140)
Just one, for today.
But I need this one.
I need to be reminded
that there is more to me
than I see,
and so
I need to understand
that I am not the sum of my fears
or the limitations of a so-called sickness
nor am I less or more
simply because of my challenges
with social, economical,
and educational snobbery.
And so –
I am reminded of a room
I sat in with different professionals
and different people
with high levels of education,
and certainly, everyone else’s level
of education was higher than mine.
I was on a stage, in fact,
in front of a big room, filled with “Somebodies”
And yes . . .
They were all so-called professionals
with professional degrees on their wall
and high-leveled credentials, and then
there was me.
I was asked to sit on a panel
as someone who can say
that I have some real life
or lived experience,
and as a member of recovery
I was asked to share
my side
or offer my opinion.
I do not claim to be anything
better or worse than who I am.
I am not a hero or peasant
and I am nothing more
than a person who looks
to normalize and humanize the fact
that mental illness takes place
across the board.
Mental illness does not discriminate
even if we do,
or even if we have a discriminating opinion,
or if we are ignorant, socially misled
educationally lazy or otherwise,
mental illness moves in the masses
of over a million secrets and lies.
Depression does not care about money
or your job titles, or where you live,
nor does anxiety disorder care
if your bills are paid on time,
and certainly, chemistry is chemistry,
no matter what the color of your skin is,
and no matter what God you pray to
or what rights you claim
with hopes to get you in the so-called
Kingdom of Heaven,
disorder is still disorder
and addiction or alcoholism
has been proven to be
a clinical disease.
I sat on a panel,
intimidated as ever,
wondering if anyone is
going to ask me a question,
and if so,
would my answer even count?
Who am I?
By the way, this was after
a police initiative
that I was chosen to be part of
and hence
this was the last time,
I ever referred to myself as a junkie.
In fact,
I will never use words like that
about myself again.
However, I was hardly a professional.
I was only a person in recovery.
I started to gain some entry-level credentials
to see if I could explore
an avenue that I had always wanted
to try, but in my head—who the hell
would listen to me?
And why?
I always wanted to help,
and I aways wanted to be a counselor
or a clinician,
but in fairness,
I was let down on several occasions
by therapists, counselors,
doctors
and clinicians.
Either way,
I sat in a big chair on a stage
in a big room
filled with hundreds of people.
I listened to the statistics
and mistruths from the other speakers
and I listened to the stigmas
and I heard from people
who in my assumption
only understood this game
from one side of the table.
I do not like when people misuse facts
and, I do not like
when people assume
their opinions are facts.
I get angry,
and as the speeches went on
I grew angrier by the minute.
One by one
the members of the panel spoke
and one by one
they told about their credentials
and their experience
and they used their highbrow thoughts
and their educated language
to tell about a fight
that was personal to me.
And, in all fairness,
I accept the fact
that I listened with a biased ear.
One by one,
they passed a microphone down the line
until it was my turn.
I was last on the dais.
Fuck that . . .
I handed the mic back
stood from my chair on the stage
and I leapt down to the ground
and from what I could share
and from my heart
I told them the truth.
I told them my truth
which is only subjective to me.
“I am not any of the people behind me.”
I said, and then I told them
a different version
of the truth, which was interesting
because the room was filled
with local government
and law enforcement
to which, at one point,
everyone in this room
was an enemy to me
At least
at one point. . .
but not anymore.
I told them this part too
about them being the enemy.
I told them why.
And also,
I told them all
that statistically speaking,
everyone in this room
knows someone or has someone in their family
with a mental health challenge
or statistically speaking,
everyone in this room
knows someone
or something about suicide, depression,
and statistically speaking,
everyone in this room
knows someone with
a drug or alcohol problem.
I told the room,
which was pretty full—
I explained,
and so, to normalize
and humanize this a little better
and to gain a broader sense
of understanding—and as a boost
or to add emotion to the room
and to dose the crowd
with the spice of intensity,
I explained to law enforcement
how body language tells everything,
“So, don’t move,”
I said . . .
I looked around the room,
and then I explained,
statistically speaking,
there are people in this room
who sit here with their positions
and their job titles, respectable titles
and there are those who sit here today
with their dignity
and their respect,
but . . .
Statistically speaking,
there are a lot of people in this very room
who struggle with drugs and alcohol
and all of the above
which I had just mentioned.
Perhaps we should remember that,
the next time we look to judge
or assume, or if we look to help
or treat someone who gets caught up
on a drug sweep
or finds themselves banged-out,
or in the worst way possible,
close to deaths door.
How would you treat your child
or your colleague,
or your best friend,
if you found out it was them
who had a problem?
How you would treat them,
remember that
the next time you look to treat a stranger
because in whichever way
you would treat your best friend
sometimes, this is the same way you
would have to treat your worst enemy.
There’s a lot more to treating a problem
then getting a better education.
I was not treated like a human
when I came around.
I was told that I was sick
and that I was an addict
or a junkie,
and I was a crook,
a criminal
and that I was an alcoholic
and a drunk.
Actually,
I am none of those things
but I do know this –
whatever level my professionalism is
or isn’t and regardless of my accent,
or how I talk
or the way I am, or look,
and despite my list of faults and flaws
and mistakes, sins,
and no matter how many fuckups
I have under my belt,
my last time in the field, so-to-speak,
was April 1, 1991.
I have not drank nor used
a recreational drug since then.
But . . .
Even that doesn’t make me better
than anyone else.
All this means
is I am one of the lucky ones.
But just so you know,
many of my friends
were not lucky,
at least not so much . . .
So to me,
I take this shit personally.
Addiction, suicide,
and the crooked life
took friends from me.
Fuck that.
So I come here
to take back
and make new friends
and that means even if my new friends
were once
my enemy.
The Written Addiction 