I have been both surprised and delighted with the support and outpouring of love I've received with Sober and So Brie. You are all such beautiful, bright friends. Thank you.
Today I want to talk a bit about the stereotypes we hold of someone who has an addiction, and about challenging them, and about perhaps opening our hearts to the addict or alcoholic who still suffers.
So, like, until I went to treatment, I didn't even think I was an alcoholic, because I for real didn't even meet my own stereotype of what an alcoholic or a drug addict was. I wasn't homeless, I'd never been in prison or even arrested. I didn't prostitute myself for drugs, nor did I ever deal them. I wasn't stealing from my family. I fudging had my shiz together, get me? I mean, but there WAS the fact that I rarely left my home - or even my bedroom while in my addiction - and being a mama, wife, sister, daughter, writer, and equestrian - all the things I identified with that brought my happiness and pride - were completely bulldozed and buried while I ran full-tilt to an early death found at the end of an empty bottle - but never you mind I had just popped twelve perc 10's and a handful of klonopin washed down my throat with some whisky. I wasn't homeless! I wore cardigans and designer jeans and pleated capris - DRUG ADDICTS DON'T WEAR DESIGNER JEANS! I will drink this fudging vodka in my fudging pleated capris and I will not feel fudging ashamed, because I don't have a fudging problem! My wardrobe somehow protects me from the label of drug addict or alcoholic!? -----Yeah okay Brie, you keep doing those mental gymnastics to make you feel less alcoholic-y.
*Eye roll.*
So, yeah, spoiler alert - I am an alcoholic and a drug addict. I wear LuLuLemon and carry my blind shih tzu around in a cute tote bag, mostly just because I can. And I am just as much a bottom of the barrel, almost lost my life and everything I hold dear to an addiction as any other addict who has ever prostituted themselves or used needles or whatever. I was engaging in extremely risky and dangerous behavior as well; I simply tried to hide it in different ways.
Chances are, and I'll literally bet you a million dollars on this - unless you're a hermit who only talks to their great aunt every month, begging for some social security money - that you absolutely, no doubt about it, have a neighbor, coworker, friend, sibling, child, soulmate...who is an addict. We live among you, in the dark, entrenched in the longest, deepest night we have ever endured. We are afraid of your light - it seems too bright, too perfect - we don't want to dirty you. We fear your resentments and judgments you'll have if you hear how much we are struggling - we fear your eye rolls, or your dismissive retorts. We know that our addictions are glaring in the light of day, but please, share some of your light with us. We need you. We need to know that there is a warm, hopeful morning ahead of this dark, dreary, horrific night we are enduring. We know we are the worst. We are screw ups. We are maddening. We just can't get it right.
But we're also human beings. We are also God's children. And because we are His, we, His prodigal sons and daughters, will be welcome in His arms time and time again. God will always throw us a party upon our prodigal return - because His joy at our return is full and perfect. We may leave again, and He will mourn, but if we come back - another party!
In real life, we don't expect a party - hell, we don't deserve one. We know we have hurt you, and your hurts are valid, and we need to hear them, and we need to work hard and work long to repair the damage we've caused in our relationships with you. But please, let us know that there is still hope for us. Send us a note, telling us you're thinking of us. Ask us to go to treatment. Love us even when it hurts. Because we need you. We need your light to pierce the dark corners of our addiction.
When I started this blog, and "came out" about my drug and alcohol addiction, by far, the most emails or texts or comments I've received were "I didn't know! You hid it so well!" We hide it because we are ashamed. We also hide ourselves, too. None of you knew because I didn't want you to know. At least, I thought I didn't want you to know. It got to the point where all I really knew was that I couldn't do this anymore. I was either going to accidentally take a toxic combination of pills and alcohol and be gone, or dammit, I was going to get clean and get help, because my life was so dark, and I needed a warm sunrise. I needed strong arms around me, and I needed to know I wasn't so far gone that God was done with me.
I learned that God was never done with me - and that in my sobriety, He is doing for me what I can't do for myself - sobriety is the best party gift ever that this prodigal daughter has ever received. We addicts and alcoholics CAN get and stay clean, even if we've gone to rehab or tried to get clean 3,847 times - well okay then, support and love us through our 3,848th time. Because THAT could be the time we do it - and then, it will have all been worth it! Because we'll be out in the light, with you, and we can then share our light to those still lost in the darkness. Some of us might be doing this wearing our pleated capris and cardigans while toting around our adorable blind doggos, (ahem...) and some of us may be spreading their light while wearing, like, sweat pants. Or...no pants. If, it like, works for you? We are CEO's of fortune 500's, and we are spending life sentences in prison. We wake up every morning and we go to sleep every night. We are among you, everywhere. We are all the prodigals, returning home. And everywhere, all over the world, we are celebrating. Join us! It's gonna be a killer party.
I look up, dubiously eye the 30 foot vertical climb ahead of me. I'm at the ropes course with the women's residential treatment program I've checked myself into, and every Tuesday, at this ropes course, we are asked to do almost the impossible.
My roommate and I are tied closely together at the waist, and have been asked by our therapist to summit this 30 foot rock wall together, while tied. And, you know, with only enough hand and foot-holds for one person, not two. I push my helmet back and look up again. It's at least 100 degrees out, and it's not even hit noon.
"Oh boy," I mutter to myself. I look at Linda. "You ready?" She grins, says "Yup," and her enthusiasm helps me feel a little better. If there is anyone I would feel brave enough to do this seemingly impossible task with, it would be Linda - my roommate, and my soul-sister in many ways. All the rest of the girls affectionately refer to us as the "Young Grandmas," because we both go to bed at a rollicking 10 pm. (It's always a party in room 9!) I'm so happy she came to treatment, because I know already that I can't ever live without this incredibly brave and beautiful woman.
As we are just about to climb, Shay, one of the recreation therapists, hands me a tall, cold, glass of water. "This is your recovery family," she says. I eye the water crankily. "Recovery family? Huh?"
"This glass of water," she begins again, "represent all of your sisters here in treatment. You need to get them all to the top safely with both of you guys." I moan. Like LITERALLY moan. She cuts me off before I can begin my whining: "Brie, she says quietly, more seriously than I anticipate, they matter too. This carrying is important."
And so Linda and I begin our climb.
The climb would be easy under many circumstances. But, like I said, tied together, and with only enough hand and foot-holds for one person, it was incredibly difficult. As we climbed, one of us was often climbing only one-handed, because of that glass of water and our "recovery family" we were working like crazy to keep ahold of. There was even a time when I was keeping the glass of water clenched in my teeth while I climbed. I'd look up to see how far we still needed to go, and tilting my head back, the cup of water firmly clenched in my teeth, I'd douse myself with water - Great, now my "recovery family" is water-boarding me... this climb was seeming like it would indeed be impossible, and not worth all this effort.
Linda and I struggled on that wall for quite awhile - in searing heat. We'd each take turns carrying up that glass of water; we'd rest when one was too tired to keep going. We'd urge each other on, too. Our sisters below us, on the ground, constantly clapped and cheered and kept their ever watchful gaze on us. We wanted to quit - but there was never any question that we would. We were learning that we can do hard things.
At some point, with perhaps only a few feet to go, our therapist - waiting for us at the top - pulled us up quickly, where we both literally collapsed in the cool shade on top of that tower. We were bruised, scratched, and sunburned. Our whole bodies were literally shaking from the exertion of what we had just done.
But it felt good. We'd just accomplished something really hard, and that was worthwhile. Linda hugged me, and we were both wet through with our sweat. And we didn't care. We'd done it. We'd reached a summit that seemed impossible from the bottom. And we'd done it together.
Fast forward six weeks:
I am graduating from rehab; what we call "coining out" -- meaning, we get a coin (think a chip in the AA world) and the coin is passed around the circle, and everyone says goodbye to me, and leaves something for me in the coin - courage, love, honesty, etc. And then I get a chance afterward to say goodbye to everyone who is still in rehab, and to impart any advice or wisdom I learned while I was sitting where they currently are now.
I tell all of these women - these crazy and tattooed and messy and incredibly intelligent and witty and wise-cracking and brilliant women that I now know why Linda and I had been asked to carry up that glass of water up that tower - I look at them, and I suddenly start crying. And I say, "Please, I don't want to lose any of you. You're my recovery family - MY FAMILY - and we can all do this, okay? Please. Please make it! I'm always here for you. Call me. I will find you and I will do all I can to haul you to where you need to be. We can do this. I love you all."
They all nod back, tears in their eyes. We have oft heard the terrifying statistics: that less than half of us will make it - will live, or achieve sobriety. I hated hearing those statistics because I couldn't bear the thought of losing even one of them to this vile disease of addiction.
Statistics can be changed, you guys, I say fiercely. Let's change them together. Let's ALL make it. We can all make it to the top - it's hard to get there, and it's tiring, and it seems impossible, but it's not. Let's summit together. Let's take turns helping and holding each other up. We can do this. I hug them all goodbye, individually, and tightly, and fiercely. Being in rehab has taught me how to give - and get - a proper hug. None of this limp arms business - if you're going to give a hug, mean it - hold tightly. For so long, for so many of us, we didn't feel lovable. But our mere friendships with each other have shown us that we're ALL worthy of love, and for no other reason that we're all here together. Our age gaps span decades, our DOC's vary from pot to alcohol to crack and heroin. Some of us are rich, some of us are homeless. We don't see any of that. We see each other - vulnerable, tenable women. And thus, worthy of love.
When I hug my friend Katrina, I say, "You deserve to be here, you understand me? YOU DESERVE TO BE HERE. You deserve happiness. You deserve recovery." Katrina nods her head in my hair, wetting my shoulder with her tears. I hug her for a long time, and I hug her hard. I have grown to love this brave and battle-worn sister of mine.
Five days later, she is dead. My hilarious, wise-cracking, vulnerable, wholly deserving sister is gone.
Katrina ran away from treatment, and accidentally over-dosed on heroin. When I hear this news, I am glad I am sitting, because I feel as if I've been punched in the stomach. But I had just had her in my arms! I had just looked in her clear, solemn, sober eyes, and I had seen hope.
My heart is heavy, my mind starts running on fear, and fear alone. What about me? What about my recovery family? All of my sisters I've met and known? What is going to happen to all of us? I hate this disease. I hate this disease. I hate this disease.
And I cry. I cry a lot. And then I get up, and I answer my phone. It is Kathy, a 65 year old woman who saved my life in rehab more times than I can count, and who is my best friend, mama, and partner in crime. She wants to go to a movie with Karen, who also just got out, and who is 66. She asks if Linda and I want to go. For a minute, I almost say no. I'm thinking of Katrina, no longer with us. I'm thinking of my fears. But then I answer loudly and enthusiastically, YES! "Okay dear," Kathy says on the other end of the phone. "Glad you're excited!" And she doesn't know. She doesn't know how excited I am to be with my sisters, hearts beating, minds clear, ever hopeful, ever fighting.
And that's what we did. A 66, 65, 33, and 30 year old bunch of bad-ass warrior sisters went and saw a movie this weekend. I wonder, now, what people must have thought when they saw such a random assortment of women at the movies - different ages and walks of life, different DOC's certainly. Linda and I help Karen up the many stairs in the theater and help her get her food and tray arranged. I can tell Kathy is getting jittery for a cig about halfway through the movie. I keep looking at Linda in the movie and smiling. Smiling because, we made it. We all summited that climb, and we have some of our recovery family with us, at this very moment.
Hey guys, I whisper during the movie, Look! We're watching a movie together!
Linda giggles.
A few minutes later: Hey guys, look! We're sober right now!
Kathy sighs.
A few minutes more: Hey guys, look! We're watching a movie AND completely sober right now!
We all giggle.
Because we know. We get it. We know that something so simple as watching a movie is a gift. It's a gift because we're alive - and we're sober. That is something that we have not been able to be in a very, very long time.
After the movie ends, Linda and I help Karen down the stairs and outside. I hug each of these women fiercely - this strange demographic of young(er) to old(er) women that people keep scratching their heads at. It matters not to me. Our hearts are the same. We are the same.
Linda drops Kathy and Karen back off at sober living, (both have lost their licenses) and then drives to my house. We had excitedly been planning a super crazy slumber party consisting of nobody but the two of us, some Diet Coke, popcorn, and a movie. We start talking, and I relax. We fall asleep on the sofa, never having popped any popcorn, or started the movie - it's 10 o'clock after all, and us "Young Grandmas" need our sleep.
I smile as I drift off. We're free. For that beautiful day, we are free. So is Kathy, and Karen. We're fighting to stay clean, to change our lives. To go to the movies and revel in the simple joys of friendship. And we did it. We are free.
And then my heart hurts - because I remember that Katrina will never be able to go to the movies again, or to talk to or give any of us a hug. But then I know - it hits me -- Katrina is free, too. It might not be the kind of free I want, because I want her here, with me. But I know that God has her wrapped in his arms, and that she isn't cold, or hungry, or in pain, or afraid, or desperate, or hopeless. And then I see her eyes - HER eyes, not her addiction's eyes - those eyes I saw on the day I coined out: her clear, solemn, sober eyes; eyes full of hope. I release the tears of relief and of thanks to my Father in Heaven. She is free. And I know that God will bless her, and keep her, until I see her again.
I drop off to sleep, dreaming of freedom: of that tall tower Linda and I climbed. Of the feeling of victory once it was summited. Of making dinner with Katrina, and laughing with her. Hugging Kathy in her fiercely strong arms. Cracking up with Linda. Freedom, Freedom.
Katrina may be with her Heavenly Father now, but she is still apart of my Recovery Family. I will still carry her with me, everywhere I go, in my heart. And when I reach my sobriety milestones, I'll whisper to her that we did it. WE. The carrying isn't done, you see. It's never done. I'll never stop fighting for and carrying my sisters up this tower to recovery and sobriety - and I am relieved because I know, that if I ever falter, there will always be someone who says "Hell naw, Brie!" and begins fighting like hell to get me to the top. We are a complicated and messy and ridiculously awesome bunch.
And we will never stop seeking freedom.
We just won't. We won't.
Carrying you always, Katrina. Rest easy, my beautiful friend. She Used to Be Mine by Sara Bareilles:
Hey, I’m Brie, and I’m an alcoholic.A drug addict.An anorexic. A Shopoholic. A Masochist.A piece of work. Labelled a "Lifer" of the vicious and pernicious disease of addiction.
You may know or remember me from a blog I used to author and that was quite popular, Blogxygen, which chronicled my recovery from anorexia.My therapist, while in rehab, asked me to share the nitty gritty of my addiction to alcohol, benzos, and opiates - and in doing so, to share with the world to let all of you know - whether you’re addicted to crack or heroine - or maybe just addicted to hating yourself - that there is hope.And that there is a different way.
I had to think about this whole new blog thing, for awhile.I mean, you all learned way too much about me whilst I chronicled my battle of feeding tubes, weight gain and loss, and intensive out patient for the eating disorder.To essentially, with this blog, say, Yo!Look guys!I recovered from my ED, and decided to pick up this nifty drug and alcohol addiction to replace it that nearly killed me and almost took away everything in my life that I hold dear, so come on over to ye olde blog to watch this new train wreck!
All aboard!
Ugh. *Eye roll.*
My therapist is pretty wise, though-- when I decide to not act like a petulant little whiner, and try to convince myself that my easier, softer way, will work -- and believes that maybe sharing my story will help me, sure - but mostly, you.And that is where all of my reservations slip away, my fear is quashed, and my guard lets down: I have lived in horror and humiliation and shame and darkness and isolation in my addiction, and it is the worst hell I have ever lived.My story, I hope, will bring light to the dark corners of your addiction, will be an invitation to come in from the cold.Because there is always a warm place to rest your weary head.
My story isn’t pretty, nor is it stereotypical - be aware of that.I went into residential treatment for 45 days, where I got to know dozens of women that our society has written off: drug dealers, thieves, felons, frauds, prostitutes, hopeless cases.Women, mothers, beautiful warriors.Brave, resilient.My best friends.My story is unique to that of all the women I was with, yet it is all the same - it is a story of pain, and loneliness, and shame, and desperation. Of overcoming. Of forgiving. Of rebuilding. Of discovering. Of freaking conquering.
Keep reading.There is something strange - yet so magical - when someone with a shameful secret decides to not make it a secret anymore - and thus, the shame slips away.My story is so many things, and makes me feel many things, but shame will no longer be one of them.
So, yeah, I’m Brie, and I’m an alcoholic and all of those other addictions; blah blah blah.But I’m also resilient.And funny.Pretty much fudging awesome.(That’s another thing…I’m trying not to swear so much, so you will likely read the words fudge or fark a lot - just go with it.)And, despite my whole track record of collecting addictions and/or self-destructive behaviors like that creepy 30-something-single-white-male who collects My Little Pony, my words still matter, and have merit.
Sober and So Brie is a place to know you’re not alone - no matter the pain or secrets you hold.Sober and So Brie will be a place you can laugh in, and feel safe, no matter how fleeting.Sober and So Brie will offer solutions rather than reasons to use, or permission to feel sorry for yourself and to stay high as a kite.We are alcoholics and addicts, and we have done much wrong, but we are not cast-offs.We are smart and worthwhile and we have so much to give the world.This is the story of just one woman, trying to do just that.
