Sober Stick Figure: A Unique and Hilarious Story of Alcoholism and Recovery

(Note: This book review also appears on The Huffington Post Blog site under the same title.)


I'll be totally honest with you. Until a couple of weeks ago, I had no idea who Amber Tozer was. None whatsoever. Then one day on Twitter she tweeted to me and asked, "Would you be interested in reading my book maybe?" I clicked on the link she included in her tweet and it took me to the Amazon.com page for her book Sober Stick Figure: A Memoir.

There I found a picture of the book's bright yellow and blue cover, which included a rudimentary stick figure drawing of a woman passed out next to a bottle. It made me chuckle. Then I read the first part of the book's description and was intrigued.

Sober Stick Figure is a memoir from stand-up comedian Amber Tozer, chronicling her life as an alcoholic and her eventual recovery--starting with her first drink at the age of seven--all told with the help of childlike stick figures.

As a recovery advocate and blogger, I get a lot of requests from authors who want me to read and write about their books. Most of the time, I decline. But every once in a while, if the book seems interesting enough, I'll bite. This is one of those times I'm glad I did.

Sober Stick Figure is effing brilliant.

When the FedEx driver delivered my book, I eagerly ripped open the package it came in and thumbed through the book's pages. Oh. My. God. I was expecting a few stick figure drawings scattered throughout the text, but there were stick figure drawings on every page spread! They were crudely drawn and laugh-out-loud funny. All 269 of them (yes, I later counted the drawings).

Then I sat down with the book and started reading the text. By the time I finished reading the first four sentences, I knew this book was something special:

The first time I ever tasted alcohol was at my grandma Babe’s house. I was seven years old. My uncle Woody let me take a swig of his beer, and I thought it tasted like sour pee. I knew what pee tasted like because I was a fucked-up kid.

Sober Stick Figure is, as Amber Tozer describes it in the front matter, "a dark and funny story about alcoholism." It tells the story of how Tozer fell in love with alcohol, how it took over and complicated her life, and how she eventually came to realize that she had a problem before getting sober more than seven years ago.

Tozer shares hilarious stories and intimate--at times very intimate--details about her life, starting with her days growing up in Pueblo, Colorado, where she is surrounded by alcoholism, both within her family and at the bar/restaurant her mother owns. Working for her mother provides Tozer with security, but she wants more than that. She longs for opportunities and adventures, and that prompts her to make a life-changing solo move to New York City.

The Big Apple is the setting for numerous tales of job hunting, job hopping, love, lust, Tozer's entry into the world of comedy, and, of course, drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. And that drinking fuels some scary--and amusing--incidents.

I went on a six-month drinking binge that lead me to get blackout drunk every night. I don't remember much, but what I do remember is "waking up" also known as "coming to" in random places. One time I woke up on a train in Coney Island. The sun was coming up, and I was the only passenger. I was like, "Holy shit. I’ve always wanted to come here."

Later, Tozer moves to Los Angeles, where more craziness ensues.

Throughout her narrative, Tozer holds nothing back, always being as brutally honest as she can be. (How brutally honest? Five different stories about peeing in inappropriate places should give you some indication.) But that honesty brings humor along with it, too. Like when Tozer describes her fear with this comical analogy and drawing:

I was like a mouse in a factory that made big gigantic ceramic cats, nothing to be afraid of really, but it was still scary. 

Although this book is uproariously funny, it also contains some serious, thought-provoking messages. Like when Tozer declares, "Sobriety doesn't make you automatically smart; it teaches you painful lessons until you become less stupid." Or when she writes:

Alcoholism is such a baffling condition, and I'm sure it's even more confusing to people who aren't addicts. Normal people who say, "Stop drinking and stop using drugs. It's a choice and it's common sense." To you I say, "Ssshhh. You have no idea what you're talking about. Why don't you just enjoy your normal brain and logical reactions to life's troubles while we spin out of control until we find a solution that works for us."

I've read a lot of books about addiction, many of them memoirs. But Sober Stick Figure is in a league of its own. Amber Tozer has a knack for storytelling, and that makes this book very difficult to put down. Tozer's ability to write about her struggles in a self-deprecating and relatable way would make this book a winner even without the dark and childlike stick figure illustrations. But, damn…the drawings are amazing. And they make Sober Stick Figure truly unique.

"Unbroken Brain": A New, Forward-Thinking Book on Addiction

(Note: This book review also appears on The Huffington Post Books site under the same title.)


As a recovery advocate and the father of someone in long-term recovery, I've read more books about addiction than I can count. When my son first started struggling with drugs, I made a vow to educate myself as much as I possibly could. Knowledge is power, and I wanted to know everything about addiction. I still do. So I read about it. A lot. And I can honestly say that Maia Szalavitz's Unbroken Brain: A Revolutionary New Way of Understanding Addiction is one of the best books I've ever read on the subject.

Maia Szalavitz is a fabulous writer who has penned a wonderful, very forward-thinking book about addiction. She introduces us to some new theories about addiction, several of which may have people re-examining the way they've thought about one of the most prevalent and deadliest problems in America today.

Szalavitz sets out to show that addiction isn't a choice or moral failing. "But it's not a chronic, progressive brain disease like Alzheimer's, either," she notes. "Instead, addiction is a developmental disorder--a problem involving timing and learning, more similar to autism, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), and dyslexia than it is to mumps or cancer." Yes, Szalavitz is blazing new trails here.

The author contends that "addiction doesn't just happen to people because they come across a particular chemical and begin taking it regularly. It is learned and has a history rooted in their individual, social, and cultural development." She adds that the addicted brain is not "broken," as many other researchers and writers have suggested. Instead, she says, the addicted brain has "simply undergone a different course of development....addiction is what you might call a wiring difference, not necessarily a destruction of tissue."

Looking at addiction as a learning disorder may seem strange to some, but Szalavitz states that doing so "allows us to answer many previously perplexing questions." And in Unbroken Brain, Szalavitz--who is 25+ years in recovery from cocaine and heroin addiction herself--tells us how learning is a part of every aspect of addiction, oftentimes drawing upon her personal experience to illustrate her points.

There are so many interesting and thought-provoking topics covered in this book. From the problems associated with waiting for someone to hit "rock bottom" to the myth of the addictive personality; and from the issues surrounding 12-step programs to why harm reduction isn't a bad thing. ("Harm reduction recognizes [the] social and learned components of addiction. It 'meets people where they're at,' and it teaches them how to improve their lives, whether or not they want to become abstinent." Amen to that.)

If you or someone you love has been touched by addiction, or if you're just interested in this fascinating subject, I cannot recommend Unbroken Brain highly enough. This book contains a wealth of information, but Maia Szalavitz presents it in an organized manner while writing in a clear and understandable voice. Trust me: You will not be bombarded with a bunch of scientific language that you don't understand. 

Szalavitz writes in the introduction, "Only by learning what addiction is--and is not--can we begin to find better ways of overcoming it. And only by understanding addicted people as individuals and treating them with compassion can we learn better and far more effective ways to reduce the harm associated with drugs." That is definitely the approach we should be taking with addiction. Hopefully, Maia Szalavitz's innovative new book will be the catalyst for some positive change.

The Bitter Taste of Dying: A Memoir (Book Review)

(Note: This book review also appears on The Huffington Post Books site as "The Bitter Taste of Dying...and Addiction.")


At the age of 14, Jason Smith got his first taste of addiction. Literally. While his parents were away for the weekend, his uncle--a heroin addict who was living with Jason and his family--overdosed, and Jason had to perform CPR on him.

Performing CPR on a dying relative is bad enough, but Uncle Mark had "yellow shit coming out of his mouth and nose," and it soon coated the insides of Smith’s cheek and the back of his throat.

"That taste is unforgettable. Death tastes bitter, with a texture that falls somewhere between gritty and horrific, staining the memory for good. There’s no going back from it. Once there, it remains. Forever. All the therapy in the world can’t erase it." 

The bitter taste of dying indeed.

Three years later, Smith inadvertently stumbled upon the warm, comforting effects of drugs when he ended up in the hospital following a car accident that injured his back. One shot of Demerol and Smith was hooked.

"That first hit. There’s nothing like it in the natural world. I was in love. This feeling? I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted to feel this way forever."

Welcome to the start of Jason Smith’s 16-year roller coaster ride of addiction. You'd better fasten your seatbelt and hold on tight.

The Bitter Taste of Dying is a gripping, no-holds-barred memoir of Smith’s experiences while in the throes of the beast known as addiction. He takes the reader along on his journeys to Europe, Mexico, and China, documenting his innermost feelings and the crazy, mixed-up thinking that goes hand-in-hand with drug dependency. Smith’s days and nights are filled with desperation and recklessness as he constantly chases a high while simultaneously running away from life.

Smith can’t live without drugs--Norco, Soma, Fentanyl, OxyContin, Xanax, etc.--but he can’t live with them, either. At least not in a manner that most human beings would want to live. His addiction is his constant companion through college, allowing him to shed the shyness and anxiety he felt while growing up. Drugs make his life easier, but at the same time they make his life a living hell.

Some of the situations Smith finds himself in are nothing short of terrifying. His time spent in a Tijuana prison--where he was beaten by guards and given drinking water from a janitor’s mop bucket--and his encounter with the Russian mob had me overflowing with empathy. The lengths Smith goes to in order to stay high are beyond what most people can even comprehend. He explains:

"It’s insanity. It’s insanity in its most obsessively-compulsive form. And maintaining an addiction for a single day requires more thought, planning, and on-your-feet problem solving than many ‘normal’ people use in a month….[Addicts] are problem solvers to our core."

Jason Smith is a guy who manipulated every person in his life and every system he encountered, all for the sake of getting high. A guy who chewed on Fentanyl patches that were meant to be stuck on his arm, because his method gave him a quicker, better high. A guy who at one point wanted to die but didn’t, because he couldn’t even commit suicide right. His life and addiction got so bad that he was devoid of any feelings.

"I didn’t feel anything. They use opiates to mask pain, but they’re not smart-bombs. They’re carpet-bombs and they annihilate anything in their path. They’re not able to pinpoint which pain to hit, and which to ignore. They just numb all of it, and when you do drugs as long as I did drugs, there comes a point where there’s nothing left. I couldn’t feel."

But 16 years after that fateful shot of Demerol, Smith finally got clean and sober. As he states so eloquently: “It took me losing everything to appreciate anything.”

Smith is an excellent storyteller and The Bitter Taste of Dying is an enthralling read. The end-of-chapter conversations with his sponsor, Bryon, are almost as compelling as the words that precede them. They add an insight that I haven’t found in most addiction-related memoirs, and show the evolution of Smith’s thought process as he moves from addiction to recovery.

Like so many people, Jason Smith turned to drugs when life and the feelings that go along with it got too hard to manage. Self-medication numbed him and allowed him to navigate what he previously thought was unnavigable. But he’ll be the first one to tell you that the magic didn’t last.

"My problem was the world and my inability to deal with it, the real-life shit that people go through every day. I found a secret off ramp on the crazy highway that is the world, and I took it, parked, and nodded out for 16 years. This worked for a while. Until, like always, it didn’t."

The Bitter Taste of Dying isn’t just a riveting story of addiction and recovery. It’s a story of self-discovery and hope, too. Make no mistake: Your life can be in complete ruins, but if you try hard enough you can rebuild it. The transformation of Jason Smith is proof of that. It may have taken him 16 years to find the light at the end of the tunnel, but the important thing is that he found it. “It’s taken its sweet ass time,” Smith writes. “But it’s happened.”

(Note: Excerpts from The Bitter Taste of Dying: A Memoir are Copyright © 2015 by Jason Smith. All rights reserved.)

"There Is Still Some Time": A Moving Essay from a Powerful Book

Yesterday I finished reading Jamie Tworkowski​'s book, If You Feel Too Much: Thoughts on Things Found and Lost and Hoped For. For those of you who don't know, Jamie is the founder of To Write Love On Her Arms.​ (TWLOHA), an amazing organization whose mission is "presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide."

The book is a collection of some of Jamie's writings from between 2005 and 2014, many of which appear on the TWLOHA blog (a blog I was honored to write for in March of last year). Even though I had read many of these pieces before, I wanted to take them in all at once, in book form. And I'm so glad I did.

If You Feel Too Much is a book of hope, for sure. It should be required reading not only for people who may be struggling, but for everyone. The messages Tworkowski's essays convey are so important.  They tell us what is actually important in life, and how we should live and treat others. If more people thought and lived like Jamie Tworkowski, the world would be such a better place.

Of all the selections in this book, a couple of them really stand out to me. Of course, there's "To Write Love on Her Arms," which is the piece that gave birth to the entire TWLOHA movement back in 2006. Jamie wrote the story about then-19-year-old Renee Yohe, who was battling depression and addiction, frequently cut herself, and had attempted suicide. After Jamie posted the story on MySpace, it went viral. The rest, as they say, is history.

But of all the writings in If You Feel Too Much, I was most moved by "There Is Still Some Time." It's a short piece. Under 300 words. But those words are so impactful. Here is the essay in its entirety:

THERE IS STILL SOME TIME

If you feel too much, there’s still a place for you here.

If you feel too much, don’t go.

If this world is too painful, stop and rest.

It’s okay to stop and rest.

If you need a break, it’s okay to say you need a break.

This life--it’s not a contest, not a race, not a performance, not a thing that you win.

It’s okay to slow down.

You are here for more than grades, more than a job, more than a promotion, more than keeping up, more than getting by.

This life is not about status or opinion or appearance.

You don’t have to fake it.

You do not have to fake it.

Other people feel this way too.

If your heart is broken, it’s okay to say your heart is broken.

If you feel stuck, it’s okay to say you feel stuck.

If you can’t let go, it’s okay to say you can’t let go.

You are not alone in these places.

Other people feel how you feel.

You are more than just your pain. You are more than wounds, more than drugs, more than death and silence.

There is still some time to be surprised.

There is still some time to ask for help.

There is still some time to start again.

There is still some time for love to find you.

It’s not too late.

You’re not alone.

It’s okay--whatever you need and however long it takes--it’s okay.

It’s okay.

If you feel too much, there’s still a place for you here.

If you feel too much, don’t go.

There is still some time.

(Copyright © 2015 by Jamie Tworkowski)

If you need some hope, pick up a copy of If You Feel Too Much and read it. And if you know someone who's going through a difficult time, no matter what the reason, maybe grab a copy for them and suggest that they read it. It is truly powerful.

Peace.

"You’ll need coffee shops and sunsets and road trips. Airplanes and passports and new songs and old songs, but people more than anything else. You will need other people, and you will need to be that other person to someone else, a living breathing screaming invitation to believe better things." --Jamie Tworkowski (from the essay "Happy Birthday")

Me and Jamie Tworkowski in Detroit in February of 2013.

Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget (Book Review)

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post Books site as "A Blackout Drinker Untangles the Mystery of Her Alcoholism.")

It's not too often that I feel compelled to tell you about a book via my blog. I think the only other books I've gushed about in my blog are David Sheff's Beautiful Boy, Kristen Johnston's GUTS, and the Center for Motivation and Change's Beyond Addiction. Just three books in more than six years of blogging.

Today I present number four.

-----------------------------------

When I was offered an advance reading copy of Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget by Sarah Hepola, I jumped at the chance.

As the father of a son in long-term recovery, I have read more than my fair share of books about addiction. In fact, the shelves in my bedroom are filled with addiction-related books. Books about the science of addiction. Twelve-step books. Guides to helping loved ones get clean and sober. Memoirs written by people in recovery. Etc. (If you're looking for a book on addiction, come on over. Chances are it's on my shelf and you're welcome to borrow it.)

Reading about people's struggles with--and triumphs over--addiction is especially fascinating to me. In the world of drug and alcohol abuse, everyone's story is so similar; but at the same time, everyone's story is so unique. When someone is brave enough to put their temporary train wreck of a life down on paper for the world to see, I can't help but get sucked in.

Sarah Hepola started drinking at an early age and fell in love with alcohol. This object of her affection eventually took control of her life, and for years she would drink to the point of blacking out. As you can probably guess from the title, that is the focus of much of this book. And Hepola holds nothing back.

"A blackout is the untangling of a mystery. It's detective work on your own life. A blackout is: What happened last night? Who are you, and why are we fucking?"

In reality, as Hepola explains, a blackout happens when your blood becomes so saturated with alcohol that the part of your brain responsible for long-term memory--the hippocampus--shuts down. Your short-term memory still works, but with the long-term variety on strike, remembering what you did when you were blackout drunk becomes impossible.

"It's such a savage thing to lose your memory, but the crazy thing is, it doesn't hurt one bit. A blackout doesn't sting, or stab, or leave a scar when it robs you. Close your eyes and open them again. That's what a blackout feels like."

To say Blackout is a brutally honest memoir would be a bit of an understatement. Kind of like saying Taylor Swift has sold a few records. In her book, Hepola details--to the best of her recollection--numerous incidents from her drinking past, several of which end with her lying next to a stranger in bed.

"As I lie in the crook of his arm, I have so many questions. But one is louder than the others. In literature, it's the question that launches grand journeys, because heroes are often dropped into deep, dark jungles and forced to machete their way out. But for the blackout drinker, it's the question that launches another shitty Saturday. How did I get here?"

Blackout is not all about Hepola sleeping with strangers, though. It's so much more than that. It's a poignant and revealing look into the mind of an alcoholic that lets the reader experience all of the raw emotions the author feels during her struggles. It's a tale of friendships and how they evolve--and devolve--over the years. Best of all, though, it's a success story.

The second part of the book is about Hepola's sobriety and the realizations that come along with it. "I finally understood alcohol was not a cure for pain; it was merely a postponement," she writes. It may have taken her years to get to that point, and there were many stops along the way; but recovery is a journey, and Hepola found her way.

The new sober life that she is living is challenging, but Hepola is happy. "Maybe at some advanced age, we get the gift of being happy where we are," she says. "Or maybe where I am right now got a whole lot easier to take."

Blackout is one of the best memoirs I've read. Like Kristen Johnston's GUTS: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster, it treats a sensitive subject with unbridled honesty and humor. Yes, Blackout is a touching and, at times, heartbreaking story. It will likely make you cry. But it will also make you laugh out loud. (One of the things you can do in a blackout? "You can sing the shit out of 'Little Red Corvette' on a karaoke stage.")

Sarah Hepola is the personal essays editor at Salon.com and has written for numerous other publications. But I have no doubt that Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget is her tour de force. At least for now.

Read this book. You won't be disappointed.

"The nights I can't remember are the nights I can never forget." --Sarah Hepola

(Note: Excerpts from Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget are Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Hepola. All rights reserved.)