If It Hurts, It Helps.

There are 5 stages of grief. 1. Denial 2. Anger 3. Bargaining 4. Depression 5. Acceptance I'm not a psychotherapist, but I had a feeling I was experiencing some of the stages.  Turns out I am. Last week, I found out via message that my BetterHelp therapist could no longer work with me due to a change in the New York State law that no longer permits its residents to receive therapeutic services from out-of-state providers. That sucks but I understand. When I found out, I was pretty shaken up. It was unexpected, and it was abrupt. I had been working with this therapist for over two years and had formed a trust in our relationship that took a lot of time. I have never developed that level of trust with anyone else. That's a huge deal for someone living with substance use disorder and a mental health condition. 1.  DENIAL I messaged her to see if there was any way we could continue away from BetterHelp, but she said there was not.  How is that possible? Couldn't she exploit s

My therapist broke up with me today, so I'm listening to my sad playlist .  Ironic right?  Although, she once told me that listening to music that fits your emotions helps you process those emotions in a healthy way. But I still want to talk to my therapist about, well, my therapist. More irony. Ugh. I miss her already. She said that it wasn’t me it was her. Something about out of state or state lines or some sort of state bullshit. I believe her though. I believe her because I trust her. I have feelings for her. In a patient therapist sort of way. Like a good friend that is always there to listen. A good friend that I pay, that is always there to listen. I'm concerned that she is not replaceable. For fuck's sake, she knows everything about me. She knows my pain and my sorrow. My trials and tribulations. She knows my joy and elation. My agony and defeat. I've been in therapy on and off for almost 45 years.  Most of those years were off and I don't

My first year of recovery was an amazing ride. For the first time in 25 years, I felt absolutely no urge to drink whatsoever.  At that point in my life, it was an unfathomable achievement. I went from depressed, self-loathing and downright hopeless, to a motivated, inspired and spiritually fit version of myself. I couldn't explain the change then and I can't explain it now. The gratitude was oozing out of me like drool from the muzzle of a  Bernese Mountain Dog. My sponsor at the time kept telling me, “You’re seeing things with a new pair of glasses kid."  You know you have a solid sponsor when he can sling metaphors at you with the velocity and accuracy of a Randy Johnson splitter.  My own personal paradigm was shifting, and I was happy to grab me a new set of tortoiseshell frames and run with it. Some people refer to this type of feeling as riding a pink cloud. I'm not exactly sure what a pink cloud is but I'm thinking it has something to do with either c

Every time I open any of my social media apps, I feel like they're all trying to murder me.  It doesn't matter which one. They're all out to get me. At night after I put my phone down on the night table, I look under the bed to make sure it's safe. I have nightmares about Insta and Facebook standing over my prone, sleeping body, waiting for the right moment to smother me with their huge digital pillows.  I don't think I'm being paranoid. Maybe a tad dramatic for the sake of compelling content but paranoid? I think not.  There is solid evidence to prove it.  We all know that all our trusty gadgets have ears. They are all excellent listeners. Alexa, Google, iPhone, Nest, Ring. I don't even trust my old Atari 2600 at this point. Who knows when they collude, what they conspire or how they recruit. I can assure you that I'm not trying to go all Alex Jones on you.  This isn't some  cockamamie  conspiracy theory I swear. When I switched

Let's talk about tattoos, shall we? Whether I am meeting someone for the first time, or seeing someone I've known my whole life, I inevitably get asked three questions about my tattoos. The first question is, "why?", the second question is, "how many do you have?" and the third question is, "do all of your tattoos have a meaning?" Where are my inked brothers and sisters? The first question is easy to answer.  Because they look Metal as f*ck. That's why. Question number two is also an easy one. No clue. I am terrible at math. The third question is a bit more difficult because there really isn't just one answer. I'm not sure why people think there needs to be a reason for a tattoo or why they would care. People that  have  tattoos almost never ask any of these questions to another person with tattoos.  Maybe it’s genuine curiosity or maybe it's just a way to move the conversation along.  I guess that's reason e

I've been living with depression and anxiety for as long as I can remember.  As a kid, I recall having terrible nightmares.  I used to have this one recurring dream about a little girl in a sundress walking through a field of sunflowers. It was a beautiful day.  Peaceful.  Then there was an ominous feeling of dread that would slowly start to build. It was like a low hum that was barely audible, but I could feel it. It would continue until it was clear that something awful was about to happen. All the while the little girl went about her business, having no idea of the imminent doom that was playing out around her. There would never be any resolution. Just continuous dread.  I would eventually wake up to find myself hiding behind my closet door scared half to death. Poor kid. My parents got divorced when I was 8 or 9 and I shut down. I started isolating and bottling up my feelings. I found it hard to have meaningful connections with anyone. I became the class clow

From 2008-2016, I wrote a Dad blog called Out-Numbered. It was one of the highlights of my life. I made a ton of friends within the blogging community, had an opportunity to build my own brand and most importantly, shared some amazing connections with my readers. Now that I'm writing again, I took a moment to reflect back on some of those posts. There were hundreds. Some of them I remember writing but most of them I don't. I got sober in March of 2010. This might be one of the reasons I don't remember.  When I dove back into the blog, I immediately went back to the posts I wrote before I stopped drinking. I didn't write a lot about my drinking as a whole but I did find one post in particular that kind of gut-punched me. It was in December of 2009. About 3 or 4 months before I hit my absolute bottom.  The post talks about one of the many times I tried to stop drinking on my own. I obviously knew I had a problem but I didn't really know what it was or more importantly