This is a special appeal to all brothers and sisters in recovery for whom mental illness is anything but an "outside issue." We who are dually diagnosed can help effect positive change within our own support fellowships. This call to action is not about challenging established traditions; it's about validating our own self-worth, individually and collectively, within our recovery communities.
Official website: BringChange2Mind.org
Some folks in recovery might argue that celebrities in the throes of active disease are an outside issue. I humbly beg to differ. It's my belief that we, along with the general public, need to be reminded of the insanity that's part of the addiction package tour. Thank you Charlie Sheen, Amy Winehouse, et al, for being what's known as a good example of a bad example.
Preface: This unfinished post was written in late January 2010. Rather than continue to let it languish unpublished, it's my belief that sharing this unfinished entry is preferable to otherwise probably never having this firsthand experience of an a recovering dually-diagnosed addict, come to the fore. We *do* recover. Namaste'
Living with any sort of mental illness is no picnic, regardless of the condition(s). Popular culture, despite claims and efforts to the contrary, appears to find perverse gratification in exploiting the infirmities of others. Mainstream media (MSM) is the most obvious perpetrator, eager to publicize stories which amplify negative stereotypes. Unfortunately, shock value generates revenue, plus no shortage of armchair critics.
It would be too easy to launch into a full-blown tirade along the lines of "how dare you," but to what effect? Doing so would invariably give more ammunition to those who least deserve it. Therefore, this writer's intent is simply to offer some experience, strength and hope.
Disclaimer: I am not a mental health or medical professional, nor am I a certified drug addictions counselor. Anyone seeking professional assistance with such issues is urged to consult their local accredited practitioners within these fields, thanks.
My indoctrination into the mental health industry came at age eight. No specifics will be offered, but I will take this opportunity to indirectly thank an old friend for founding the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN). As a child, my initial diagnosis was good old-fashioned clinical depression. I didn't start using drugs until I was 12. Back then kids weren't recognized as possibly having BPD, and the diagnosis of PTSD was only assigned to war veterans.
There is a growing body of research which strongly suggests that early childhood trauma may be linked to the development of bipolar disorder. Then comes the typical pattern of self-medication in an attempt to regulate the mood swings inherent with BPD, or to stifle the PTSD in some manner, or both. It certainly didn't help matters that I was already genetically predisposed to become an addict.
Hell hath many suburbs. Mental illness is one of them. So is addiction. When these neighborhoods overlap, treacherous war zones abound, leaving no one unscathed.
I self-medicated for several decades, with a few periodic interruptions when one mental health practitioner or another would deem me: 1) a threat to myself; 2) a threat to others; and 3) in need of inpatient treatment. Lovely. I became an FDA lab rat for Nortriptyline at age 13, forced to take 1000mg doses, which at that time was the maximum suggested for adults. It is important to note that as an adolescent I still hadn't even been properly diagnosed.
There were a few stretches of abstinence from self-medication. A few were during various spiritual "field trips" where I experienced temporary zeal for one religion or another. There were also a couple of 12-step recovery test runs. The recovery was genuine, but so was my still undiagnosed BPD. Both recovery test runs lasted over a year each, and provided enough of the valuable experiences necessary to make me want to return.
My last (and hopefully final) tour of active addiction led me to pursue more potent drugs, and in steadily increasing quantities than ever before. It was a deadly cycle perpetuated between an organically skewed neurochemistry, additional external chemicals ingested, and deep psychological illness. Add to this nightmare the concept of spiritual bankruptcy. If Hell's suburbs recognized democracy, the severity of each disease component might have qualified as a voting district within this individual. The item under consideration was whether or not to keep living, and if so, in what manner?
In late 1994, I began to realize that self-medicating was no longer working. One can only trash their dopamine receptors for so long before there's a major gray matter rebellion. For me this manifested in completely reckless, irresponsible, and frequently dangerous behaviors. This was partly because I clutched fiercely to denial of the depths to which I'd sunk, but mostly I'd all but lost hope that my life could ever become manageable again. At that point "getting better" wasn't an aspiration; it was a foolish fantasy.
Relief came in a roundabout way in late January of 1995. My behaviors finally caught up with me, leading to an arrest. My trial didn't happen until late May. Part of the conditions of my pre-trial release mandated that I be enrolled in a court designated outpatient addictions treatment program. I'd already resumed 12-step participation on my own before this legal condition was issued, but 12-step alone was viewed as insufficient by the court system.
By this time my distrust of the mental health industry had reached epic proportions, and with good reason.
Happy Autumn, folks. As basically not dying would warrant, yesterday marked another natal anniversary. I guess it's time to admit it: I am now middle-aged. That pesky personal bugaboo, vanity, wants me to buy wholesale into the popular media notion that getting older barely escapes qualifying as a criminal activity. Rationale, along with well wishes from some of my favorite people on Earth, continues to help me tell my petty little ego to go f*ck itself. So what if my few gray hairs are plotting to overthrow those which haven't yet succumbed. I'm getting pretty doggone good at knitting hats!
Speaking of annual celebrations, if it weren't for staying clean no matter what, this grateful recovering addict would literally bet the farm that using again would pretty much guarantee that I'd not see another "belly button" birthday. I'm not willing to take that gamble, just for today. Unfortunately, within the past few days, a couple of public figures have left this plane of existence. Names needn't be mentioned. It's just that one of them fought the good fight, and in doing so gained an awesome extension on his life journey. The other one sadly, never quite "got" it even though he'd reportedly been "around" the rooms for a few years.
As it typically happens in these types of situations, the debate over fellowship anonymity, per Tradition Eleven, have built up a new head of steam. Naturally, there are varying degrees of acceptance and rejection. There are even some who boldly (bravely? foolishly?) go so far as to sanction the voluntary breaking of one's own anonymity. Hey, what about anonymity with transparency? It's this addict's opinion that until the time is upon us when the actions of a/an [insert fellowship name] Anonymous member does not potentially have a negative impact on 12-step recovery in general; that discretionary protection remains the driving principle behind Tradition Eleven. Do I believe that Tradition Eleven be updated to address issues of online anonymity? Well, duh!!! =)
One last item to note before I can consider this entry is done... I've reconsidered my earlier position on writing a themed blog. Coming soon to an .rss feed near you, please welcome Dopeless Knitter. Hey, I couldn't *not* do it. ♥
Many years ago, a much beloved old-timer (I'll call him "Tommy") was chairing a meeting of a group in which several members were facing some critical life circumstances. A couple of these affected folks were very active in "service positions" that they honestly couldn't perform during the height of their respective challenges. For them being unable, at that point, to carry out their fellowship responsibilities was like adding insult to injury.
Tommy, now sharing his ES&H on powerlessness in conjunction with service "positions", bowed his head for a moment while he weighed this dilemma. As he raised his head, he slowly took in a deep breath. He scanned the room, appearing to take mental stock of newcomers and established members alike. Another few moments of silence passed as he closed his eyes, and again slowly drew a long, deep breath.
He looked around the room again, this time in a loving and reassured manner. He nodded as if acknowledging some message transmitted only to him. Tommy then got a special gleam in his eye, as was his habit when he'd struck upon something akin to gold. Thank goodness he shared it with the rest of us.
"Who here in this GROUP has a service position?" Tommy asked, already knowing. "Raise your hands, folks. Raise 'em high." Hands started drifting upwards, some more enthusiastically than the others.
"Ok, good. Keep 'em up there. Now, who in this meeting has any sort of service position outside of this group?" About a half-dozen hands joined those already raised. The gleam in Tommy's eyes was now accompanied by an emerging grin he was trying to suppress. The wily old coot wasn't quite finished.
Arms began to droop as Tommy wrangled the message he'd received into physical manifestation. "Don't you let those hands down yet- and if you don't know what "yet" means, it's You're Eligible Too!" He scanned our faces again. Some of us had begun to smile because we knew he was about to deliver his coup de grâce.
"Now, you kids who don't have your hands up, this is your YET. These guys getting sore arms may have 'service positions', but they're just like you. Why? Because what we do here ain't all about earning fellowship Brownie points. It's about being here for our brothers and sisters. Sometimes the way any of us can be of service is by letting our family be of service to us- and that goes for all you 'service junkies' too!" Tommy paused momentarily, letting the message take root.
"Ok. By now some of your arms might be tired enough to where you can't throw a punch at me for making you keep your hands raised for so long." Tommy heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. It was met with appreciative laughter. "Alright, lower 'em. One last thing though, before we wrap up this discussion. It's a question. Will everyone here who is willing to be 'of service' please stand up?"
Every seat was devoid of a fanny.
Honesty, Open-mindedness, and Willingness. We who are about recovery are about being Of Service because it's essential to HOW it works.
