it leaves you. Then, you’re searching for the next hit. The next giggle fix. Or like. Or double tap.
It’s all the same really.
So many of us are addicted to something aren’t we?
So, who’s a success story in this sad string of similar stories and slow suicides via addiction?
I suppose that would include recovering addicts of all kinds, who have done the inner work. By that, I mean people who’ve not just sought out substitutes and shoe in fixations – technological or not – but done the daily consciousness remodeling required to manage the incessant insanity. Supermodel and actress Amber Valleta, for example, explains the pain of being a human being in one talk she gave. Meditation and prayer, she says were vital in her recovery after getting clean at 25. But, more importantly, she insists that helping others cope with it is key. Similarly, Russell Brand, who helped dredge me out of the chemical trenches of my own pharmaceutical cell, makes it a chronic commitment of his to help fellow addicts seek treatment via meetings. His words ever resonate with me: “When the pain gets great enough, we seek another way.”
And we do.
Unfortunately, for some of us, that will only ever mean we “seek another way to get high”. Another way to usher in that rush until we relapse. Another way… than living at all. Or all three – in that order. This is why the internal work in conjunction with interpersonal work is so crucial for anyone inviting suicide to the option table. Whether or not we want to admit it, most of us are addicted to something – particularly those of us contemplating an early end to existence. Disagree? How about this fun fact: an obsession with exterminating yourself comes from an addiction to your own thoughts. The same thoughts on rotation, played through the same dim filter setting you’ve also gotten addicted to. If you could change those thoughts, wouldn’t you? Given the option, wouldn’t you rather feel the way your genuinely content companions do? We can’t tell ourselves that that’s impossible or not who we are. As addicts, we know that it was possible for chemicals to change who we were. So if chemicals can change who we are, why can’t our own thought-born intrinsic neuro-chemicals change us? The trick is to change that. And we can’t do that alone. If you hang out only with yourself, you’re going to keep receiving the same bad advice you’ve been internally issuing. To think outside the box, you’ve got to go outside the roof topped box you live in, network with veteran sufferers and survivors, and pick up new tips on how to live and thrive.
In the end, we all “use” in different ways. The key’s not to beat ourselves up, but recognize it and ask “what suffering am I covering?” If you can answer that, then the follow-up’s “what’s the real solution to it?” (preferably a solution that’s not got alcohol in it). And if you can’t answer either? Well, then try my trifecta that has yet to fail me for the past two and a half years: 1.) Do yoga 2.) Meditate 3.) Connect with someone attempting to amend themselves also.
That last one’s a biggie.
Because whether it’s laughter or likes online is irrelevant. When we stand on a stage (social media or the auditorium sort) extracting external validation, we do that alone. In isolation. We take the digital hat tips and audible approval and we go home alone with them like a single stripper with singles in her g-string. There’s something isolating about prizing praise from others if the bait was uninspired and not coming from somewhere authentic. Granted, we shouldn’t vomit our problems into Twitter like it’s a toilet – but there’s nothing authentic about a misrepresented life online or one liners to cover up what you’re not modifying.
(He concedes this is a chronic struggle somewhere around 37 seconds in)
This is what Russell Brand gets right. He finds the funny in the mundane while motivating viewers to self betterment. How? Because he’s done the work. He’s gotten honest with himself. And, as a result, he can be blatant about it – but not bitter. This is because he’s not bitter. He’s fixing himself daily because he’s conjured up a posse of others like himself on the road to recovery. That’s why we’ve all got to find a tribe with whom we can address our individual, legitimate issues, too (instead of simply sugarcoating them with empty cackles or commiseration). We let them help us… and then we help other sufferers too. This is the imperative inner work. This is what leads to making us who we wish we were. This is the best prevention against the clown’s tear tracks and track marks alike.
Do that – and any validation that happens after will also follow you into your solitude.
So, you’re wondering if you can ever successfully use again.
Think you can moderate? That it’ll be better this time?
Who knows. Maybe you’re right.
But before you decide, do yourself a favor and watch watch this talk:
If it looks familiar, that’s probably ’cause I just referenced this in my last article. But while it namely addresses dealing with the issue of addiction itself, there’s another level to it. A question that only a fellow addict might think to ask. The original talk mentions disconnectedness driving discontent – and thus addictive behavior. This makes a good deal of sense. Because (if you didn’t watch the vid as I instructed in which case shame on you) the rat experiment (which essentially resolved the rodents’ addictions by offering them utopian cages) illustrated an important point: we need in-the-flesh connection, purpose, and stimulating brain food to feel fulfilled – to not become addicted. Otherwise, we get stuck in any number of different addictions – from smart phones to smack. However, after watching, I had that nagging “something’s missing” feeling.
And I think that, in part, was a question:
If get my cage all in order, why can’t I successfully use again? In moderation?
Won’t my new connections be enough to override my proclivity to overuse?
What would truly interest me is another sequel study. One where those rats in isolation – who’d gotten good and hooked on heroin – were suddenly removed, and abruptly introduced into Rat Park. My inquiry would be this: how long would it take for them to wean themselves off the spiked hydration? Would they at all? Was it contingent on how long they’d spent addicted?
I ask this from the perspective of a recovering addict.
Because I myself understand that, personally, picking up a drug or drink is tantamount to playing Russian Roulette with a slow-motion bullet. One that gradually unravels your life until you finally die, wish you would, or make everyone around you wish they would. Some people can use recreationally, occasionally. Some people, like me, most likely cannot. Could I use successfully again? Maybe. But the stakes are too high to risk that unknown. Especially when you recognize the neuroscience behind it. You see, there are at least two bullets in my pick-up gun and they’ve both got science on their side. The first has to do with cravings. Studies have shown that when you feel a craving (whether it’s for that overpriced bakery down the street or what the dealer standing on the corner outside’a it’s got), something malevolent unravels in your mind. You go kinda dumb. The other, logical processing centers of your noggin shut off. You’re focused on only the object of your desire until it (eventually) subsides. This takes longer for addicts because we spent so long getting what we wanted. I took a good long time to lose my cravings – to reinvite them into my life by testing the waters blessed by Pinot Noir Jesus makes no sense. A sip’s not worth the likely drowning that’ll ensue.
(Yes, this non-logic seems brilliant when in the midst of a craving.)
The yes-and to that is this: even if I can make myself moderate – these returned cravings that serve as off-buttons to my logic and reason will mean devastation to other areas of my life. Think about all the stuff you need reasoning for: relationships, work, not chasing down the guy who cut me off yesterday and lighting his house on fire. I suppose this is what all of those old-timers in meetings mean when they talk about “successfully using”. Maybe I can moderate. Maybe I can use. But not without it culminating in mistakes at work, failed relationships, and a traffic massacre.
Point two on the sciencey level is this: habits.
Habits form in your brain in a very specific way. And the bastard thing about it? That they’re never truly gone. They’re there – waiting in the wings for you to eff up your new, better life. For me, the past-life hell-dwelling habit is too familiar, too ingrained, and too easy to return to. In that, I’m not alone – and I don’t just mean other addicts, either. In fact (in keeping with the rat theme), another fantastic rat study spotlighted this beautifully.What they did was go into the creatures’ brains using photon wizardry (AKA optogenetics), and turned off new, normal habits which formerly reprobate rats had acquired through practice. Wanna know what happened? Every damned time, these recidivist rodents went right back to their old ways.
That, then, begs the question: what dissolves a new ‘n improved habit?
I mean, you ‘n me don’t have Harry Potter in a lab coat waving a light wand over our basal ganglia (ganglii? gangliases? gangbanglasses?) So, what exactly is it that might threaten our new way of being – so that we know how to be on the defensive when we see it coming? In my experience, I notice that one time it happens is when any element of that rat park (connection, cerebral snacks, purpose, or do-gooding) get eliminated for more than a few days at a time. A subtraction of something good. The other? An addition of something bad. For me, that includes stuff like mindless T.V.. Channel surfing. Gossip. Excessive online browsing. And… finally… anything that alters the chemicals in my brain to the point where I feel like I’ve clicked over to a faux filter. Case in point – this anti-itch prescription pill I was given for a rash not long ago. They claimed it was non-habit forming. But it was infatuation at first feel for me as I sat on the couch for hours doing what could’ve been an audition for that one pot commercial.
I suppose, until they do my proposed rat experiment of combining junkie rats with well ones, this all’s as good of proof as any. Well, for me at least. Because I do feel that how long you spend in active addiction (versus how well and long you build up your rat park) determines how well you’re going to overcome your prior life. The thing is, with us humans, we have to be really careful with assuming we can moderate or that we’re “all better”. Some of us might be. And that’s fine. But as higher-consciousness creatures, we’re very adept at finding new addictions to avoid connection we perceive as being potentially threatening. The rats just had a vat of smack. For us, there’s social media, text messaging, emails, Youtube, Netflix, and Netflix ‘n chill for that matter. (And, no, the latter doesn’t count as connection if your brain’s miles away from your partner during the act.) Some of us have successfully built a whole cage out of our own, technical heroin water. We’ve built a rat hell – which deceivingly looks like a park in all its allure and avatar pals. It’s not. In that way, most of us can identify with stigmatized addicts. Because most of us are, in some sense. With the help of introspection and connection with our fellow “rats”, we can pull ourselves out of our respective mouse infernos.
How? By taking some quiet time to reflect on what we want. We quiet need time away from the glistening damnation in which we’ve ensconced ourselves. And why the fluff is that important? ‘cause – part of the curse of being higher-consciousness beings – we aren’t animals waiting on bipolar lab-coated sadists to build our rat parks (while our isolated, involuntary dope fiend neighbors go through the sweats and shakes). No one’s gonna do it for you. You’ll hear a lot of implied lies in the form of commercials and entertainment. But no answers. And – so long as we’re distracted by our phones and T.V.’s – something else, something external, is always gonna be dictating to you what you want. (Protip: It’s not what you want. Not if didn’t want it till someone suggested you weren’t good enough without it.) Some refer to the solution as meditation, but there are plenty’a ways to achieve this state. It doesn’t matter. It could happen during a thoughtful jog. While you’re fishing. As you pluck your nose hairs. Nobody cares. The point is that you block out the BS, find out what matters most to you, and then sow the seeds from there by taking right actions. Every damned day.
A recovering addict’s rat park is kinda like a tree.
The branches bear the fruit of all our connections, passions, and positive stimulation.
But they only flourish if we tend to the roots.
And avoid toxic exposure – however much we may miss it.
Think you’re well connected to your fellow species members?
Great. Then answer me this: How many friends do you have on Facebook?
…that you actually in-the-flesh hang out with? Or ever would?
This may seem like a kinda strange way to break into talking about addiction.
However, the issue of connection – or a lack thereof – is indeed one fascinating common denominator most addicts share. And that makes sense, if you think about it. ‘cause as this captivating dude who gave a TED talk recently explains – when we lack any constant, positive, true interaction with others, we seek substitute means to feel connected. Even via artificial means. Stay disconnected – and that can turn into what you ‘n I know as addiction. This sort’ve rivals the old theory – that “anyone can get addicted if exposed to a chemical long enough”. Why? ‘cause my patients who roll into my clinic all doped up on Dilaudid (or whatever they’re peddling nowadays) don’t start hitting up the pill mill for refills when their body recovery time’s ended a week or three later. They don’t switch over and pick up a firewater habit either. They’re anxious to get back to their nice, normal lives. Why? They’ve got something good to return to. A family, friends, job, whatever. Pro’lly all three. True addicts are different.
And it’s not just humans who demonstrate this either.
In a fascinating series of studies, scientists tinkered with (what else but) rats. Or maybe they were mice. Who knows. The point is that they revealed a good bit o’ mindblow while using them to study addiction. How’s that, you ask? Well, to answer that, we hafta look at the first round of experimental designs – which explain why that former “anyone can get addicted” fallacy was so popular for a while. In that preliminary test, the white coats threw Mickey, Minnie, and all their homies in separate cages equipped with nada but two kindsa water. The first? Your average, unfettered agua. The other? A drug puddle; heroin laced H2O. And what happened? Well, in this circumstance, the rats would almost always prefer the drugs. They’d eschew the clean stuff, chug the junkie brew, and overdose pretty much every time. And from this, they assumed, they could draw the conclusion that anyone (any rat at least) could get addicted.
Right? Case closed?
Not necessarily…
Because on the heels of that study, someone with more “outside the cage” thinking came along. And what they noticed was something relevant: the experimental design. The cage layout. The other options the rat had. These poor furry bastards were sat in these dismal digs – no real stimulation other than their daily rations and a sole (albeit synthetic) supply of feel-good. What this scientist knew is that when we’ve got an alternative au natch means of feel-goodery (via our daily doings with other beings), we’re less inclined to pursue the faux version of it. To test this theory, homeboy did something equal parts innovative and brilliant. What he constructed was called a “rat park”. An amusement park for rats. Other rats, toys, tunnels, puzzles, tons of fun stimulation, and… (still) the two kinds of water. One spiked. One not. This bit remained the same from previous experiment.
The results?
While the rats in study one had a 100% OD rate… rat park residents had none.
They didn’t want the heroin laced drank.
When they had better shiz to do, the dope water was avoided like a vat of hot lava.
So… how’d they go from 100% to zero?
Well, here’s a hint. In tennis, zero means love.
And love – stimulating connection with others – is exactly what the park provided.
The takeaway here’s that when we live happy and connected lives, we’ll wanna use far less – if at all. Program’s like NA and AA adhere to this theory brilliantly. Because a reformed addict can well connect with another addict – as they can recall what that life was like. That’s the connection element. The yes-and to this? That – should an addict relapse – they are always welcomed back with open arms. Literally. (Seriously, they love hugging over there.) And that’s another epic pointer the TED dude (his name’s Johann Hari, BTW) brought up about dealing with addicts. (Espesh if you’re a non-addict who can’t identify and has difficulty dredging up empathy.) The idea’s that an intervention’s not the answer. Compassion and willingness to connect is. Because, right now, the user’s chemical of choice is either the only or main sense of connection they feel in their lives. To threaten to take that away only will drive them closer to it.
The compassionate take, on the contrary, proposes the concept of unconditional love. Bear with me here – ‘cause I get if that sounds kinda campy – but there’s a logic behind it. If the underlying problem is disconnection, then coming in with a segue of connection is a far better answer than ripping out the rug from under ‘em. As dumb as it sounds, it’s more likely to work than the use of force. People want some positive connection. If wine’s all an alcoholic feels connected to, they’ll cling to that shiz till their liver throws up the deuce sign. You getting angry does nothing. The idea, Hari says, is to offer unconditional love. An offer to connect. An invitation. A possible replacement, that shows they’ve got more than a toxic means to feel accepted and safe. This is incredibly difficult – as the loved one of an addict. Especially if many people love the addict. Because it means you all have to be on the same page: voicing your concerns, yet letting them know you’re there for them with an offer of unconditional love. No, I won’t help you slowly kill yourself or confirm your poor lifestyle choices – but I also won’t get angry or judge.
(This is also tough logic to follow if the loved ones are co-dependents or enablers.)
And another example Hari pointed out demonstrated the effectiveness of this on a grander scale.
In Portugal, when drugs were decriminalized, they set up a special program for recovering addicts. What it centered on was giving addicts a second chance – by giving them a purpose. Going to prospective employers, they made the following proposition: you hire this ex-junkie, and we’ll foot fifty percent of the bill when it comes to his earnings. Just give him a job for at least a year and we’ll go Dutch on his check. The result of Portugal’s change? Injected drug use went down fifty percent, OD deaths declined significantly, and so did drug related HIV cases. Having a purpose – having a reason to get up and spark those connections we need (but are often hesitant to make outta fear) is crucial for humans. Thus, having a function made junkies recover – by giving them a new life perspective. One with people, stimulation, and work. Just like the Rat Park – with its other rats, toys, and puzzles.
So, I gotta ask: what’s missing from your park?
And is that driving you back to the spiked punch water?
That’s a question that took me some serious meditation and consulting with others to answer. Some days I still even hafta add amendments to my reply. There will always be that vat of aqueous temptation sitting somewhere in the corners of my cage. It might be wine at a family gathering. It might be the bottle of sake at the table next to me when I go out to PF Chang’s. It might be the Fentanyl I’m offered the next time I’m rushed the emergency room with a kidney stone – while in the throes of my weakest condition – pain. However, there’s a perspective now that gets me through. One that jibes with this talk. Because I realize now: so long as I keep the other elements in my life lodgings organized, I’m stable. So long as I keep both my outer and inner toys in my rat park well-maintained, I don’t need artificial comfort.
And so long as I’ve got positive rats around me, I can keep that perspective.
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.
It’s been 30 days. One month. 720 consecutive hours… that you’ve remained clean.
And by now you officially have so many meetings and self-help books under your belt that you waking yourself up in the middle of the night, reciting the opening program literature betwixt Buddhist quotes. Why the hell do you need to “keep coming back” now? Isn’t it stuck in there enough?
Not necessarily, says science.
You see, while the step programs will let you know straight away that they’re “spiritual, not religious”, we can’t avoid the basic biology behind it. I mean, they can, ‘cause it’s not their job to teach you brain science (plus you’d probably get bored). All you need to know is the old idiom “it works if you work it”. But if you’re naturally curious and intrinsically critical like I am, you probably have a million and one questions. Sure, you might remain quiet about them in a meeting – for the sake of seeming to seek out “similarities; not differences”, but the two year old within you batters you with the monosyllabic “Why? Why? But… WHY?” And she won’t be quieted until you get home and do some Googling yourself. Which is exactly what I did on one of those many sleepless nights, early on, when I was hoping to find something scientific to prove this was all one big stream of dog diarrhea and I shouldn’t be there. Unfortunately for my truculent ego terrified of change, I was gonna be disappointed.
What I found, early on in recovery, was a bit of neuro-scientific fact called neuroplasticity:
Neuroplasticity, also known as brain plasticity, is an umbrella term that encompasses both synaptic plasticity and non-synaptic plasticity—it refers to changes in neural pathways and synapses due to changes in behavior, environment, neural processes, thinking, and emotions – as well as to changes resulting from bodily.
Yes. Anything you do – any habit – literally, physically changes your brain.
You could spend those three months playing piano or learning Spanish instead, and you know what? Well, you’d get really good at bellowing out Enrique Iglesias’s “Hero” in his native tongue while plunking out the accompanying chords (couldn’t hurt on the dating scene, either, IMHO). But, also, a brain-o-gram (very medical term) would show structural changes… just like it would after several months of AA or NA meetings (granted – maybe different looking in that different parts are being activated – but visibly altered in both situations nonetheless). Whatever you repeat, you become better at – whether it’s laudable or loathsome. You are your habits. But you can change your habits. Thus, you can change who you are.
And that’s because of the nature of neuroplasticity.
If you repeat taking drugs and drinking, you get very skilled at exactly that (until your neurological system fails you and you get the shakes while try’na fill your goblet, of course). Do you wanna get better at remaining clean? Then you stay clean one day at a time. And if you wanna get better at remaining clean without resenting it, life, and everyone in it? Then you stay clean, one day at a time, hang around people who’ve been both sober and serene, and do what they do until all the little bridges in your brain link up just right and you realize you’re manifesting the same kinda life yourself. That may be one of the most important things to remember if you believe only what you see. It’s not just an idea, this neuroplasticity. It’s a physical thing happening in your head’s organ that you just can’t see ’cause you’re eyes can’t process what’s directly behind ’em (but you can look at plenty of other people’s MRI readouts to know it’s true).
And how long’s that take to accomplish? Well, there’s some argument about it. Some have claimed it takes as little as 21 days. Others say it takes at least 66. Some even claim it takes up to 200. Now, that’s a pretty wide range. But when it comes to a habit that had the help of actual chemicals changing your skull’s contents versus one generated by mere thoughts? Well, ain’t nobody got time to say they ain’t got time to invest in renovating that. Which is why you’ll hear “keep coming back” whether you’ve got 90 days or 90 years.
But there’s a reason they do key tag milestones for the first three you survive clean.
