Just Keep Swimming?

The Author, In The Pool

I've been struggling with my own lap swimming as of late. 

I know some of this has to do with asthma and adding upper-body exercises to my weight routine. On Wednesday, I swam a mile, and I did not feel great when I finished. My whole body seemed to stiffen up during the swim, and I had to remind myself of the added intensity in the gym.

The good thing is that any issues with shoulder impingement are not present. 

So I made Thursday an off day, and set out to swim after work today. After swimming a mere 150 yards, I had to stop. I was out of breath, and just had no energy. 

I was also incredibly sad. 

This has been a pattern with swimming lately. In the nine years since I quit smoking, swimming has been my go-to, Zen moment. I always felt better after a swim, minus occasional aches and pains. 

But over the past few weeks, I have noticed that swimming laps is an occasional doorway to sadness, and a host of other difficult feelings and thought processes. I must admit that I am very frustrated with this. 

And while I have an inkling to the origin of these feelings, I'm at a loss at to how best to address it. I still love teaching, coaching and lifeguarding in my spare time. And doing so enhances my overall wellbeing both at work, and at home. 

But I'm a bit fearful. What if this sadness expands beyond lap swimming? What if I start having these feelings of dread and sadness when I'm working in Aquatics? 

I will access my support system, do some private writing, hold close to my higher power, and keep you posted. 

But in the meantime . . . "Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming." 🐳😊

An Old Song and Empathy

I am a lineman for the county

And I drive the main road

Searchin' in the sun for another overload

I hear you singin' in the wire,

I can hear you through the whine

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

Wichita Lineman: Written by Jimmy Webb 

Preformed by Glen Campbell

A friend recently posted a YouTube link to Glenn Campbell preforming Wichita Lineman. I hadn't heard his rendition of this beautiful tune in ages, so I clicked on the attachment from her social media page.

As a child, I just knew I loved the song. Though I had never given the lyrics much thought, I could feel the sadness in the melody. As with many songs during that time, I sang with Glen whenever he came on the radio. Hearing Wichita Lineman again brought me back to the old neighborhood, and the people there when the song was popular. 

Just down the street from my childhood home were a pair of larger, duplex-style houses that had been converted to apartments. The houses had broad, open front porches that were made for sitting and watching the world of small town, neighborhood living. Some friends of mine lived in one of the apartments, closer to Beaver Pond at the corner of East Valentine and Brackett. I remember enjoying time alone, playing under their porch when my friends weren't home. As a child, I loved finding little crawlspaces where I could feel safe.

The next house up from theirs had a group of men who lived in one of the apartments for a brief time. I can barely remember them, except that they were old greasers from the 50's. They smoked on the front porch and drank quarts of Budweiser and Miller beer. One man in particular had the signature slicked, though thinning, hair with the DA in the back. He was a frail man that seemed to be in ill health. All of the men wore old, grayish-white t-shirts with their cigarette packs rolled up in one of the sleeves, setting the package of smokes on their shoulder. I assume these men were in their early to mid forties. But somehow, they seemed older, even to the child that I was at the time. I want to say that the other two men were mechanics. I seem to remember their hands were always greasy, and I think there were coveralls worn from time to time. 

The men were quiet and friendly to the neighborhood kids. They also had good boundaries. They were happy to talk with us, but would not let us come up on the porch because they smoked. At least, that's how I remember it. They listened to a transistor radio and spent their summer days off drinking quarts of beer and chain smoking. I remember the occasional muted tones when the men spoke of things they did not want us to hear, but I do not recall them ever cussing in front of us. If we lingered, they would politely send us on our way. 

We were curious kids who had the run of the neighborhood. This was a time when Brackett Street was a dead-end road that opened up on two sand pits and a path into the woods. We could also pick up this path from behind my house, and we'd hike on summer days; playing cowboys and Indians, or pretending to win World War II single handedly. For context, this was in the late sixties-early seventies, and we were all between seven and ten years old. 

What jumped out at me when listening to Wichita Lineman yesterday was a time when the smaller, frail man with the greased back hair and signature DA was sitting on the porch. Glen Campbell was our only other companion, and the song was wafting over the railings to the sidewalk where I played below. 

I distinctly remember the frail man sitting quietly and listening to the song as he smoked and nursed a quart. I can see his eyes welled with tears, and his chest slowly heaving from deep, slow sighs. As the tears began to flow, I felt his sadness in a way that was previously unbeknownst to me in my still young life (which says a lot, given my history). I wanted to hug him. I really felt for this man and his sadness.

The memory was so detailed, I was sure my life lived since was coloring this singular experience, referenced from my childhood. While faces and names elude my recollection, the strength of the feeling nestled on the notes of the song is what came roaring back to me. In my minds eye, I can see that older gentleman quietly sobbing in a chair on that porch.

I was venturing up the steps to see the man when one of his companions came out and abruptly shooed me away. I have no other memory of these folks, and I'm not sure why or how this came up as a result of hearing the song again. 

What I do know is that the already abused child that I was could still feel empathy for another human being. Discovering I had this quality is one of those little, but important victories for a trauma survivor. Thanks to a wonderful friend in recovery for mining this nugget with me earlier today as we processed together. To loo back and see only pain and anguish feeds the fears of trauma survivors. Here was additional proof that I had the ability to sympathize with another human being. How glorious! 

One thing I'm sure of is that there was a connection for me with this man's immense sadness. The adult writing this post realizes that the song must have resonated with the man in a way that tapped into a deep loss and longing so beautifully illustrated in the lyrics and melody of the lineman's predicament.

The lonely job of maintaining a connection, long since gone. And hoping against all hope that the past commonalities will create a future opportunity to plug back in. 

Reviewing my own life, I know there are times that connections have happened as a result of shared trauma experiences. Sometimes, these connections manifest themselves in unrequited love. Other moments consist of shared experience or witnessing another's display of behaviors. These actions expose possible past trauma that can create a silent kinship between two people. 

There are the obvious, professional brushes with the knowledge of someone's trauma history. These moments are systemically loaded with professional and personal skills sets that allow for letting go. Over my work history, I have been blessed with an overwhelming amount of positive supervision experiences when these circumstances have surfaced.

But on occasion, I will come in contact with an individual's (adult or child) behavior that mirrors my own trauma history. Like an identical thumbprint, these moments encapsulate the awareness trajectory of my own history and the associated struggles. Sometimes, the singular instance I've witnessed has led to my setting specific boundaries. Other times, I'm so knocked off my feet, that I will fumble my response; however well intentioned.

Like the lineman in the song, I search the sun for additional overloads. A marked improvement over the nooks and crannys of darkness where I acted out my personal trauma script, years ago. But to lay in wait for an opportunity to assist with another's wellness plays out the dynamic of the rescuer in a way that can lead to harm for both self and others. Stepped over boundaries, regardless of how loving my motives are, can lead to anger and resentment for those afflicted as I have been. 

It can be anywhere from difficult, to impossible, to incredibly risky to approach an individual who I've seen with previous behaviors that tip their hand about the potential of their history. In these delicate cases, to risk connection is to expose one's own history. The vulnerability involved requires an optimal measure of courage and self-care. The decision to come forward has to be well thought out, and involves safety measures both for the self, and offered to the person in question. 

And still, the answer may be, "No thanks." 

As a result of living my own recovery, I know there are people who have waited years (even decades) with an open heart for a time when I was ready to disclose aspects of my own history that were extremely sensitive and difficult to process. These beautiful souls balanced letting go with keeping a loving space available for me to enter, when ready. 

One of these individuals is a co-facilitator of the men's group I attend. He is an amazing man, but I kept our association adversarial for over two decades. I believe the energy I spent trying to maintain conflict with him was a defense to what I know all too well now.

This man could see my trauma. Aspects of my behavior were identical thumbprints with his story. Faces, names, dynamics and institutions may have differed, but he knew me when he looked at me, and I was frightened by that. I also see him individually from time to time for therapy. Aside from doing his own work, he is a masterful professional.

There have been moments in my life where I have been the one blessed with waiting with an open heart for another person to approach me with their pain. The gifts of wisdom and love are contained within the waiting, and letting go. Though I often do not see these skill development intervals as gifts during the process. 

I know I need a small vacation

But it don't look like rain

And if it snows that stretch down south won't ever stand the strain

And I need you more than want you,

And I want you for all time

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

But on occasion, I struggle with the letting go part. I can be frustrated, and cling to the notion that I alone am the one best suited to offer help. I start to believe that my healing is contingent on connecting with another's pain. Or I believe that (like the song says) I am obligated to stay around, should a sudden snowfall threaten to break the lines of another. What if I stop being available? What happens if the behavior is emblematic of future self-harm for the individual in question? Or danger for them? Do I stand by and do/say nothing? What if something happens to them? 

In these rare but difficult cases, I lose focus and start to tell myself that processing another's pain is the key to my well being. It's not really a conscious decision. In fact, it can happen as a result of keeping the focus on myself.

Many times in my recovery, these thumbprints have been cornerstones of awareness and opportunities to work on myself and my own story. I believe it is impossible to look within as the result of a brush with another's history, without finding empathy and compassion for that individual. There are people who have been all too briefly in my life that I feel an immense amount of love and gratitude for, as a result of the introspection their thumbprint moments welcomed in my world.

But doing the introspective? Why bother? When I can groove on all the potential pitfalls that await an individual who in effect, has triggered me? Subconsciously, these thought processes are an effort to cover over my own pain. They are overtly dressed in anger and resentment for revealing my truth via messengers and mirrors.

Taking the opportunity for soul-searching is an important gift a trauma survivor can give to themselves. And sometimes, that initial gift is given to us by bearing witness to another's thumbprint behavior. What I've learned to recognize and acknowledge is this: Just because someone exhibits a given behavior, does not guarantee that they will follow the exact path I have. Their pain belongs to them. So does their recovery. It is never my place to attempt to write their story for them.

Instead of plugging in to the fringes of their world, letting go can be the most productive thing that I can do for another's struggles. This does not mean I cannot ever offer help. Nor does it require me to ignore social and community experiences I enjoy, but I must listen when parameters or boundaries are set. If my insights and experience are rebuffed, then I owe it to myself and the other person or thumbprint, if you will, to let it go.

There is another power that I can plug into. Countless deities and philosophies have suggested trusting in something larger than my ego. As Max Ehrmann says in Desiderata , the Universe really is unfolding as it should. I can make peace with a power greater than myself and my tired and weary soul. And these parts of myself that have been awakened by another's behavior can be healed, or they would not have been revealed to me in the first place. My universe too is unfolding as it is supposed to.

Letting go, and healing is the only path to an open heart. A heart that can be available, should the time come where a thumbprint from the past avails themselves, I can be ready with love, compassion, and understanding. For I have truly freed myself from the need for their healing.

And as the Universe unfolds, room for others to bring their thumbprints are opened. My original need and want has been to heal that frightened and abused child that grew up as best as he could. He continued leaving thumbprints everywhere he went, and he did his absolute best to become a better person than what was delivered to him. Sometimes the leaving of those thumbprints meant further exploitation, which held me in a paralysis of fear as an adult, accessing recovery. The release happened on a grander schedule based in small, but meaningful, personal footwork. I should be as loving and patient with others as the Universe has been with me.

And I need you more than want you,

And I want you for all time

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

Little Mikey is who I wanted and needed all along. And if you're one of the thumbprints in my life, you've helped lead me back to him. And I shall be forever grateful. 

It is my hope that the power lines I and others hang onto today are connected to the greater Universe, and all the power that sustains us. May we shed the old lines that have drained our spirit for so long. May the bitter snowfall cease to threaten the strength of connections we have in our lives. And may we all be able to stand together one day. 

Until that day comes, I release you, with love. 

M 

Self Care At Work (Or Away From Work)

Not My Image 

I'm back from vacation this week, so I thought I'd write a little bit about balancing self-care and work.
I work in the mental health field, so federal confidentiality prevents me from speaking in specifics about my job. As a mental health consumer in recovery, I am grateful for the federal statutes that protect confidentiality. So I will endeavor to discuss dynamics and not people going forward. The only exception to this will be my story, as it relates to working in the recovery field and maintaining personal wellness.
I've been in the field in one professional capacity or another for over 25 years now. My resume includes experience working in group homes, drug and alcohol treatment facilities, acute psychiatric, inpatient hospital care, shelter services, detoxification units, and group homes.
I've also been a consumer of just about all of the above services. I started out in a detox on October 30th, 1989. I went to outpatient treatment (Now there's a place I've yet to work). I then went, begrudgingly, to a men's group home that focused on treating drug and alcohol addiction. My first couple of years of sobriety saw stays at some supportive living environments that were for addicts/alcoholics in recovery. At seven years sober, I had a 14 day stay in an inpatient psychiatric hospital.
I've also been to Caron Foundation in Wernersville, Pennsylvania. And made gains via individual and group therapy. I'm currently in a facilitated men's group with a therapist whom I see on occasion.
During my psychiatric inpatient stay, I was working in the mental health field as a per-diem worker for a local organization that provides supportive housing.
My first day on the regular unit, I recognized a patient I had provided support to as a staff person at that housing organization. I avoided all eye contact, and returned any chance mutual glance with angry glares. Inside, I was so ashamed to be on the unit (in general) and with this other patient; whom I thought must hate me.
This guy ( I will call him "Russ") waited until I was seated and comfortable before approaching me.

Hey Mike.
Hey Russ.
How long you been here?
Two days.
Are you takin' any meds?
Paxil
That's good Mike. It's good to see you takin' care of yourself.

I ran to my room and cried.
I need to talk about shame. We can get to ego later, but the fist thing I am aware of as I type this is the shame that I felt at having been diagnosed with a mental illness. I thought my recovery program from drugs and alcohol was strong enough to keep me from having a mental illness. I also believed the skills I had gained during my own recovery from trauma would shield me from any additional mental health diagnoses. And I further believed that working in the mental health field was somehow an immunity from being one of "Those people."
A friend in recovery came to see me, and I instantly started critiquing my recovery program. If only I had wrote in my journal more, prayed harder, tried to stop cruising, made a bigger effort to let go, did something, anything but what I was finding fault with about myself under the present circumstances.
My friend stopped me in my tracks. He said,

Mike . . . You're sober, you're breathing, you're in a treatment facility . . . That's going to any lengths.

There was no margin for error in his statement. Another friend from recovery had blown into the hospital a day after me. He had finished off a manic episode with a cocaine, free-base, three day binge. He had asked how I managed to get to the psych hospital sober, and asking for help.
I think I just disclosed the ego piece, let's return to shame.
Depression is a physical illness. Shame is a different animal altogether. In my quest for recovery, I had dispersed (so I though) some of my deeper fears about mental illness by holding up the things I had done well as justification for the deeper feelings of guilt and shame around my trauma history; much of which had yet to be revealed to me. Thank god for that!
And there's nothing wrong with gratitude! But what I had done was place my level of wellness above the misfortune of those I was working with professionally. This ego-driven form of self justification in search of my better self (in comparison to others) had set me up for shame at the humanity of my circumstances with my own mental illness. I had, in effect, built my own pedestal of perceived wellness to stand upon and judge those I was charged with supporting. In doing so, I contributed to the very pitfall I had ended up in when depression had its way with me.
In retrospect, depression had always been with me. I could check out of life for days at a time with little or no contact with others. The exception being the ever-present obsessive pursuit of anonymous sex. I could sleep for 12-14 hours and claim to myself that I was tired or overworked. Then take a long drive, and end up showered and back in bed for another day or so.
The medication I received as a result of the hospitalization was truly life saving, but the trip out from the hospital and into the community was a long and bumpy road. Thank goodness for the funding streams of the time with the state bureau of mental health for support with medications, short-term rent subsidies, and other supports. I would not have made it otherwise. It can take upwards of six weeks for an SSRI (Selective Serotonin Re-Uptake Inhibitor) to have a consistent therapeutic effect. I spent two of those weeks in a hospital, and a few weeks just trying to stay around people and fight off the continued thoughts of suicide. There were friends who looked after me, and community supports that kept me going. I would wake in the morning, take meds, have breakfast, pray, and retreat to the couch to cry until my appointment with local supports. That's about all I could do for the first two to three weeks out of the hospital. And people wonder why patients cycle in and out of treatment.
When I was ready to work again, I got hired to look after folks who were in need of support in their own homes. It was a great job, and afforded me both an income and a flexible schedule with which to attend to my own recovery
As time went on, I found that my professional work helped center me and keep me keenly aware of my own need for emotional wellness. But I started viewing the population I served in a different light. I had been where they were at on a more intimate level, and I was embraced by many of the folks I had served professionally. And like getting clean and sober, they were quick to both love and offer supports unique to staying well and keeping my emotional ship sailing; even in rough seas.
From time to time, I would encounter one of these folks who stayed in the hospital with me in my professional life. Nothing of my hospital stay was ever disclosed, and the former patients who were now consumers in whatever capacity I worked in were open to the process the given organization offered.
Like maintaining personal sobriety, I needed to pursue personal mental health recovery independent of my work environment. I had made some wonderful connections over seven years of staying clean and sober, and these connections served me well in discovering avenues for mental health wellness too.
Occasionally (more often than not, it seems at times) I will access professional services to work on that emotional wellness. I currently attend a facilitated men's group. When needed, I will meet individually with one of the facilitators for some more intimate conversation. This latest set up happened as a result of good supervision at work. I confided in a supervisor that a treatment related intervention had triggered some memories for me, and they directed me to the employee assistance program. EAP, in turn directed me outside of the footprint of my agency, so I could have the freedom to talk with a provider about my own experiences without trying to please that part of my ego that says I need to put on a good face for work.
There are other providers in my men's group, and while we don't "tell tales out of school," there is the mutual understanding of maintaining our own wellness while facilitating recovery for others. Some folks call this wearing two hats, or being a "two-hatter."
I recently had a dear friend receive services from a division under the umbrella of the agency I work for. Given that they had experience working in the field, we were able to establish what our personal and professional boundaries would be with ease. Some additional supervision helped to shore up those boundaries as well.
But I forgot about the intensity of the feelings I may experience, given their personal situation. I have been focusing on supporting the significant other of my friend with their sobriety and left the mental health piece to the competent and capable professionals in their life.
And I took the intensity of the feelings to a private mentor, so as not to break any confidentiality. A fellow provider for a different agency, they know how to help me process feelings without going into specifics about the individuals in question.
It's said that Maine is one big, small town, and these situations come up from time to time. For me, it is important to remember that there are folks who can deliver services while I engage in self-care. And that there are others (both professional and personal) that can help me chunk down what is mine, and what belongs "on the clock" so to speak.
The biggest lesson though, is to never, ever, consider myself to be better than anyone I provide services to. Twenty years ago, that ego-feeding process kept me away from accessing services long enough to be almost fatal. And the love and support from folks I judged so harshly, helped create the cornerstone to the platform I have for wellness today.
Peace,
M :-)

Hello Folks!

I've been working on a post, but it's taking some twists and turns into personal introspection I'm not ready to share. I ask for your patience while I continue to work on my latest piece.
In the meantime, enjoy your lives, and post your favorite leisure activity in the comments section.
What are your hobbies? What activities or community service brings the important aspects of your life into focus?

Swimming Post

As Promised: 

Mike B

July 16, 2011 ·  · 

This was my first time doing the YMCA Peaks to Portland Swim in July of 2011. M :-) — at East End Beach, Portland Maine.

Mike B 

July 16, 2011 at 11:54am · 

I did it! Thanks to all who showed up to cheer me on, especially Rod. Thanks to Sarah for bringing a Rainbow Flag for me to wrap myself in. When I started, I panicked and almost gave up, but stuck to it and finished. What a wonderful site to see so many folks I knew on the beach. Thank You. M♥

Rethinking It

Not My Image

Trigger Warning: Discussion of Trauma

I started this blog on June 18th with the goal of thirty posts in thirty days. A hefty dose of writing and introspection I hadn't considered. Twenty-six days and twenty posts later, I believe I might need to rethink this strategy. 

Unbeknownst to me, I have been emotionally revisiting all of the feelings related to the posts that have to do with trauma. I know that some of the entries are skills-based, or gratitude focused. But the magnitude of squishing together years of work on an emotional scale has been overwhelming for me. In my quest to write and purge about my history, I neglected to consider the effect this would have on my being. 

My first thought was maybe I shouldn't have started the blog. Maybe I should shut it down. That's a rash and extreme thought based in emotional turmoil. Ahhh! Detachment with a chain-saw! That's the way to go! 

One would think that the number of missed days may have been an indicator of just how challenging this journey can be. All too often, I've had to retool my exercise routine; foregoing intensity to gain consistency. 

But a softer, more nurturing series of thoughts began to come to me after some quiet time and reflection. This particular reflection was based in self-care, and gentleness, and not thoughts set ablaze by past trauma history or as of yet, unnamed emotional turmoil. 

So I think I will own what the universe has already dictated to me. I will take space from blogging as needed for the purpose of self care. 

Radical thoughts here, I know. 

I have noticed previously that there is a yank the band-aid off intention when I start to explore or process through any trauma history. Even though this has not been my overall experience in recovering from this stuff. I need only look over my shoulder to see that memories and moments critical to my well being have been handed out piecemeal, exactly in time with what the universe needed to care for me. 

Side Note: I like the term "universe" or "divine" over any specific spiritual deity. However, I may still use "higher power" or some other form of proper or pronoun from time to time. 

And so, I decided on some level to sprint out of the blocks when I created this space. I did supplement with previously written pieces (I LOVE to write), and other snippets that I had tooled and retooled over time. I've decided that a brisk walk with occasional breaks may be more fruitful for all concerned, as opposed to an all-out sprint. 

To risk playing out the exercise metaphor a little too far, and occasional swimming post may be in order as well. No really, talking about swimming is my passion, and it's good for me to write about it. Besides, the title of this blog is Aquatic Renewal after all. 

With that being said, I also may revert to the occasional gratitude based post more often. And I know that, based on the number of views, those posts are deeply appreciated too. 

And I want you to know that I give thanks to those that have stopped by to read, reflect, and comment on these posts. 

One more thing, I may, on occasion, ask for encouragement on here. I have a wonderful support system in my world, but it might be a good idea to be more vulnerable with the very people I'm trying to connect with in cyber-land as well. 

Peace, 

M :-) 

Symptomatic Behavior

Not My Image

There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root. 

-Henry David Thoreau, naturalist and author (12 Jul 1817-1862) 

Trigger Warning: Discussion of coping skills and behaviors that can be self-harming. 

This is only my take on the topic at hand. I am hopeful that it is helpful to discuss it here. 

For years, I struggled with addictions/problems beyond drugs and alcohol. Nicotine, compulsive behaviors, attitudes, self harm, compulsive eating, the list goes on and on. I'm sure that there are folks who can add to this list of coping skills and behaviors meant to cover up pain. I wish I could say that I'm free and clear from this infinite list. I am not. 

I'm also of the belief that clinging to these behaviors is a way to dictate the pain I am feeling. What a powerful action to consider something that will bring harm to oneself. Not everyone finds themselves three or four steps into a destructive behavior wondering how they got there. Many will choose the behavior as a means of delivering some level of pain. The choice to do so is nothing like the daily psychobabble folks can be bombarded with (You're making bad choices. You should consider healthy behaviors) by well-meaning friends, support systems and providers. 

On the contrary, choice can be at the crux of our decision to deliver pain unto ourselves. There is power in the choice, and the pursuit of control is at the heart of that power. 

As a survivor of adverse childhood experiences, I was used to self-medicating my pain. Having the additional propensity for addiction, led to a path of consumption of drugs and alcohol to the point of self-destruction. At 27 years old (and after numerous attempts at getting clean and sober), I was able to access the right amount of treatment to match my internal willingness to recover. The road was rocky, but the treatment placed in my path enabled me to attain sobriety. To be sure, there was work to be done, and (for me) maintenance of that work is essential to my daily abstinence from drugs and alcohol. 

But very soon in my recovery, I discovered resistance to looking at what I believed were my core issues. True, there was support for coming forward and declaring that I was a trauma survivor. But there were also professionals and peers alike who discouraged me from "looking too early" at those issues. They cautioned me that opening up old wounds too soon, may leave me even more vulnerable to relapse.

But the old wounds were already festering at the surface. And one of the motivating factors in my getting clean and sober had to do with this. I simply couldn't get drunk or high enough to escape the truth that I had been violated as a child. And the pain of these memories manifested themselves at full bore, regardless of my being drunk or sober.

Looking back, I can even see where there were unethical practices of counter-transference that manifested itself as downright hostility. Sometimes the hostility was facilitated by providers in group settings. But I also see (only in hindsight) where I went looking for this kind of mistreatment, as a way to discover immediate pain so as not to feel the magnitude of the terrible losses sustained in childhood. 

I remember one provider in-particular who did a "leaving session" from a day treatment facility where I was seeking services. Now they call these places intensive outpatient or IOP treatment, and they do phenomenal work with those struggling with addiction. But this guy! He practically begged me to drink. He kept making statements to me about how relapse was OK. And how, given my issues, I may not stay sober. 

I've seen him out and about, drink in hand, and eager to get away from me . . . Hmmm. 

Facilitated hostility is hard to gauge at times. People in treatment have a right to get angry in group settings. But what I saw in this day treatment program were staff who wanted to give other patients the opportunity to express their frustration with the openness of my treatment.  

Almost 28 years ago now, I was a gay man who worked with youth at risk, and I cruised for anonymous sex. This somehow got twisted into my being a danger to working with children. When the added (and commonplace) symptoms of obscure dreams I disclosed were thrown into this mix, I was confronted by both the facility and the patients. There were numerous instances of aggression thrown at me, and the possibility of suicide as a viable option was my daily companion. After a peers rage and accusations were levied at me during a group setting, professionals involved would insist that I had triggered the aggressor, after all. 

Ironic, because I had also found a group of trauma survivors (outside of treatment) who were working on their recovery from abuse who embraced me, told me that my twisted dreams were symptoms of the trauma, and that cruising adults was different than working with children. 

But the facility's position was that cruising was bad, very bad. And that I had no business working with kids. Talk about institutionalized homophobia . . . I'm amazed that I'm still here. 

It took years of recovery, therapy and a host of help and support to peel away the layers of shame dumped on me at this place, by the very professionals I had entrusted to help me. I now know that they knew of my trauma history. It's why the inpatient place I detoxed at wanted me to attend. In contrast, I worked with some of the most gentle, trauma informed people I have ever had the privilege to be associated with both personally and professionally.

Yet the place I got referred to was ill-equipped to work with someone with my history, and the nightmarish mental state that I was in at the time. Nothing was clear to me about my memories, and I was convinced I was the guilty party. And the memories of abuse were coming at me at a rate of speed and frequency that I simply could not process without help. 

So they sent me to a place to "work on" cruising, meaning that I must stop the behavior. As you can imagine, this did nothing to augment my behaviors, and I was left with additional shame at falling short of the providers' expectations. I carried this expectation and disappointment long after completing this outpatient program. 

And I stayed sober. Some days, I had no reason to stay sober. It was all just too much. But the thing that kept me going was that every moment I didn't drink was a big "Fuck you!" to that provider who begged me to relapse, and the awful facility he was connected to. I worked as hard as I could, just to show them that I would not knuckle under to their prediction of my eventual relapse.

And I also saw others close to me from detox drop off, one by one. Within a matter of weeks, I was the only one left from a group of fifteen or more that had came in together to get clean and sober. I returned to that detox often to take a moment and help folks who were "shakin' and bakin'" in the detox. There was a smoking room, and I had permission from the staff to sit in there and encourage others to go to groups and participate in their recovery. Never did I mention my trauma history to the patients, unless directed to do so by the staff. Stringent confidentiality laws prevent this type of intervention (Heck! Co-intervention!) from happening now. But it was so crucial to my early recovery. At about a year sober, the detox pushed me from the nest, and told me I would have to sign up to volunteer to continue my work. It was time for me to fly, and they knew it.

And I surrounded myself with sober and other recovering people. My day began and ended with prayers, and several moments with God in-between. At 90 days sober, I moved into the Serenity House. I've been sober ever since.

But I engaged in other behaviors for a very long time. My realization from all of this writing is that I recreated the dynamics of what happened to me in a public restroom at seven years old. At age thirteen, my body was screaming with puberty that I thought was a dirty secret. There was no one I could talk to about my feelings, so graffiti on bathroom walls, and homophobic rhetoric led me to public restroom where an adult man exploited me. This began a process that led to almost daily cruising by the time I got sober.

When this daily cruising was discussed with professionals who were only able to draw on subconscious wounds and internalized homophobia, the prescription was shame and abstinence . . . Total abstinence; with a healthy dose of AIDS-phobia thrown in for good measure. I truly grieve for the level of pain these providers in outpatient must have felt at the time.

There were moments of abstinence, but no real support around me regarding finding a relationship, or even networking with the lgbt recovery community. It was there, but seemed inaccessible to me at the time.

At around two years sober, I met a man that was gay, sober, and happy. I couldn't get these three things in the same zip-code. But Ron had an awareness and wisdom about him that was like music to my soul. He helped me come out, both to my own community, and the community at large. There were other individuals to discuss my behaviors with, but Ron was not beset by the internalized homophobia that these other, well meaning sober people in my life. That's not a knock on anyone who genuinely tried to help me. It's just that the context of being gay some 25-plus years ago in my area had inherent difficulties too numerous to mention here . . . Perhaps another blog entry, for another time.

Back to injurous behavior. I want to be clear about something. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH CONSENSUAL SEX BETWEEN TWO (OR MORE) CONSENTING ADULTS! I'm not here to lecture or cast moral judgement on the sexual proclivities of others. I am only taking the time to write about this, because my behavior brought me shame, and emotionally, self-delivered punishment. It was shame that I could wrap my arms and psyche around to feel the feelings of shame, without processing or embarking on a deeper journey of discovery of my own trauma history.

This does not invalidate the trauma work I was doing at the time. In retrospect, I was right on schedule, discovering things about myself at the appropriate rate that the greater universe saw fit to reveal it to me.

But I struggled with many behaviors, the most glaring of which was the continued cruising for almost two decades of my sobriety.

And yet, I continued to grow, change, discover ethics that changed the behavior, excluded and carved subsequent pieces of it away from my life, and worked like hell to find a place where I could drop it altogether. At times, I would slip back into a careless mindset that illustrated my having given up. I am so grateful that something bigger than me carried me through those places. During work with alcoholics/addicts who had relapsed, I began to hear my story around sexual promiscuity from the very people who were venturing back into sobriety. I called on my experiences in outpatient, then committed to treating these people differently; both professionally and personally. Love, acceptance, and support are a prescription for recovery, regardless of my collecting a paycheck or not during the intervention.

And in making room to love and accept, I found little spaces to heal myself. Though some stories scared the crap out of me, I would double down on love and support. And in doing this, I found areas of personal growth and development.

I also gathered other skills sets of physical stimulation over the years. Thank God for Women in recovery. They taught me to pamper myself. Give myself a "buff and puff" night. Take a bubble bath, listen to a battery operated radio, and enjoy a cigarette in the tub. Other folks taught me how to prepare a meal in a way that was about self-care; either alone, or with a group of friends.

And I learned at a workshop in my professional life that utilizing an ice cube can create the intensity to satisfy urges to do other forms of self harm. Nothing like laying an ice cube on a facecloth and setting the bottom of my uncovered foot on that cube. I still hand it out as a skill to folks struggling with self-harm.

Men taught me that it was ok for men to cry. Crying could release pain, stress, and grief in ways that nothing else could. I can get so caught up in something being wrong in my life if I'm crying. Crying is a healing and nurturing act; a gift that only individuals can give to themselves.

And I learned that processing through my memories, naming what had happened, and deciphering how I bring the shame of that behavior into my adult life can be one of the most nurturing things I can do for myself, and my soul. The behaviors are branches of my symptoms. Looking deeper can free me from the root of this abuse.

I'm not going to go into what my current maintenance includes where letting go of self injurious behavior is concerned. And one person's healthy coping skill might signal another person's danger zone of behavior. Working out comes to mind as something that can exist along the spectrum of both these worlds. Sex and food and a couple of others where the lines are easily blurred, and fanaticism can skew what is recovery for the individual.

Even drugs and alcohol are not something that need to be summarily dismissed. I know folks who use marijuana to manage their anxiety. I also know people who may struggle with abstinence who still have recovery that is admirable. Abstinence is not for everyone. Daily abstinence is something that I aspire to, but I will not reject those who choose otherwise; provided my personal safety is not at risk.

I haven't placed a new entry since Sunday, so this piece is (admittedly) multi-layered and voluminous. But as always, I offer it as something to view that may be fruitful to you, the reader.

And I want to restate that your gentle feedback/comments will contribute in ways that reach folks I may not be serving.

Best regards,

M :-)

Vacation Musings

Random thoughts and observations from our road-trip around Maine and Canada: 

There is something to be said for getting away. Leaving behind the stress of the wild,  and the mundane is healing in and of itself. Driving north while holding hands with my husband enhances these feelings of letting go. 

How lovely to see the seemingly infinite number of times I can re-learn the joy of the journey, not the destination on a long drive. And how humbling too! 

Fort Kent Maine is every bit as quiet, simple, and sustaining to my soul as it was six years ago during Labor Day Weekend. And thank you Universe for reminding me that I cut my last trip short back then to return to my newfound handsome prince. 

Seeing the stock house in town, I am reminded how fascinated I was with pictures of it when I was a child. I used to build versions of the fort with my Lincoln Logs back in the sixties. Finding it open today and climbing the stairs to the second floor made me happy in a way that only the child within could understand. 

I love driving while Rod dozes in the passenger seat. I feel like the ultimate recipient of his trust when he does this, even though I know he can nap at the drop of a hat. 

On a long drive, my head/thoughts can still take me to dark places. This happens for longer periods and greater frequency than I care to admit. But coming clean about this and other behaviors has been the key thing that has saved me from my past. 

I need to trust directions from others. There is no need for anxiety when I think I'm lost. Hmmm . . . Metaphor. 😉

There is a wonderful sense of accomplishment I get from taking a road-trip. 

Every time I do this, I forget about the need to shut off my cell phone in Canada to avoid fees. I will contact my aging parents tomorrow, and also check in with others in recovery, via landline. I will also leave word tonight via e-mail with other family members. 

Looking at tomorrow's drive brings a wealth of possibilities. 

Peace, 

M 😊

Reaching Out/Coffee Date

Not My Image

Trigger Warning: Some mention of abuse and sexual behavior.

After reading my blog, a dear friend from high school reached out to me on social media. We connected via texting, and made plans to have coffee on Friday morning. I will maintain her anonymity during this post (First name only), but seek permission to post, via sharing the final draft with her. 

My friend looked wonderful. I can't believe she is a grandmother! It seems this stage of living skipped my world, because I've never had children of my own. I am taken aback when friends my age discuss grandchildren. 

Heather and I hugged and greeted. I waited for her to order a coffee and settle, then we sat together to discuss my blog. 

Almost immediately, Heather began to tear up. Her eyes pooled with awareness of the magnitude of suffering I had been through without her knowledge. She mentioned my suicide attempts 20 years ago, and told me that she knew I was in danger at the time. She just felt it, and tried to get in touch with me then. We've always had a deeper connection. 

We've seen one another since that time, so she just assumed I was OK. Mutual friendships had reconnected our circles, and we were current with each other's lives based in conversation and social media connections. 

We had some personal catching up to do that I will not share here. I have immense respect for those that take the risk to "lean in" to a relationship and discuss the things that may be uncomfortable or are preventing connection. My friend was courageous, and created space for a fruitful discussion that led to a deeper understanding of one another. 

But Heather also wanted to know about the abuse, and how it had effected me. She was inquisitive but kind and at no time did any of her questions unsettle me. She's just always had that way about her. Heather has always easy to talk to. 

I kept getting the feeling that, beneath the questions, she was expressing regret that she wasn't able to help me back then. During those times of struggle in high school, and before I got sober, she expressed sadness that she somehow wasn't automatically aware of my situation. 

Neither was I. I told her. 

And how could she have been? I was either swimming, using substances, or pursuing for anonymous sex in cruising areas with adult men, which habituated the exploitation I had suffered as a child. 

And I wonder why I wasn't a good student. 

I talked about how hard I worked to hide my history, especially from myself. And I discussed with her the ways that circumstance, not virtue, had led me to recovery. I spoke of all the wonderful people who had brought me to this place in my life via a journey of healing. 

Then I talked about 'going public' with my story. How my brain was telling me that this was crazy to disclose so much information, yet there was this tug from my gut to continue the work by telling my story.

I wanted her to know that she was not responsible. I find that people hear about my story and wonder why they didn't see it. In retrospect, my story was all around me, but invisible. It influenced my decisions in ways that I could not have imagined (both good and bad), yet tore at my soul the whole time. I was constantly reacting to the pain I was in, and fervently trying to avoid all contact with my grief.

While there are painful moments, the above paragraph is no longer an accurate description of my life. 

In my behest to make my friend feel better, I forgot something. The one thing I neglected to mention to my friend was that their love was enough. That they brought to me a very special kindness and understanding, just by being who they are. 

I must remember to tell her, and others about this too. 

Again, and again, and again. 

M :-)

PS: If anyone else out there wants to connect as a result of reading this blog, feel free to comment about the safest way to get together.