Why I Do What I Do

I'm writing this post in a hotel room in Nashville, where I'm participating in a lead advocate summit for Heroes in Recovery. It's so exciting to be together with my fellow lead advocates for the weekend, and to see some familiar old faces along with some wonderful new faces. As a team, we will work hard in 2015 to help break the stigma associated with addiction and mental illness.

Before I turn in for the night, I wanted to share with you an email I received through my blog this morning. I can think of no better example of why I do what I do than this email, which is being published here with the permission of the sender. My passion in life is helping people who are struggling because of addiction; especially parents who are on a journey similar to the one I've been on.

This is why I do what I do:

Dear DDD,

It took me just two days to consume your incredible poignant blog, starting in the middle (landing spot from googling “Michael’s House Family Program”) and continuing to read beginning to end, smiling and crying from post to post as I identified with the cruel emotional roller coaster of addiction.

Today, my beautiful first born daughter begins her first full day at Michael's House, her first rehab experience, in hopes of finding treatment she needs to (someday) regain control of her life.

I think the thing I love the most about your writing is how openly you express hope and the crushing disappointment, as we try to keep these paradoxical emotions together in a heart, full of love for our child. A thing your blog has helped me develop is a little more peace with the path as I try, a day at a time (or even an hour at a time) to let go. I cry a lot … sometimes randomly, and thank you for sharing so often during his active addiction that you did too. Each time you confessed to crying I would cry again reading about you crying. It's this strange valve that seems to turn on or off of its own volition, when you love an addict.

My daughter just turned 21. Her path into drug use began (best I can mark) her freshman year in college initially as some experimentation, but then more so as she was trying to cope with the stress of fitting in, stress of being away from home (she did not like summer camp), and meeting the demands of her school work. When she came home that Christmas break, she saw a well regarded psychiatrist for depression and anxiety (not previously diagnosed). He gave her a cocktail of medications including Xanax, shockingly prescribed "nightly for sleep" and "as needed" for the past two years. At this exact moment, she’s going through benzo detox, along with alcohol and cocaine and I’m trying not to think about her suffering.

One of the more shocking aspects of my journey has been how little influence a parent (particularly a parent not paying her medical bills) has to either guide their child's medical path, or even obtain information about their "legal age" child's care. The situation, protected by privacy laws, tied my hands such that as I saw the danger in her situation unfolding, nothing I tried affected more responsible care for her. I sent letters a year ago October, and again this past November to her psychiatrist (and her father who was paying for the drugs and the psychiatrist) that went virtually ignored. I suppose it has been another intense lesson in letting go my attempt to control. I do not blame her father, like all of us he is on his own journey and wanted to believe the best. And the circumstance gave me a crash course in all I can do is try not to "enable" her use –even when those boundaries have nearly destroyed my relationship with her for the anger she has felt toward me at this . . . and, wait until enough happened in her life that she herself could ask for help.

But thank you so very much for sharing your journey so openly, the happy and the sad, the joy and the grief, tears, frustration and above all, perspective. . . . it inspires me and helps temper my expectations with even more patience, and love, as I realize each day she is alive presents hope and the very best thing I can do is keep working my own program.

Thank you again for the smiles and tears . . . so proud of your family and the hope you all represent. God bless you.

****************

Yup. That's exactly why I do what I do. And why I will keep on doing it.

Peace.

"Language allows us to reach out to people, to touch them with our innermost fears, hopes, disappointments, victories. To reach out to people we’ll never meet. It’s the greatest legacy you could ever leave your children or your loved ones: The history of how you felt." --Simon Van Booy

The Best Addiction Recovery Blogs for 2015

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you may recall that it was listed last year as one of the 55 Top Addiction Recovery Blogs for 2014 by Cathy Taughinbaugh, who is an amazing parent/life/recovery coach. (I wrote about the list last January in a post called "I'm Number 55!")

Well, Cathy has been busy again this year, and she just posted her new list of 75 Amazing Addiction Recovery Blogs 2015 over on her CathyTaughinbaugh.com website. I am incredibly honored to be on this year's list (at number 58), in the company of so many terrific blogs, several of which are written by people I consider my friends.

In addition, the Heroes in Recovery blog--which I have been contributing to for the past year--checked in at number 28 on the list. That, too, is quite an honor.

As Cathy states on her blog, "The purpose of this list is to have an easy way for you to check out the information that so many bloggers have created to be another voice spreading the word about recovery and resources."

Every single one of the 75 blogs on Cathy's list are important, as is any blog about addiction and recovery...even if it's not on the list. These blogs are written by people who are passionate about recovery and helping others. People who speak from the heart, whose goal is to share information and experiences that may help or comfort others who are struggling. And to take the stigma associated with addiction back behind the wood shed and kick its ass.

Please go to Cathy Taughinbaugh's website--which is full of amazing resources and tools--and check out the blogs on the list. If you are going through a difficult time with addiction--either your own or a loved one's--you may find solace in something someone else has written. If nothing else, you will surely discover that you are not alone.

"Just knowing you're not alone is often enough to kindle hope amid tragic circumstances." --Richelle E. Goodrich

Turning Scabs into Jewelry

Anyone reading this who actually knows me would probably confirm that I'm a little bit different. My sense of humor is not exactly "normal," I sometimes (frequently?) act 30 to 40 years younger than my actual age, and I couldn't care less about a lot of things people I know really care about. Etc., etc., etc.

Yes, I'm different. Maybe even a little bizarre.

Even so, the fact that I saved both of my sons' belly button scabs--more scientifically known as "umbilical cord stumps"--after they fell off apparently isn't that strange. A simple Google search for "save umbilical cord stump" yields more results than you might think. One of those results is a blog post titled "How to Preserve Umbilical Cords" on a website called ModernMom (whose CEO is actress/dancer/model/TV personality Brooke Burke).

In that blog, ModernMom suggests:

"Save just the umbilical cord stump, if you do not want to save the entire umbilical cord. . . .Make a keepsake out of the cord that means something to you. Options include mounting it in a shadow box with photos of your newborn or placing it in the baby book or scrapbook. Some people choose to keep the cord in a special box or satchel."

First of all, let me just say that saving your baby's entire umbilical cord is even odder than saving just the scab. People really save the entire umbilical cord?? Geez, maybe I'm not so crazy after all.

On the other hand, I don't think there are a whole lot of people out there who saved their children's dried up navel scabs and then decided to have them turned into a piece of jewelry. So maybe I am a little "off."

When I saved the my older son's belly button scab a little over 25 years ago, I really didn't know what I'd do with it. When it fell off, I felt like throwing it away wasn't the right thing to do. So I stuck it in an empty prescription bottle and stuck it in a cabinet.

Six years later, my second son was born, his umbilical cord stump fell off, and my thinking was the same: I couldn't throw it away. Into the prescription bottle with his brother's scab it went.

Those precious little scabs sat in that bottle in a cabinet for years and years. They had no purpose. They were just there. When we moved ten years ago, the scabs moved with us. They were part of the family.

A few years ago, I decided those stumps deserved a new life. I got this crazy idea to have them gold-plated and turned into a pair of earrings for my wife. I thought my idea was a good one, but I knew that it was maybe a tad on the grotesque side. So much so that I felt uncomfortable walking into a jewelry store with my little bottle of human DNA to ask, "Hey, can you make earrings out of these?"

The safer alternative was to email jewelers with my idea. That way, they could say no and I wouldn't have to be humiliated in person.

Over the course of a few days, I probably emailed a dozen or more jewelers with my idea. Not surprisingly, I didn't hear from most of them. And the few I did hear from just offered a polite, "I'm sorry. We can't do that for you."

Bummertown.

I had forgotten all about my idea until right before this past Christmas. I was doing some rearranging of the contents of my kitchen cabinets and came across that little prescription bottle. And when I did, a light bulb went off.

Matthew Hoffmann and Kris Keller at Ten Fine Jewelry & Design (in Ann Arbor, Michigan)--the jewelers who had recently taken my wife's engagement ring and wedding band and created a brand new, stunning 25th anniversary ring out of them--were just the guys to create something out of my sons' belly button scabs!

I immediately sat down at my computer and cranked out an email to them. With the subject line "Crazy, crazy jewelry idea," the email described my idea as "very bizarre--and maybe creepy." I ended my email by saying "Nobody I approached years ago would even consider my request. But I'm thinking you guys might just be the ones to do this. If it's even possible. If you think I'm crazy let me know."

Lo and behold, it only took about a half hour for Kris at Ten Fine to reply: "I love it! We will be able to make something from those. Let's talk after the first of January and make a plan!"

Shazam!

So my wife and I took the goods on a field trip to Ann Arbor in early January. After some joking around with Matthew and Kris--after all, this was the first time they'd ever had someone ask them to make jewelry out of scabs--Matthew sketched a little drawing of a pendant he was envisioning: Belly button scabs cast in white gold, the incorporation of each of the boys' birthstones, etc.

I can't even explain how excited I was that this was actually happening after all these years. My wife and I gave Matthew and Kris carte blanche on the design, knowing that they'd come up with another one-of-a-kind creation that we'd love.

Fast forward to this past Saturday, which just happened to be Valentine's Day.

My wife and I went to Ten Fine Jewelry to pick up the newest member of our family. And when Matthew opened up the box and showed us the pendant, our jaws dropped open. It was absolutely amazing, and far beyond anything I could've ever imagined back in the day when I first got my crazy idea.

That crazy idea turned out to be a damn good one.

We are certainly not the first people to have belly button scabs turned into jewelry. In fact, there's even a blog post out there from last December titled Trend Alert: Don’t Throw Away Baby’s Dried-Up Belly Button, Turn It Into a Necklace. Who knew? But even though we're not the first, I know my wife's new pendant is truly unique.

Many thanks to Matthew Hoffmann and Kris Keller for taking two scabs and turning my crazy idea into reality. They are true wizards when it comes to making badass jewelry. (Check out the before and after photos below.)

They cut the umbilical cord, give you a slap on the ass, and presto! you're out in the world, adrift, a ship without a rudder." --Henry Miller

BEFORE: My younger son's scab is on top; my older boys' is on the bottom.
Pretty gross, huh?

AFTER: Again, younger son on top, older son on the bottom.
The birthstones are a Cambodian blue zircon (December) and a Rhodolite
garnet (January). Not so gross, huh?

A Facebook Conversation That Tugged at My Heart

Guilt.

It's an emotion that any imperfect human being feels from time to time. You first experienced it as a child, maybe after you accidentally broke something and didn't come clean about it with your mom or dad. Or when you were told you could have two cookies, but you took three anyway.

You screw up, you feel guilty. It's human nature. But if you grow up to be the parent of a child afflicted with addiction, at some point you'll likely feel guilt like you've never felt it before. In fact, the guilt can overtake you and be downright crippling.

I've written about guilt before. In a blog post from February of 2011, I wrote:

"Guilt eats me up inside on a regular basis. Usually the guilt is associated with the feeling that I'm somehow responsible for how my son is. That he's a severely depressed addict because of something I did or didn't do as a parent, or because of my genes. I know I shouldn't feel guilty. I've had professionals tell me that, have heard it in meetings, and have read it umpteen times. If it were my brother or sister or neighbor or mother or father or friend or wife who was a severely depressed addict, I don't think I'd feel this guilt. But as a parent, it's hard not to feel guilty. At least it is for me."

It took a lot of years, but I finally got over the constant guilt I used to feel. I'd like to say I've gotten over all of the guilt I've felt over the years, but I'd be lying if I did. The truth is, guilt sneaks up behind me, out of the blue, and bites me in the ass every once in a while. Not necessarily guilt about being responsible for my son's depression and addiction, but guilt about how I handled things.

Which brings me (finally) to the subject of this blog: a Facebook Messenger conversation I had with my son yesterday afternoon. The conversation was about a new TV he and his girlfriend just bought for their new apartment. But all of a sudden, I felt compelled to write:

"Sorry for yelling at you over the years. I was wrong. Just want you to know that." 

Now, I've apologized to my son many times over the last few years. But, like I said, sometimes the guilt emerges out of the blue and I just have to deal with it. Yesterday, while my son and I were discussing a television, was one of those times.

The part of the conversation that tugged at my heart was my son's reply to my apology:

"Hey. The yelling was well deserved. I was an idiot. Thank you for helping to get me back on track. I love you dad."

When I read that, I smiled. And I teared up. And I thanked my lucky stars that things are how they are today, both in my world and my son's; and, especially, where the two intersect.

While the yelling I subjected my son to may have been deserved, I've come to realize that it was wrong. In my new and improved mind, I know that anger never helps a situation. It's just a reaction to fear. And Lord knows, as the parent of an addicted child I was scared shitless.

So my guilty feelings are under control for now, at least as they relate to my son and me. But there's still the little incident with the car that I have to 'fess up to my mom about. I think 35 years of carrying that guilt around is long enough.

Peace.

"There's no problem so awful, that you can't add some guilt to it and make it even worse." --Calvin, from Bill Watterson's The Complete Calvin and Hobbes

Calvin speaks the truth.

"Words and Music by Someone Struggling": My New Blog for Heroes in Recovery

I had a new blog post published on the Heroes in Recovery website yesterday. It's called "Looking Back: Words and Music by Someone Struggling," and it's about a song my son--who plays the guitar and sings--wrote when he was in active addiction. He was 17 or 18 at the time, and the lyrics of the song really give some insight into what he was feeling back then.

If you get a chance, please go check the blog out. In addition to my thoughts about my son's song, you can read the lyrics and click over to a rough demo of the song on YouTube.

As always, if you do read the blog over at Heroes in Recovery, please consider clicking on the "Like" button, sharing the blog, and/or leaving a comment. All of those things would make me very happy. :)

Here's a direct link to the blog post:

http://www.heroesinrecovery.com/blog/2015/02/09/looking-back-words-music-someone-struggling/

Thanks so much for your continued support and readership.

Peace.

"Music can change the world because it can change people." --Bono

Two Years Later, Some Positivity

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site as "New Feelings Two Years After My Father's Death.")


Two years ago today, my dad passed away. He was 86 years old and his body finally succumbed to the wear and tear he inflicted on it with alcohol and cigarettes, helped along by the normal maladies that affect someone in their mid-80s.

I recounted the day my father died in a blog post here, and detailed the rocky relationship we had, as well as the "God moment" that allowed me to forgive him, in another blog post here. In addition, I've written privately about my dad.

For example, the other day I came across a letter I wrote to my father on December 9, 2007. It was in a folder on my computer called "Writings." Surprisingly, I had forgotten all about the letter until I opened the Microsoft Word document titled "lettertodad.doc."

Early on in the letter, I tell my dad exactly what the letter is about:

"It’s about you. And it’s about me. And it’s about our family. And it’s about how your years of alcoholism destroyed you. And me. And our family."

You can only imagine the things I wrote following that intro.

Reading that letter--which I never gave to my dad--made me realize how much anger and resentment I carried around with me for most of my life. The grief my dad brought to my life festered inside of me for years, and it eventually turned into a full-blown hatred. (If you don't believe me, I could show you the other Word document I came across on my computer called "ihatemydad.doc." That one was the result of an assignment my therapist had given me. I think the actual assignment was to make of list of 5 to 10 reasons why I disliked my father. I came up with 51.)

But let's forget the bad memories now, because the main reason I sat down to write this blog post was to let you know about a couple of positive memories I have about my dad. Both are baseball related:

July 13, 1971

I was a nine-year-old kid who ate, slept, and shit baseball. The game was everything to me. That year, the Major League Baseball All-Star Game was played in Detroit, and somehow my dad managed to get two tickets. When he first told me we were going, I couldn't believe it. I had heard All-Star Game stories from my dad, who had attended the 1941 and 1951 midsummer classics in Detroit. Now I was going to have stories of my own.

I'll never forget walking into Tiger Stadium that evening and seeing the lush green grass and reddish brown clay that made up the baseball field. There were red (left), white (center), and blue (right) stars painted on the turf in the outfield and the atmosphere was absolutely electric. During warm-ups, Willie Stargell of the Pittsburgh Pirates was throwing baseballs into the crowd near where we were sitting, along the left field foul line. Even though I didn't get a ball, I thought that was so cool.

The game itself was unforgettable. There were a combined total of 25 future Hall of Fame players and coaches on the two squads and the American League defeated the National League, 6-4. Of the 12 hits in the game, 6 of them were home runs, all hit by future Hall of Famers: Johnny Bench, Hank Aaron, Roberto Clemente, Frank Robinson, Harmon Killebrew, and Reggie Jackson--who hit a gargantuan blast off the light transformer on the roof in right-center field, a homer that will forever live in All-Star Game lore.

Nearly 44 years later, I still have my ticket stub and program from that game. They are two of my most cherished possessions.

August 17, 1976

Our country had just turned 200, and I was on the verge of turning 15. Mark "The Bird" Fidrych, a rookie right-handed pitcher who had captured the hearts of the nation with his mound antics and his habit of talking to the baseball, had just turned 22. Fidrych was in the midst of his Rookie-of-the-Year season and was the biggest draw in sports. Virtually every game he pitched was a sellout, especially the home games at Tiger Stadium. I had seen The Bird pitch on TV and wanted nothing more than to see him pitch in person.

A few days before his next scheduled start, my dad and I drove down to Tiger Stadium to try and get tickets for that upcoming game against the California Angels. We walked up to the ticket booth and my dad asked the man behind the window what kind of seats they had left. "It's sold out," the ticket seller replied. I remember feeling my heart drop and being overcome with disappointment as soon as I heard those three words. Experiencing "Bird Mania" in person might not happen after all.

But then my dad did something magical. He pulled out a crisp $5.00 bill, slipped it halfway under the ticket window, and asked the ticket seller, "Are you sure it's sold out?" The ticket guy took the $5.00 and stuck it in his shirt pocket. "Let me check again," he said, before telling my dad that he had overlooked a pair of box seat tickets. My dad paid for the tickets and my disappointment was instantly replaced with joy. Not only was I going to see Mark Fidrych pitch, but I had also learned an important lesson about the power of money. As my dad told me on the way home, "No game is ever sold out."

On August 17, 1976, two of the best pitchers in baseball squared off against each other: The Detroit Tigers' Mark "The Bird" Fidrych and the California Angels' Frank Tanana. And I was there. Both pitchers threw complete games in what I remember as a classic pitchers duel. The Angels outhit the Tigers, 5-4, but Detroit managed to win the game, 3-2. Appropriately, the winning run came on a home run by Fidrych's "designated catcher," Bruce Kimm, in the bottom of the eighth inning. It was Kimm's only major league homer.

To this day, that was one of the most exciting baseball games I've ever been to, and it wouldn't have happened if my dad hadn't bribed the old man behind the ticket window.

*************

Those are two great memories I have of doing stuff with my dad. We didn't do a lot together, but today I'm grateful that I have at least some memories of him that aren't horrible. Over the past two years, I've really worked to put the negative things behind me and focus on the positive.

I miss my dad. A few years ago, I never would've thought it was possible, but I miss him every day. Once in a while, I'll find myself wanting to call him to tell him something; then I remember he's gone. I frequently use the tools my father gave me shortly before he died, and every time I do, I think of him. I also think of him and things he used to say on particular occasions. For example, the other morning it was brutally cold outside and I could imagine my dad saying, "It's colder than a witch's tit!"

Sometimes I think of my dad and just start crying. I'm sure the tears are a conglomeration of happy tears and sad tears, but I think they're mostly happy. Happy because I let the past go and made peace with my dad before he left.

Like Anne Lamott says, forgiveness "is the hardest work we do."

Amen.

"It can be healthy to hate what life has given you, and to insist on being a big mess for a while. This takes great courage. But then, at some point, the better of two choices is to get back up on your feet and live again." --Anne Lamott

Unfortunately, this is the last photo ever taken of me and my dad together.
On my wedding day, more than 26 years ago.

Parenthood Update

You may recall that I wrote a blog post this past Friday titled "Parenthood," about my younger son and his decision to start a new chapter in his life. He decided he needed to get away from home (and his hometown), so he took a bus to Lansing, Michigan, and was going to stay with friends and look for a job.

Long story short: My son's plan lasted about 36 hours. He's back living at home again.

I have to admit, it's nice to have him back. And even though he wasn't gone for but a day-and-a-half,  I still think we can chalk this up as a learning experience. He thought things through, made a plan, made a decision for himself, and took action. I'm not sure what it was that made him decide to come back home--he hasn't wanted to discuss it in depth--but that was another choice he had to work through and make on his own. At least he's thinking for himself!

Becoming an adult is so hard. You reach a certain age and want your independence, but you still want the security and comforts of home, too. There's always that tug of war going on inside your head.

Here's hoping my son feels comfortable with his latest decision. If nothing else, I know he's comfortable enough with his parents to know that they would respect his decision, even if it contradicted a decision he had made just 36 hours earlier.

Unconditional love and respect. That's what life is all about.

Peace.

"Loving and respecting others means allowing them to be themselves. When you stop expecting people to be a certain way, you can begin to appreciate THEM." --Unknown