With Vigilance-A Woman in Long Term Recovery

WITH VIGILANCE

A woman in long term recovery

Christine Campbell

With Vigilance

By Christine Campbell

Published by Christine Campbell at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Christine Campbell

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The writer takes readers through an incredibly honest, painful journey from the insanity of alcohol and drugs to a peaceful, solid sober life. Once married to a band member of The Bob Seger Band for fifteen years, living the high life and life in the fast lane was insane, disappointing and an illusion. The stigma of a woman alcoholic, shunned by family and society, the writer falls and gets back up over and over, no matter what the adversity, and conquers her demons. The touching relationship with her daughter so affected by her mother’s addictions turns around to a wonderful, heart- warming solution.

The road from Lear Jets and Limosines to the bottom no one, including the writer, thought possible is overcome. Share in the triumphs and the disappointments with the author, and celebrate life of twenty two years of sobriety.

Over and over we see memoirs written by those with one year sober, thirty or sixty days sober, -let us experience the hard work, commitment and willingness it takes to be in long term recovery, against many odds. Women stay in the shame and stigma, holding onto secrets, denying the peace and forgiveness of self that is necessary to maintain one’s sobriety. The courage and steadfast commitment to the steps to recovery are shared with no holds barred. Secrets keep us sick-the generous, unselfish members of the fellowship of like people guide, encourage and rejoice in the newfound peaceful life of this grateful author.

Social media, Anonymous People movie, and the media itself have brought this illness to the spotlight, so the secrecy is no longer. A true story of redemption is shared with honesty, pain and humor!

The most liberating and empowering day of my life was the day I freed myself from my own self-destructive nonsense. 01/28/1992

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Emma, Dolores, Foley House, Squad 2, Squad 77, NMC, FSU, the many treatment center staff, my fellow travelers, my wonderful college Professors, Big Book Thumpers, Big Book International, Project Identity, 12stepplanet, Bill White, Panache Desai, Edward Mills, Tommy Rosen, Recovery 2.0, Nick Ortners Tapping Solution, Alcoholics Bookhouse, Dual Diagnosis-we do recover, Recovery to Discovery, 12 after12, Addicttoday.com, Kelly and Darlene, The Restoration Society, Iyanla VanZant, Maya Angelou… and my sweet daughter.

The 12 step program has changed my life-the roads to recovery are many-the solution is the same. I encourage anyone interested to find a step study meeting or reading if interested. The very general explanation of the steps are: 1, 2 & 3 are freedom from alcohol, 4, 5, 6 & 7 are freedom from self, 10, 11 & 12 are the action steps.

Believe!

Dear God,

I dedicate to you my talents and abilities-may they be used in a way that serves your purpose. I surrender to you my business and finances-may my work be lifted to its highest possibility as a blessing on all the world-Amen…Marianne williamson

The phenomenon of craving develops, they pass through the well known stages of a spree emerging remorseful, with a firm resolution not to drink again. This is repeated over and over and unless the person can experience an entire psychic change there is very little hope for recovery.

On the other hand-and strange as it may seem to those who do not understand-once a psychic change has occurred, the very same person who seemed doomed, who had so many problems that they despaired of ever solving them, suddenly finds himself easily able to control their desire for alcohol-the only effort necessary being that requires to follow a few simple rules…

The Doctors Opinion-Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. FOR ALL THE JOSIE’S

2. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

3. TAKE TWO OR YOU WON’T GET OFF

4. THE UN-BAND

5. YODA

6. THE REVOLVING DOOR PLAN

7. FOOEY HOUSE

8. CHAPTER 5

9. WELCOME TO NORTHPORT

10. MY INDIGO

11. SO WHERE’S YOUR FAMILY IN ALL THIS?

12. EMMA

13. ANGELS IN HUMAN SUITS

14. GRADUATION?

15. CONGRADULATIONS, YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED

16. WELCOME TO MINNEAPOLIS

17. INTO PRACTICE

18. HOME

For all the Josie’s

Over twenty years ago, I stood in a courtroom with a fellow alcoholic/addict mother of six. I was the chosen ‘buddy’in treatment to accompany her downtown LA for a hearing concerning custody of these children. This was one of the only two treatment centers in the country at the time that accepted mothers AND the children so affected by our illness. It was the last stop for most-we burned bridges, lied, hid and minimized what was going on in fear of the stigma of women addicts/alcoholics. Josie held her 6 month old baby in her arms, TJ was the fourteen year old-and her oldest of the six stood there with us. Josie made it from phase 1 of the program into sober living and had a relapse. One child at a time was being reunited with her as she gained some sobriety. I stood with her, for her, and the judge brought the gavel down-she lost custody-permanently-of all six children. As long as I live, I will never forget the look on her face. While paralyzed in fear and horror myself, I did not have a voice at the time. All I could say was ‘wait??!!. From that day to this moment, I have fought, bit my tongue, got in much trouble voicing my passion and support (and trying to rid the stigma) of women and mothers who use. Consequences do not work. Punishment does not work. Treatment-not incarceration. I have yet to meet a woman who has surrendered and is happy, joyous and free after the loss of her children due to her compulsion and addictions. I went from surviving to thriving. I use my past to heal, it has no bearing on me today. The professionals in recovery say most alcoholic women have experienced emotional, physical, sexual abuse and neglect. We enter childhood completely unregulated. I experienced all of the above-and have discovered love.

I know who I am today, and I live in my purpose. I have many who bless my purpose, however, I do not need others to define me. I celebrated twenty two years of sobriety, am halfway to a Master’s degree (with a 3.9 GPA) and raised a wonderful, giggly daughter that was my biggest support. The one most affected by my using-was the most forgiving. The past is gone. And yet, I received another bullying email from someone I have never met, don’t know (don’t know how she got my contact info) that ripped on what I was up to in the 80’S. This happens at least twice a year. Adult cyber bullying! A writer friend of mine said recently, ‘pages of accolades are not a powerful as one searing, nasty opinion’, especially to the thin skinned alcoholic. We are a sensitive group-but courageous. These people in their own invisible prison are everywhere. The disease of addiction has no prejudice. I was told by many in recovery (including many professionals) ahead of me ‘the weller you get Chris, the more they will kick and scream’. I couldn’t imagine that, but they were exactly right. My passion is reignited almost daily, to lift the stigma of the alcoholic women. Numerous college professors encouraged me to share this story. Many have said ‘use that voice for something great Chris.’ I will have my say, the pain and shame of the past is gone (that’s my past guys-don’t need all your reminders). My driving force is a loving God and I am highly favored. If one woman and her children are changed by my story, it is all worth it. I will take the risk of rejection-I am used to it, although today, I know it is their stuff. You will not hold me back, make me quit or give up. I anticipate criticism, argument, and denial. I cannot promise the chronological order is correct. This is MY recollection, my memory, to the best of my ability. Withdrawal is the easy part. Not picking up a drink, drug, or mustache-for ANY reason-is the miracle. I did none of it alone. As Bishop T.D Jakes says, if you’re not part of the fix, you are part of the problem, and I will take the risk of rejection. I was preserved to carry a message, against some horrific odds. Nine out of ten alcoholics don’t stay sober, and the numbers for staying sober with NO family support are zero (said one of my professor’s at Hazeldens Graduate School of Addiction Studies). Not true. I am one. I am highly favored. I am not what I have done-I am what I have overcome.

Alcohol and cocaine were my choices although I would do anything to alter my mood and state of mind. As someone said in the rooms, my drug of choice was more. There are physiological changes sometimes six to twelve months after treatment, and we are teaching and learning what we can do to help the pandemic state in this country for relapse, suicide, death and incarceration. Amphetamines in particular (we have a meth epidemic for sure in this country) decrease the dopamine levels-our pleasure part of the brain-and this lack in early recovery where many give up has to have others speak of possibility, hope and make that abundantly clear. Love has to figure in somewhere (as Marv Seppala, MD, states in his video lectures streamed in online) and we need to speak about hope. There are many stories of victory. There has to be a new belief-something outside myself because my thinking is so off. When you walk into the rooms, most everyone says hello, extends their hand out or hugs you. This is unlike anything I have ever experienced, and I have lived a life for sure. We stay close to those who are happy, free and continue to live like that. I understand the anonymous side of this. I read and reread Tradition two, have asked others for their input in this matter, but how will people really understand if we keep hiding the illness, the powerlessness or the solution. I refuse to feel ashamed anymore. Shame and secrecy are as deadly as the disease-I have seen many die from Mommy guilt. Of course men are affected too, but my intention is to address the mothers, the women, all the Josies. I knew I had a purpose in that courtroom with her, and needed to have some sort of foundation and experience before sharing. One of the many slogans and sayings that I surround myself with is a line from William Feather that says in part ‘deliver me from all evildoers that talk nothing but sickness and failure’-Amen.

The drug (alcohol is a drug) is not the real problem. The fundamental problem is the pain that the person is trying to escape. Some of the Doc’s in Talbot Recovery in Atlanta (this was years ago) said they spent ninety minutes in Med school on alcoholism. Some said trauma work is practically ignored as well. I was in unbearable emotional pain, filled with self -loathing and an emptiness that is hard to put into words. Fellow suffers know exactly what I speak of. I heard a woman in recovery say ‘ my brain was like a short circuited computer put back one wired at a time. I was broken spiritually, mentally, and physically from the power of alcohol’. Trauma and childhood emotional loss are templates for addiction. Depression, anxiety and panic attacks are NOT a sign of weakness. They are signs of having tried to remain strong for too long. I read this somewhere, I believe Johnny Depp had something to do with it. The beauty in the ‘we’ of recovering together, learning from one another and giving it away is key. Today it is about what I can give-not what I can take anymore. I have had a psychic change. It was a long and trying road-but I am a truly grateful recovering alcoholic today. I avoid friends and followers who are detrimental to my peace of mind and spiritual growth. I have many slogans around me daily-one of my favorites ‘along your pathway of life, you will observe that you are not the only traveler-there are others who need your help-there are feet to steady, hands to grasp, minds to encourage, hearts to inspire and souls to save’-Thomas Monson.

When you can tell your story and it doesn’t make you cry-you know you have healed-Unknown…

This was posted on our many recovery websites ‘more than most people, the alcoholic leads a double life. He/she is very much the actor. To the outer world he/she presents their stage character-this is the one they like their fellows to see. He/she wants to enjoy a certain reputation, but knows in their hearts, he/she doesn’t deserve it.’ We find many common threads in our texts, with each other, and with those you may not ever have associated with before. However, through my life experiences, I have discovered purpose, my soul and my spiritual self. I write all kinds of slogans and have them on post- its, or forward them to friends and fellow travelers. Hopefully I give credit where credit is due.

I hung up that Catholic school uniform and got into his Porche-my knight in shining armor (hardly).I went from Lear jets and limousines to the crack houses of Detroit. I was so young, inexperienced in everything (accept how getting and staying as high as possible). I was a little girl. I was in therapy for years and years, numerous treatment centers, a bottom that was hideous and near death-but it takes what it takes. I did not understand much of anything. Why can’t I get this? How can anything have this much power? Today I understand that brain function plays a huge part in the relapse and the obsession (finally-there is much more study). Cocaine changes the brain function. There is a loss of control and one chases the dragon for that first time dopamine level rush. The brain is hijacked. Even today, images alone increase the dopamine level in me. I quickly change channels, walk away, and thank God for my sober life. There are effects of memory when one returns to old haunts-that can be a neighborhood, music, old friends, smells, conversation. I have literally put my hand up in certain conversation and just walked away-even if the person doesn’t get it or continues to rap when I ask them to stop-I don’t care. This is working and if I drink again-it will kill me. No person place or thing is worth it. There are those who will gladly sabotage your hard work, who take pleasure in testing you, question you and doubt you.

Am I suggesting that children not be removed from those who neglect them due to active addiction, (which is a very misunderstood word), don’t pay the rent, have very dangerous and shady people around the children, chose poor partners, drive around under the influence.. not at all. Absolutely remove and place those children in a safe house, foster care or any willing relatives home-temporarily. Today, eighteen million are abusing prescription drugs. The doctor shopping is off the charts. Incarceration is ten times more costly than treatment. Many, many are doing time for exactly what I did years ago, and little or no rehabilitation is addressed while locked up. Many have shared horror stories of incarceration with me, but prison time it is not enough to choose recovery. Nothing changes if nothing changes. This includes family and more importantly the children. What happens often is we return (even from treatment) to the same frightened, angry, fearful children that one left behind. The family is also affected, therefore the family must be involved in the recovery. Treatments offer family day, individual therapy with the user and family, many choose not to participate, and yet scrutinize and criticize the addict when they relapse after release or hide and minimize their return to using for fear again of consequence of discovery. This was something I repeated over and over. I’m also not suggesting for a minute to coddle the addict, to feel sorry for them or most important, to enable them. The family who recovers together stays together. Yet so many choose to stay with ‘it’s their problem-why can’t they just quit?’ I had no family involvement, not for ten treatment centers- no support, and still do not to this day. This has been a very difficult road, one I would not wish for anyone. But it can be done, miracles do happen, and I accept today that I’m having the experience I’m supposed to be having. This is part if the plan for me-to beat incredible odds, only with a loving God, spiritual family, and taking action each and every day to ensure I stay on track in this miracle that comes with much commitment, courage, action and vigilance.

Anytime I come across any ‘inner child’ work I tend to freeze, or want to run. The wounded kid inside of me had to grieve the loss of a childhood, know I can never go back, and realize I never had parents, however, as an adult (most of the time!) I found generous, wise old timers around (or actually-they found me-stepped right up to the plate- and circled the wagons) and did the necessary re-parenting. I was so confused, hurt and walked in the halls of shame for years. These ‘angels in human suits’ I address later nurtured me, loved me, guided me without needing anything in return. My sweet daughter said it best when she was just a little girl "I love you no matter what!’ She taught me how to love, touch, hug, laugh and be a silly, free, playful kid. I had the time of my life with her. She so inspired the continued study and commitment to this illness. How on earth could anything have more power than the love and joy of my beautiful child? When the addiction is active, addicts lie, deny, and don’t feel! I cringe to this day with the comment ‘what were you thinking?’ (a comment fired at me often from judgmental, shaming people standing on their pedestal looking down on me). A regular bender for me was a gallon of wine-yes gallon-an 8 ball (three and a half grams of coke), maybe a six pack of beer, and valium and pot to try to come down after a forty eight hour run of this. We are NOT thinking-that’s the goal. The squirrel cage thinking of the addict is one of the hardest defects to get under control. We obsess, plan revenge, replay and return to mean, hurtful moments in our lives over and over. This is the insanity-(I actually argued the word insanity for a very long time!) Relief is possible, and all things are possible with God. This can be done with the eleventh step that is prayer and meditation. I marvel at being able to ‘just be’ for thirty minutes with practice, commitment and purpose. It is what I had been chasing for many years (with lots of mind expanding drugs!). It is the ultimate high. It is when I connect with my higher power and find the guidance that I need. I ask for help often, I cannot do this alone. The twelve steps are in order for a reason however. You have to work the first ten before this and that is where a sponsor (s) comes in. I had two of the best, most patient, strong, confident loving women that walked this earth! They have both made their transition (as Emma my loving sponsor taught me) with decades of sobriety and being of service. I can hear her talking to me still, and I conduct myself to the best of my ability as if they were watching. I try to freely pass on what they have given me. We sponsor as we were sponsored they tell me. I had a mother after all, a spiritual mother anyway. I’m not sure I can ever pay back all that was so freely given to me.

We have come a long way from the treatment times and knowledge of this illness in the last twenty years. There are sober living houses, transitions from the safety of inpatient facilities that used to keep you twenty eight days or so, and then out you go-now-don’t drink and go to meetings! Please know that some of us have stood on desks for those behind us to do something-whatever it is-to ensure more stay on the path. Aftercare, trauma work, brain function study, brain response and study on the huge numbers of those who run before the miracle happens. There are those who continue to use with Protective Services in their life, prison hanging over their heads, enormous debt, loss, and organ failure. God shows me daily what insanity is still out there with a view of the city detox and a sober housing unit so visible from my front picture window. The EMT teams are called at least once per weekend and I notice how they don’t hurry anymore! They sort of reluctantly step off the ambulance, gather their gear, and slowly proceed towards the men’s housing or the women’s. Last summer, a woman was court ordered to spend at least the last trimester of her pregnancy in this facility. She attended meetings, group, had much support and love and snuck out in the night right before the due date to use again. The baby was born under the influence, was removed from her immediately, and she was sent to Shakopee,-a women’s prison in Minnesota. The story goes that she had lost custody of her other children previously, and this chance she was given was to possibly reunite all or begin again. Family reunification is at the forefront in Minnesota, but this is not always the best for all involved. I wondered where the staff was at the time of her sick and desperate decision? What about her peers? Why not sit on her until the baby is born? I can only speculate and give her and the child to God. Did she think she was not worthy of another chance or this child? Was the fear so powerful that she lost all she knew? And what of the shame we are all so immersed in? Powerless.

There are poly-behavioral addictions recovery systems (Siobozien, 2005) that are promising. A 6 dimension model is offered by the ASAM (American Society of Addiction Medicine) that is the voice of addiction medicine. It is: 1) withdrawal, 2) biomedical conditions and complications, 3) emotional and behavioral condition/complications 4) treatment acceptance 5) relapse potential 6) recovery environment.

Also utilized today is the Seven Dimension Intervention model (Slobodzien, 2009) which is a systematic psychosocial stressor assessment process that looks at genetic predisposition and childhood experiences that may not necessarily be a cause but a contributing factor. These seven dimensions in ARMS (addictions recovery measurement system) are 1) social/cultural 2) medical/physical 3) mental/emotional 4) educational/occupational 5) spiritual/religious 6) legal/financial 7)abstinence/relapse. Another study done is the ACE (adverse childhood experience) that measures links between childhood maltreatment and later life health and well- being. In an article by Slobodzien (2005) retrieved from Ezine articles, the ACE study findings suggest that these experiences are major risk factors for the leading causes of illness and health as well as poor quality of life in the U.S. Progress in preventing and recovering from the nation’s worst health and social problems is likely to benefit from the understanding that many of these problems are a consequence of adverse childhood experiences. The list of any of the following experiences that garner one point each, and this score can be used to quantify your childhood adverse experiences and vulnerabilities, thus visualizing a client’s stress tolerance zone. The list is as follows:

Recurrent physical abuse

Recurrent emotional abuse

Contact sexual abuse

An alcohol or drug abuser in the home

An incarcerated household member

Someone who is chronically depressed, mentally ill, institutionalized or suicidal

Mother is treated violently

One or no parents

Physical neglect

Please understand I have long stopped blaming Mommy and Daddy for my stuff. It took numerous relapses, many treatment centers, years of individual therapy, thorough and honest self -inventory and learning what forgiveness is and who it is for. My intention to raise awareness, be of service, and educate others so maybe it would save some time, pain, and unnecessary dwelling on resentments that are the number one offender for an alcoholic. I have and continue to study, participate and learn what else we can do to possibly save a life or two, to understand this powerful illness that is destroying families, hurting children and is costing our country enormous amounts of money. I will speak to my experience as a Grad student at Hazelden’s Graduate School later, but even after five or six very intense lecture hours several nights a week on this illness and the findings, I needed remember to just not drink and go to a meeting! I was certain at the time that God’s plan was attending that institution and graduating and it was not! I was not prepared for the outcome of that giant disappointment, but it was very much a part of the process. I wouldn’t change that or any experience thus far. It is all a part of my life plan. I make plans-God laughs.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

I have little recall of any of my youth, (repressed memories they tell me) and the few memories I do have, I hang onto with all my might. You try and remember anything before and after your foggy memory, hoping that something will click. I met a great man in the rooms who had the exact experience and accounting of his childhood. We were instant friends and wounded children at age fifty. We would chatter and share this phenomenon, and feel not so alone. It is a frustrating situation, but I believe to this day that God only gives you what you can handle. I also have my fair share of present stress, issues, and work to be done.

We were originally from Toledo, Ohio. I believe we were middle class, and I have very faint memories of a three bedroom house on a pleasant street, and were very active Catholics. We attended Mass everyday (accept Saturday unless a Holy Day fell on it which pissed us off) and received the Sacraments (although I really didn’t understand the ritual). Our grandparents were not far away thank God. I believe that my brothers and I would all be in the penitentiary if not for their love, dinners, laughter and concern. Sunday dinners were somewhat a routine with them, or a few Aunts and Uncles, and I have a glimmer of Great Grandparents that we visited. My two brothers and I fought over who got to spend the weekend with these paternal grandparents. Having poached eggs with Grandpa in the morning was the best and an honor. He flirted with Gramma and was playful with her. He would come up behind her and smooch her while she was cooking, and ask her sometimes if she wanted to take a little nap!! We were too young to know anything of a sexual nature, but her giggly reaction and her telling him to ‘stop now’ made for some blushing. My mother hated her parents, but we visited them as well. They were from the other side of the tracks, very poor, but so happy when we showed up. Spam and eggs with them was fine dining. The other grandparents put out of beautiful spread, and both taught me to cook everything from scratch. I still cook this way today and give thanks to both of them teaching me to use my eyes and hands for measuring. I would ask often, how do you know when it’s right? The standard answer was ‘you will just know’. This took years to master, but I can do it in my sleep today. I was a popular cook for many a party and had many people put in requests for certain dishes and request some holiday parties that included a wonderful spread! One always has to add some TLC which is the most important ingredient as Gramma reminded me.

My mother was very beautiful in the physical way. We were not allowed to ‘touch the face’ and she was one that would not go to the mailbox without full make-up. My brothers and I (especially me) could sense her dis-ease with her life. She steered clear of our Dad, reluctantly prepared meals, cleaned and organized obsessively. I would learn later in life that this is OCD, and she brought new meaning to mother’s little helper that included many opiates. My brothers and I raided her medicine cabinet in our preteen years when we were unable to find the street drugs we loved. Her stash was so plentiful she never missed it! She had major meltdowns when anything didn’t go her way. We walked on eggshells and were to be seen, not heard. I was described as ‘bashful’ by many when I was little. What was going on was I was so afraid of everything and everyone, and did not understand why. To have to do a ‘book report’ or anything in class that would have a spotlight on me would keep me up the night before and sometimes literally make me sick to my stomach.

One of the glimpses of memories as a very young kid is vivid but short and puzzling. My parents (in the fifties and sixties) were the ones who had the big, drunk New Year’s Eve party. We were not allowed to move from upstairs or come down for any reason unless the place was on fire. There was a black and white TV in their room, and my little brother and I would watch Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock or Lost in Space and laugh or scream hysterically. There was so much music and drunk, very loud carrying on going on downstairs we thought we were getting away with it! We decided at one New Years to jump up and down on our parent’s bed out of sheer boredom probably, or just breaking the rules was a charge. The bed and frame promptly crashed and broke, causing many drunk adults to come racing up the stairs from the basement to see what the noise was. My brother and I froze when all arrived to see what the crash was, and knew that later on, our Dad’s belt would be coming as it did very often. I remember being slapped so hard across my face by this man, so hard that his wedding ring cut the side of my very small face. This was the first time I remember my spirit being so hurt, so shaken by the intense hatred in his eyes as I looked up stunned that any man would slap his little girls face and then break the heart he didn’t even know existed. He looked at us with such hatred always and had the power to scare the bejesus out of us. He would do this even when we were adults. We got to sweat it out until the next day as we knew they would save face and not deliver this punishment in front of all his friends. My little brother’s room was closest to the top of the stairs, and I had to listen to him cry and beg for him to stop with in paralyzing anticipation of what I was getting right after. Our Dad’s hatred for this unplanned third kid that was my little brother will come to awful fruition later. I would try to save and protect him for the next forty years. It was even his fault that Catholics are forbidden birth control. He was a throw away and the black sheep. Our mother used him and that ‘horrible pregnancy’ where she ‘almost died’ as the excuse to sleep fully clothed on the couch for a decade as she was ‘deathly afraid’ to get pregnant again. We were shown how to lie and deceive, all while attending Mass, fasting, getting beat with rulers, hockey sticks and wooden spoons, being put in closets after being disruptive in class, never eating meat on Friday and receiving some kind sacraments because you’re supposed to. One was not allowed to attend Mass without a having your head covered (never understood this one), and because I forgot my chapel veil often, I had to pin a Kleenex to my head! We had to fast before communion, and no breakfast for a kid made for some starving, slumped kids at morning Mass. We were allowed to bring breakfast (no such thing as a cafeteria in this school), so toast or fruit was eaten at your desk with NO TALKING!! Often I would lean my rear end back on the seat of the pew I was made to kneel in front of for most of the Mass, and a very sharp finger from a nun poked my back to get back up straight on those knees. My brothers and I often spoke of the ‘Vulcan nerve pinch’, it was a grab and hold on your neck and shoulder area that seemed to not let go for a long time. It was humiliating, although we could not label this feeling until later in life. We also gave each other this pinch including a non-stop poke in the chest that accompanied a firm lecture and warning! Our Dad lost the first knuckle of his pointer finger on his right hand, and a nasty small piece of fingernail remained at the very tip of this weapon, and this was jammed into our chests often as he yelled and intimidated us. In much later years, we would laugh hysterically while doing this to each other, the beginning of a developing a defense mechanism that would help us survive the years to come. I had a ‘Patty Play-Pal’ doll. A life sized doll that was exactly my size when I got her for Christmas. She had a lot of miles on her as I included her in anything I was doing. One day, both my brothers came to me (I think I was six or seven years old) and told me they had a surprise for me but I had to wear a blindfold and be walked downstairs to the basement. I followed orders anticipating my big surprise. At the bottom of the basement stairs, they whipped off the blindfold and said "surprise!’ –it was Patty Play Pals head hanging by a noose, swaying from a pipe in the half lit moldy basement! I screamed and raced upstairs screaming for Mom and was horrified. They loved getting a rise out of anyone and especially loved picking on me!

Although I lived in such fear and uneasiness, I knew even in elementary school there was nothing uniform about me! I hated the blue plaid uniform, the saddle shoes, white or blue knee socks only, and absolutely no make-up. I remember intentionally strolling into morning Mass with pink knee socks and white go-go boots with fringe! As scared and uneasy in my own skin that I was, I loved getting a rise out of those nuns! And a reaction I got! This controversy developed into a meeting with parents, (including my parents) with discussion allowed. We students were not allowed any such thing, but the end result was ninety percent of the girls in the seventh and eighth grade were donning white go-go boots of many styles! This would be just a beginning of my master manipulation and rebellion, so common in alcoholics. Cher was just coming into style and was everywhere. I loved her and still love her. She takes no crap from people and loves controversy and attention. We grade school Catholic girls began growing our bangs to just the edge of our eyelids in her honor!! Oh my God how that caused a major uproar. I kept two bobby pins on the pocket of that hideous blue plaid uniform, and quickly pinned my bangs back when the Mother Superior was on a pow wow. Mother Christine actually had a wart on the end of her nose, and would spit when she raged at us class by class. We were terrified of her. I always got cracked on the fingers for my poor penmanship and to this day, I can’t really write longhand without tension! We were not allowed to wear patent leather shoes because they allegedly reflected your underwear (what??), and I often heard threats like one that Lilly Tomlin shares of only tramps pierce their ears. Up to the bathroom I went with one of my mother’s sewing needles, an ice cube for behind the ear lobe, and jam-ouch!! I got it through, rammed a pair of ‘stud’ earrings in both sides, and would nurse the infection in both lobes for weeks. But I looked good!! We would experience the ‘Vulcan Nerve Pinch’ again that my brothers and I so playfully labeled. You would promptly stop whatever you were doing, or just simply froze out of utter fear. I still put me legs together and sit up straight if I hear anything that resembles that damn ‘clicker’ that the nuns gave as nonverbal orders. It was sometimes used for genuflecting (kneeling on one knee briefly when entering church and stopping at the altar) or moving with no talking whatsoever!

Back to the parents New Years eve parties that occurred for a few years that I remember. My mother, in her frigidity role, told me that girls never wear panties to bed, but never said why! On one particular New Year’s Eve, I believe I was five or six years old, I scuffed down the hallway in the dark from my bedroom to use the bathroom. I sat up on the pot easily (with no panties on?) holding my little night gown up-so sleepy. I looked up and saw a silhouette of Mr. Rick, one of the parent’s friends. He was maybe five feet from me, and my memory stops cold right there. For several years to come when we visited his home, I was very quiet, scared kid, he would go out of his way to say ‘Hi honeybunch’ and watch me squirm and hide behind my mother (or try to). This became a game that I was too paralyzed to face and remember and still don’t. I do remember the feeling of sick to my stomach, dreading him again, and listening to everyone laugh at this ritual and find this adorable. I also will address the sexual acting out in my days to come riddled with alcohol and any and all the drugs I could ingest.

I have little recall of living in Toledo, Ohio where most of us were born. My mother was a stay at home, reluctantly, and Dad worked at Auto-Lite as his Dad did. St Agnes was our Parrish and the Cathedral seemed so huge at the time, and intimidating. Beautiful paintings and marble statues were all around and candle burning for those that had passed. We had a humble, three bedroom home, lots of turquoise furniture and print curtains. I am fascinated with the sets on the ‘Mad Men’ series, even the silver table lighters are the same, even the sexism, non-stop cigarette smoking and drinking ‘highballs’ is familiar. I have a faint recollection of my great grandfather that walked a few blocks to visit us on occasion. He spoke broken English, and he and my great grandmother (I barely remember) called me ‘Lucy’, just taken from my middle name I despise of ‘Louise’. He was happy, that I remember. He had thick white hair, blushed red cheeks and he smiled and waved coming down the street and going back. My mother was always so put out and annoyed anytime her day was interrupted, even when he visited. Everything was a chore and usually Mom had a temper tantrum somewhere in the day no matter what the deal was. She was so disappointed that I had poker straight hair, and I spent many an evening sitting through the pain of her twisting my hair, wetting it over and over, swearing when my hair would not cooperate with the pin curls she was trying to bobby pin. This was a ritual especially before school picture day. A new idea was invented back then by the name of ‘spoolies’, a sticky, rubber skinny curler that pulled, tugged and hurt like crazy going in and coming back out! I have elementary school pictures that show what these things were capable of! I looked ridiculous! One year, mommy decided to take me to Montgomery Wards for a perm right before picture day. My springy curls went completely straight within two days! Back she stomped to ‘Monkey Wards’ (as my brothers and I called it) and demanded perm number two for free!! That fell out as well-she was irate with me and the world. I was so relieved-no more stinky, burning, twisting plastic rods and many steps of ‘neutralizers, hairdryers and tears held at bay.

My two front teeth were very loose right before one picture day. She threatened my life to leave them in,‘don’t you dare pull those out until that picture is taken.’ I recall these teeth hanging by a thread, wiggling back and forth and barely in their sockets, but I made it to the big day, starving for real food as I was carefully eating anything mushy and carefully until the picture was taken. They protruded and were obviously hanging there! (that’s how I see them!) I let ‘em rip within hours of that damn picture. It took a minor twist and a pull and out they came.

Things begin to get murky here. Auto-Lite moved from Toledo down to Decatur Alabama. We were such strangers in a strange land even though Gramma and Grandpa were part of the move along with some older couples that we referred to as Aunt and Uncles. Neighbors would not allow their kids to play with us because we were ‘Yankees’. We were puzzled by this and really hurt. There was a movie theater that one could get in with only an empty Golden Flake potato chip bag. My younger brother and I went often, and soon began to stash that potato chip bag as we walked in, giggling that we had gotten away with something, that nobody else could have come up with this genius move but us, and we could just reuse the bag and enter next Saturday. This began a rebellion with the Catholic school rules, no concern for our parents, and almost a lifetime of guilt. All three of us were bed-wetters until adolescence and were shamed and punished for this often.

My brother and I were stopped in our tracks in the movie theater when looking up at a balcony full of ‘colored kids’. We stared at separate drinking fountains, labeled for whites and blacks. This was in the sixties, but completely foreign to us, and appalling. Never was racism in our discussions, never heard of such a thing. We were sickened, puzzled and sad. Our mother was truly in a nonstop bunch at this stage. My only memory of her ever standing up for herself, especially to our Dad was her saying "I’m going back up north, are you coming? Southern hospitality my ass was her constant beef. We would here this over and over again. We lived across the street from a chicken farm, and our dramatic mother would hang those disgusting sticky fly strips up in the house and the garage. They would be black with dead flies stuck by the feet or wings and die a slow painful death that she took pleasure in! She would call the poor farmer often and bitch him out and then have the health department come out and look at her disgusting catch! A snake (and many were poisonous in Alabama) came out the faucet one summer afternoon, my God. The screaming and drama was pathetic! One time my brothers ran home and told her about this huge ten foot snake crossing the dirt road towards that ole chicken farm that appeared stuck and had a huge lump in the belly. (I believe they wanted to get a rise out of her and that’s what they got!). Mommy raced out to her car, raced over to the snake in question, and ran her car back and forth a dozen times to make sure she was a goner. Even better, both of my brothers waited for her to leave the scene of the snake crime and promptly cut open the belly of this smashed snake, discovered thirty or so baby snakes inside, scooped them up and ran them over the neighbor’s pool and tossed em in! This was one of the families that we were not allowed around because we were Yankees! My brothers saw no crime at all, that’s what they get! This would be the first of many police stops at our house!

Our Dad supposedly ‘transferred’ to Ford Motor Company many months before we joined him in Michigan. The house in Alabama was on the market for an awfully long time. This would be the first of many lies and cover ups that were to be. I would find out decades later that this was our parent’s first separation, and it just bought them some time. Our mother actually laughed with us at times with no Dad around. I’m not sure how long this separation went on, a year or so, but off we eventually went to a new, thriving subdivision of Detroit called Plymouth Michigan. We were in a brand new subdivision, cookie cutter houses, puny stupid looking bushes and pencil thin trees in traction so they didn’t blow over or snap in this slightest wind. I remember thinking to myself, we won’t live long enough to see these mature! What’s the point? Keeping up with the Joneses? Our Dad so reluctantly worked in this yard on Saturdays, arranging wood chips and grey stones that we got screamed at if one were out of order and on the sidewalk. He was miserable, and huffed and groaned all the while during this chore. The three of us would, of course, intentionally kick one or two to get a rise out of him. It was the house of anger, silence, lies and so many more to come. I love Edward Scissor hands (or anything Tim Burton does) with the cookie cutter subdivision look, nosey neighbors, gossiping, judging and lying. Ours would be a horror story, and this was just getting started.

We would have a holiday trip once a year down to Florida where my paternal grandparents retired in Sarasota Florida. My brothers and I were excited to arrive there, Gramma & Grandpa were guaranteed good food, days at the beach, laughter and looking at all the old picture slides on a screen put up in the living room. Aunt Emily and Uncle Clyde lived down the block-I think Clyde was Gramma’s brother-I’m not sure. They had such a cool house, huge lemon trees in the yard that we were allowed to pick and take back up north. These lemons were monster big and we marveled at them! The yard was full of bird baths, giant glass yard ornaments and beautiful, manicured flowers. Their house was so neat and clean, and I spotted the ‘princess chair’, it was just a white flare back wicker chair, but to me it was mine and only mine. I had some first communion pictures taken in this chair and I see some resemblance of a genuine smile when I look at them. These two people seemed to fuss over me and not my brothers. Uncle Clyde took just me to the beach to look for sea shells on Siesta Key. I loved the feeling of someone paying attention to me as it was new. Aunt Emily had a loud cackle like laugh and I found a way to bring that out of her as often as possible. Many years later, I would find out that they lost their only child, a baby girl. Nobody will answer (or reveal) how old and to what she died from. Later on, Aunt Emily sent me her good china with a loving note that I will always treasure. She said this was the china I had my first communion dinner on and that my Dad had his first communion dinner on them long ago. The sentiment is her gift-I didn’t care about the Dad part.

These stops at Gramma’s and the Great Aunt and Uncle were so cherished, however, we dreaded the ride from Plymouth down to Florida. Why we had to get up and get on the road at three a.m. I will never know (probably less noise and aggravation for the ole man). It was awful. He would bitch and refuse to stop or demand everybody better pee at the same time. My brothers and I would of course fight, pinch and tell on each other pretty much the entire twenty four hour ride. He would swing at us while driving, sometimes just swishing past our legs or torso-we knew how to dodge him. He swatted and screamed with such disgust and hatred. He used to say things like you piss me off!!’ ‘You don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground!’ You know what burns my ass????? Goddamn kids. Anybody who hates kids and dogs can’t be all bad. Our mother just continued to pick and bite her nails so low they would bleed sometimes. Once in a while she would intervene when Dad got too nasty for her. She would just say Dick!’ He accused me of taking our family dog ‘to bed’ when I was lying with him and kissing him. I had no idea what he was talking about, not then anyway. Our mother spoiled that dog as she would through out her life with all her pets, and Dad was just jealous of this stupid pet. I related to Louie Anderson’s book,’ Dear Dad’ written some years ago, a familiar story of an angry father, not realizing the depths of his rage. On one occasion, Dad took my younger brother and I sledding at night at the Edward Hines park, a beautiful (at one time) state park. Both my brother and I loved the dare devil feel and found this steep sledding hill with a huge crater-we would be airborne and come down the other side. One of the times, I came down smack on my tailbone! It cracked loud and it broke. God did that hurt, so my brother carried me back to the car where Dad had really nothing to say, no concern as I was screaming in pain. He was shut down like this as far as I can recall, there was no doctor, no x-ray, nothing. I had to eat standing up at the kitchen counter for days as sitting down was not possible.

My brothers did love teasing me and making me nuts. I got a "Patty Play Pal’ for Christmas one year-she was a life size doll, my height and size when I was about five or six years old. I loved her, and treasured her. Her head was kind of floppy, it leaned over one side or another, and I think my Dad tried to secure it somehow. This was a special treat, these parents of ours were not thoughtful, did not listen to anything that we wanted-so my delight at having this doll was off the charts. One day in Toledo, my brothers came to find me and announced a big surprise for me-but I had to be blind folded, walk with them down the basement stairs, and trust them to get to the surprise. I obeyed, was led down the stairs and waited for them to say ‘OK! Are ya ready!! Here ya go!!’ Off came the blindfold and Patty Play Pals head was swinging from a noose swung over a pipe in the basement-only her head-torn off her body! I screamed with horror and ran to find Mom. She scolded them, but was losing control of the household, both of my brothers, me and her sanity……little did we know.

Across the street, almost directly, a family with three girls, both parents, and seemingly a ‘family’ lived and were also members of the same Catholic school and church. They appeared to have it all, money, the only swimming pool at the time. All were very polite, smart and always perfectly dressed and groomed. The oldest girl, Patty, was in my class at Catholic school, however, I really didn’t know her. Their Mother would come over occasionally to ’visit’ and our mother couldn’t be bothered. I felt embarrassed of her reluctantly opening the door for this woman, and making very sure to let her know how busy she was. This woman did sort of flit around the neighborhood, but all were not visited. I began to see gossip, judgment, and finger pointing in this subdivision life. However, for some reason, this woman spoke with my mother and invited me to accompany her and all three girls downtown Detroit, shopping at Hudson’s, off to a matinee movie and lunch at Stoeffer’s. I was so surprised, how do I rate? I wasn’t sure what Stoeffer’s was, it was someplace we passed on the freeway at times. I knew one would get dressed up for something like that. What would I wear? What would I do for shopping money? I was scared, but so delighted. Anything to get out of that house anyway. This woman was pretty insistent from what I heard. My mother went along just to of getting rid of this woman and shut everyone up. So off I went, dressed up, very shy, a few dollars to spend my mother snuck out of somewhere. I spent the few dollars on chocolate covered cherries for her, and loved the fancy department store feel and smells including taking the elevators equipped with a finely dressed operator that asked what floor. I loved this, how cool is this stuff? Where have I been? I watched my manners to the tee for sure. We went over to Stoeffer’s for lunch, another classy meal, and then to the Fox theater to watch The Sound of Music. I was in awe. I know every word to every song, and still watch it on Christmas Day. The next weeks were My Fair Lady, a few Jesus movies, King of Kings I think. The seats in the theater were crushed velvet, at least I thought they were, and huge red velvet curtains were on either side of the huge screen. This was not your mall movie experience! After the movie, we went downtown Detroit to the girls Grandmothers apartment way up high in a sky scraper. They called her ‘Gimmy’, and I was somehow as welcome as the three grandchildren. She had gifts for us, goodies, and was very affectionate. I couldn’t believe I was so included. I was a part of something. A family perhaps-whatever that looks like! This continued for weeks and weeks, so much that I began to question of I was ‘wearing out my welcome’ as I heard from my people. This was my introduction to theater, classical music, proper manners, and behaving! Eventually, the girl’s mother and Patty, the oldest, spoke of how they knew what was going on at our house, and that they could hear my little brother and I laugh and carry on even across the street. They even had to push my mother into letting me go with again and again. I loved it. I developed a habit whenever I had the chance, to lock myself in my parent’s bedroom with their black and white TV and watch any family program I could. Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best, Uncle Charlie, the King family (how on earth could there be that many people in a family?) I still watch Lawerance Welk reruns that remind me of Sundays at my Gramma’s. I was certain we just got ripped off, there were good families out there, people who laughed, talked, cared, loved and helped one another. My younger brother and I would stay up at night talking and ask "who are these people?’ How did we end up with this group? We would get into discussions about being dropped off on the porch as newborns, we cannot be from these people! Maybe like baby Moses, we were shipped down a stream in a basket! Later on, these discussions included lots of THC, LSD, and good pot where the discussion turned to hilarious laughter the worse things got in the house, the lies, the tension and the hypocrisy-the more we analyzed. We could not really look at each other at the dinner table without a burst of laughter with the silence, the sarcasm, and even more lies. We could not believe how clueless they were that we were doing this just a set of stairs away. Ignore it, maybe it will go away. Just pretend. Always the solution, always.

On one of the trips down to Sarasota to see Gramma & Grandpa, my younger brother and I heard about a ‘sock hop’ whatever that meant-but wanted to go. We were reaching our preteen years, and we were getting very restless. We walked up to the local school and discovered a band set up on a stage with a riser about ten inches! We were both grabbed by the neck and stopped as there were no shoes allowed on the gym floor. We were so puzzled by this because we didn’t know what a gym was! We clumsily took our shoes off and proceeded up to the stage with about fifteen other people watching this band begin. We sat legs crossed on the floor and were able to look right up at their faces and watch very closely. I was so taken by this long hair, cool fringe clothes, bad boy thing. I wasn’t sure of what this was all about, but I wanted one! It was some band called ‘the Allman Brothers!" A fantastic group and an unforgettable experience for sure. We were so mesmerized with this music scene immediately. We would spend the next years seeing, following and neglecting everything to get to these shows. Some of the venues in Detroit were three act shows, Led Zeppelin, the Faces, Janis Joplin played often with Big Brother and the Holding Company. We were able to see all these shows for five dollars! They were not the legends they are now, but we knew this was part of history. We were thrilled and spent every dime we could muster on albums and 45’s. We saw Iggy and the Stooges often, MC5, Alice Cooper, and some guy named Bob Seger, very cool, who always played in his bedroom slippers. We tried so hard to convince our parents that we needed to be at Woodstock, but no way on the out of state part. So we went to Goose Lake, another outside show a while later that was held in Michigan with the same three day premise, excellent music, tons of open drug use and no violence. Everyone shared, drugs, food, and had