From Ashes
I was emotionless for several months after entering The Freedom House—although realistically, I had been mostly emotionless for years and now was only recently aware of being emotionless. While using heroin, the hazy fog of drugs rendered me incapable of emotion. Now, in treatment, I was too numb to experience much of anything. Later, as a student of psychology, I would learn that one’s emotional development more or less stops when a person starts doing drugs on a regular basis—so I had a ways to catch up before I would be emotionally mature. During my years as an addict, the only emotions I ever demonstrated were drawn from my theater training—faux emotions—not authentic at all, displayed only to manipulate a person or situation to my needs—needs nearly always brought on by heroin withdrawal.
At the Freedom House, I robotically went through each day, doing what Sharon (our housemother) or the counselors told me to do. I was devoid of thought—numb to the core—the fight in me was utterly and completely gone. For once in my life, I accepted rules without question. Living through that last (serious) suicide attempt had inherently changed how I viewed my life. I knew with crystal clarity that something had to change—life simply could not continue as it was. I had tried to kill myself—really tried—and had been unable to. The words of Moses, the male nurse who cared for me after I awoke from the coma, kept coming back to me, “Girl—you ain’t supposed to die.”
Somehow, I knew this to be true. And since death was not an option, the only choice was change. To bring about this change, I simply surrendered—and it actually felt good. When I had accepted The Freedom House’s offer of treatment, I had silently raised the white flag of defeat on my life as I had been living it. Surprisingly, it was a huge relief. All of a sudden, I became willing. Willing to stop using drugs, willing to change, willing to listen—finally willing to do what others told me to do. Obviously, my way hadn’t been working.
During those tough, tough early months of recovery, I went through each day, mechanically—neither hopeful nor optimistic—just merely existing—going through the motions of living, somehow trusting that if I kept up the ruse of living that things would work out. But the truth was that I simply did not know what else to do.
Phoenix-Rising, courtesy of Art.com
Slowly, almost imperceptive to its presence, an emotional thaw began—beginning deep in my soul. Suddenly, I would find myself weeping uncontrollably when something (anything) triggered a terrible memory from my past. Having memories were not new—I had never been so blessed to have repressed memories—but the intense emotional reactions that accompanied my memories were new. Without warning, a memory would trigger intense rage or unbelievable sadness—and I needed to learn how to deal with these new feelings. I was unprepared for these emotions that would spring up as the events from my trauma-filled life filled began popping in and out of my psyche, triggered by anything—triggered by everything. I was enraged by my childhood, ashamed of my adulthood, and grief stricken at how very much had been lost. How had things gone so terribly wrong? I spent most nights weeping uncontrollably until I could do nothing more than fall asleep—exhausted by my emotions. Sleep showed no mercy, as vivid nightmares filled each night.
But even while I was catapulted into the world of the living and experiencing the intense feelings of rage, sadness, and inconsolable grief, a tiny ember of hope—never quite extinguished by the darkest side of humanity—tbegan flickering to life. I was surrounded by people whose stories were also hopeless—some more and some less than mine—who had all managed to overcome their personal struggles to find a new life that, from all appearances, seemed to be filled with happiness, success, and most importantly, hope. Slowly, that tiny flicker of hope in me ignited and grew stronger and somehow became a dream. I once again had a dream I believed in. I started believing that I would be successful at school, that I would be able to earn my degree and find work that had real meaning. I started believing I could live successfully in a world that had been all too cruel for so many years. I even started believing that I would one day find love again. I had forgotten how much our dreams keep us alive—and I realized how much I missed having a real yearning. It was not the same dream I had had years before, as a struggling actress—but this new dream meant every bit as much to me.
From the ashes of a wasted life, a new dream was born. I would make sure this dream would be realized.
Peace,
Melinda
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Categories: Transformation and Change,Heroin,Crossroads,Inspiration,Addiction and Recovery,Healing,Lost Dreams,Courage
Now I see what you mean about this post!
Yes, coming back into your own, feeling your emotions again. All that pain you'd been running from!
My Guru says that drugs create a second set of energy channels in the body, and that a person constantly taking drugs starts inhabiting those instead of their own. Hence the fantasy, the suppression of your true situation and so on.
I can relate to just going through the motions, I'm sure many can! Its a strange thing, to lose hope for yourself and your life. Its a stranger thing to once again realise you can have your life back in spades if you dare.
I think, going through all that pain was something you had to do - in order to get back to yourself. Its what you'd be hiding from, right?
That's kinda what I meant in one of my recent posts - the only way through is to go through it, really go through it and not try to hide.
If you can do that and make it to the other side, you're home.
Inspiring as always, Melinda!
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Yes, Svasti--you are absolutely right! I had to experience that pain I'd been hiding from. Because we can never really hide from our traumas--we might do things to try to mask our pain such as I did with all the drugs. At least I could never be successful in recovery until I learned to face the trauma and pain--because life is full of trauma and pain. We all have to come to terms with it. No matter who we are or what our own story is, there will always be good and evil. All of us will experience those qualities, although to different extents.
I also think your guru is right on the mark in his explanation of drugs--in fact, I like that explanation a lot. In a way, it is similar to the biological explanation for the pain one experiences when withdrawing from heroin. Our bodies stop producing endorphins (our body's natural painkillers) because we have replaced that with synthetic ones (opiates). When we stop doing heroin, we feel so much pain because our body is no longer capable of producing endorphins--we have to retrain ourselves to do that. So, in the same (emotional) vein--we have to retrain ourselves to feel emotions in the same way.
Thanks, as always, for your thoughtful comments. I appreciate it very much.
Melinda
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Dear Melinda
A truly excellent post as ever! I don't wish to draw out any more parallels between our experiences. They are very different but similar in so many ways.
There was one thing here, small in context, a little tangential perhaps, but it really struck home to me. I've noticed it so many times in life. It's that the first point of change is the act of surrender, almost of giving up a frail and combative ego state in order to re-experience our emotional selves, thereby to *feel* our way to recovery. I wondered about the word, "surrender" in a way, since this form of surrender is not giving in or giving up but looking inwards to one's heart and saying "show me."
Inevitably this journey involves facing our heart's past pain, and often, utter despair, of feeling the intense sadness and anger that we have denied or repressed. Listening to that pain with tenderness and compassion is the means of recovering and transforming oneself, and of finding love within oneself. It is an act of surrender, of letting go of all the mindful thoughts that hide, deny or seek to avoid our pain.
You say you never repressed your memories of abuse. I share that feeling too. We can often remember those things that caused our pain but repress those feelings that go with them. It's the pain we seek to avoid, and not always the memory of what happened. Before I recovered myself from abuse I could recount it with great intellectual clarity. It's this repression of pain that takes us towards addiction and other harming behaviours.
The act of submitting to and allowing one's feelings is a kind of surrender. Listening to one's heart always presents the positive route from difficulty. Whenever I have argued with my heart I have got it wrong. It is only our hearts, our feeling selves that properly know and understand our own deep truths. It took me a long while to learn this lesson.
Thank you for an insightful and very stimulating post, Melinda. I'm very proud of you!
Fondly,
Geoffrey
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Dear Geoffrey,
You are absolutely right about surrender--and for me, this surrender was not a weakness but actually a strength because it put my ego aside and allowed others, who were far more evolved in their recovery, to be able to show me the way.
This was such an insightful comment: "You say you never repressed your memories of abuse. I share that feeling too. We can often remember those things that caused our pain but repress those feelings that go with them."
Yes. While I never repressed memories, the accompanying pain was suppressed for many years. Drugs suppressed the emotional turmoil I was in for much of my adult life. When the drugs were gone, I had no choice other than to face my pain. I would not have been able to stay in recovery if I hadn't faced the pain of my past--or confronted my father when I did. It was a real relief to do both.
Thanks so much for your thoughtful comments--I knew you would understand this piece.
Melinda
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Dear Melina thank you for another interesting post. You mention uncontrollable grief attacs caused by random bad memories. That's exactly what I'm having from time to time. Have you learnt how to deal with them? Sometimes a single bad memory may make me burst into tears or worse if I'm in the 'right' mood. I used to cut my arms in order to stop it but now I know that's not a solution at all! Perhaps having experienced that you know some way to cope?
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Aluajala,
I am sorry your memories are triggering such emotional reactions in you. I really benefited from therapy--but I wasn't ready for therapy until well into my recovery (about 4 years into it). I just wasn't emotionally ready to deal with it. It is my experiences that we all need to face our traumas head on--and only then can we put it to rest.
Some people are able to deal with their past through journaling--but that didn't work for me (completely--it did help). I needed the advice and guidance of a trained psychologist for helping me through all that garbage from my past.
I wish you all the best in your journey. I have an ear if you ever need to talk.
Peace,
Melinda
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I really had an "ah-ha" moment when I read your words on being willing. That sounded so familiar to me, but I'd never thought of my experience in treatment using that term. I, too, was willing to be told what to do, to follow rules for the first time in years....with one exception. The residents were left in the house alone at night, and one evening we were to be picked up by AA people and taken to a meeting outside. Required attendance (and the counselors always seemed to know the truth of what transpired in such cases). But I came down with a mad-wild, volcano-hot flu around dinner. Never has a bug hit me so hard before or since. My previous roommate had been ill the week prior and had been removed from treatment; they said she'd be back - but I saw her years later and it was obvious that she never had returned to treatment.
I knew that if I were sent home that it was all over for me. I called a meeting and asked the group to cover for me for just one night, to go on to the meeting and let me stay at the house in bed. I had faith, in my feverish delirium, that I would be ok by morning (uncharacteristic for me, having never had the "24-hour flu" before or since). It would require that each and every resident remain mum, for I'd be tossed out if it were discovered that I'd not gone to the meeting. The group agreed, and one girl had a blessed heating pad that she gave me to ride out the chills and sweats of the night. There wasn't even such as an aspirin allowed in the house, so I went to bed feeling as if I'd die.
I didn't hear them return to the house after the meeting. When the 7:00 a.m. alarm rang I woke up and realized that the bed was soaked. The fever had broken during the night and I was weak but healed. And the group kept my secret. Now I wish I could give each of them a hug of gratitude for their gift of solidarity.
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Lydia,
Your story made me smile--how wonderful that your fellow residents remained mum and allowed you to stay in the house. But I have to say--not allowing you to stay in while you are ill seems to be such a foolish and counterproductive rule.
We had similar types of rules at the Freedom House--you weren't able to leave on your own during the first month of residency, we were required to attend outside and in-house AA meetings (like you) as well as tons of other rules about this and that. There was also a rule that we weren't allowed to leave on an overnight trip until we had 90 days clean--but they actually broke this rule for me at about 70 days clean. I hadn't seen my mother for years--and had been out of touch with her for quite some time (I later learned that she is the process of hiring a private detective to find out where I was--she was that worried about me). Anyway, they allowed me to go to Montana to visit her and it was an important step in my recovery.
Rules that are so rigid as yours were seem to be detrimental to recovery. I understand mandatory meetings--but when one is that sick? Ridiculous.
Anyway--I am so glad that you were able to stay there. After I had been clean almost 6 months, I ran into one of the early relapsers from the house--someone who'd left after only being there for a couple of days. I said a prayer when I saw her--'there but for the grace of God go I.'
We are both so lucky!
Melinda
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Melinda,
I could make my entire blog links posts just linking to your posts. I believe in what you are doing here. I so appreciate the clarity with which you write. So much honest emanates (sp?) from your posts. And, yet, I always leave uplifted no matter how difficult the story is to hear. I'm not sure how you work that magic. Maybe it's God.
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Thanks so much for your kind comments, Jen--it means so much to me. I also believe in what I am doing--I hope I can help a lot of people by going public with my story and launching The Melindaville Foundation.
Melinda
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I'm so often commenting on the content of your posts -- always powerful and thought provoking -- that I recently realized that I don't mention how engaging they are. You know how to tell a story, which isn't always an easy thing.
Following up a post about the death of a dream with the birth of new one is perfect. And well-told.
Jennifer
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Thank you so much, Jennifer. I have really enjoyed both writing my memoir and blogging about some of the experiences I have had in my crazy life.
Melinda
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Reading this post, this concept came to my mind.
Living and Existing.
Existing was the phase wherein, as a result of all that emotional and psychological turmoil over the years, were a victim of wrong choices that ended up pulling you deeper and deeper into more chaos.
But, at one point, its apparent that something inside you cried out in denial, asserting that you weren't meant to be who you were till then.
And from then on, you wanted to Live.
That small flicker, as you so aptly put it, ignited, it paved way for a distant glimpse of a much better you, and ultimately you channeled all your thoughts into Believing in yourself, and slowly, step by step, stone by stone embarked on a metamorphosis.
Painful and intense but in the end, immensely rewarding.
It should have taken a tremendous amount of self resolve for you to have catapulted back into society as a successful person, and it indeed is an amazing feat, considering that most people turn to a resigned acceptance of fate, after a certain stage.
And you realized your Destined dream in the end.
The thing is, whenever people say, "Its the damned fates.." They're just giving up on themselves.
But those who hope, those who believe in themselves and also that hardships are there merely to attain a higher pedestal in their lives, carve their destinies. Like you.
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Wow, Praz--what you wrote really blew me away. That was so insightful--and written so eloquently. You are exactly right--I had been mostly dead without realizing it--that little flicker of hope brought me back to life so I could realize my dreams.
Thank you so much for your comments. They mean a lot to me.
Melinda
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Melinda, no chapter or stage of your life is ever wasted. As often as you choose, you re-emerge from an identity you discard in order to evolve into a new one. A sense of self is like clothes. You can change based on trends or based on what you discover feels right for you. Inner transformation changes how you perceive color, priorities and choices. It all matters.
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Liara--thank you so much--that was truly beautifully stated and very true. It also reminds me of something Jim (a Native American medicine man who was my spiritual leader) once told me; "There are no bad experiences, only learning experiences." We do learn from every experience and all of our experiences are part of us. Thank you so much for stopping by.
Melinda
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