“You deserve better,” I told myself as I took a long, hot shower, attempting to wash my abusive husband off my soul, and yes, my body.

Never again would he yell at me that I was nothing that mattered to anybody. I had fixed it so he would never knock me up against the wall and pound my stomach so the bruises wouldn’t show. I had been contemplating leaving him for a long time but knew I had to be very crafty because he would kill me if he caught me. I had been sneaking money out of our checking account for a long time and he didn’t seem to notice. A packed bag was ready, hidden in my closet. I had a friend in Idaho, who he didn’t know, who would let me stay there until I got back on my feet. I had stashed extra food in the back yard in case I was temporarily homeless. We had no children because he refused to have any so I wouldn’t have to worry about keeping them safe. I racked my brain to see if there was anything I had forgotten. Everything seemed to be in order.

But then, I had a change of plans. He came home early on the day I planned to leave this misery and saw my suitcase on the bed. Enraged, he charged me, planning to make me very sorry. What else could I do?

I took his loaded gun out of my suitcase and shot him in his heart. So now, you know why I am taking my long, hot shower, washing him (and his blood) off my body. I will take care of his body later when I damn well feel like it!

INTRODUCTION

If we use the suffering of our past to help others, we turn our pain into purpose.

I cannot speak for all addictions, but I can speak with much experience on the addiction of alcohol; you know that whispered expression, “She’s an Alcoholic.” Except I’m not ashamed to be an Alcoholic, so when you tell others, say it loudly. I am extremely proud of my struggle with this disease and all the beautiful scar tissue it has developed through my soul. It's been several years since I last had a drink; I consider my disease in remission—since at any point in time the obsession to drink can return.

Some people argue about “Recovered Alcoholic” verses “Recovering Alcoholic,” which is basically an argument of semantics. The basis for this debate is rooted in the book of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), which is sweetly nicknamed The Big Book. However there is absolutely no reason to argue with the AA bible—just state your angle and move on. For me, it is essential that I never let go of the reality that I am and always will be an Alcoholic (more to come on this necessity when I illustrate the nasty trial and error of relapsing). Once I assume I am a “Recovered Alcoholic” my mind will talk me into drinking again. So, for sobriety sake (forget semantics), I consider myself a Recovering Alcoholic, and should I drink again, I would be a Practicing Alcoholic. If I still have an allergy to alcohol, if I cannot drink, then I am in fact still an Alcoholic—I have not recovered from the disease, nor do I believe that is possible.

I avoided the rooms of AA for one reason: it was a God-Bible-Thumping-Cult. And I do not join groups or clubs or cliques. Period. I have some paranoia of becoming “one of them” dating back to Junior High when I realized everyone had a “group” but me, and I felt safe that way. Without labels I can be myself and not have to break any group norms or rules, and “myself” is allowed to mold and mend any way my heart so desires. I very much dislike rules and any establishment that forces them upon me, all of which will soon become quite obvious. But let me be the first to say, I was wrong. I was absolutely, completely and wholeheartedly wrong about my God-Bible-Thumping-Cult perspective of AA. I am still not officially “one of them” but yet I am one of them. I have a homegroup that I go to every week, and I believe in the program; without it, I would be dead, no doubt. I am not sharing my story to be an example of AA, but I am definitely sharing my story to offer a solution to others on the same painful path of a living-hell that I was once on.

You do not need to believe in God to read and digest this story. All you need is to be wise enough to remain open-minded on any front presented. If I read something with boxing gloves on, I will always find a fight to participate in. Yet, when I read something as a simple spectator, merely amused by what is going to come about, I can digest what is presented and later decide what works and what does not. A hard lesson in my young life was knowing when to yield and when to battle. But I’ve learned that to grow, I must always yield first in order to witness and then battle when, and only when, it’s appropriate. My sharing this story is me intentionally choosing to battle with the darkness of addiction. I learned the hard way: there is no happiness at the bottom of any sort of bottle.

I am either open-minded or blind—I cannot be both.

CHAPTER 1

If there is a devil, it exists in addiction. And if the devil has a lover, it's society's lack of comprehension on the matter.

The connotative definition of an Alcoholic is someone that doesn’t know how to control their drinking. This is society's understanding of the word Alcoholic and it is harmfully inaccurate. The denotative definition is a person with an addiction to the consumption of alcohol or the mental illness and compulsive behavior resulting from alcohol dependency. This is a hereditary disease and it is absolutely not a matter of self-control. The common misunderstanding that Alcoholism is just a lack-of-control issue is exactly what keeps people from not only entering the rooms of recovery, but from staying sober once there.

I was listening to NPR recently and there was an interview that made my heart sink, or my academic mind flare, maybe both. There was an interview of a man, a famous chef of some sort, and also a recovered/ing Alcoholic. He was asked by the interviewer if when he was drinking and almost losing his wife, kids etc., was his restaurant [which he kept successfully running] just too important to him, "Was that the one line you wouldn’t let yourself cross?" the interviewer asked. So essentially, the interviewer is asking, or rather implying that Alcoholics can in fact control their drinking, IF the reason is important enough for them to control it.

Anyone one else see a problem here? There is no controlling drinking for Alcoholics, and when we drink, there is absolutely no line we will not cross; if we drink long enough, we will cross them all. The interviewers question is a clear example of his ignorance on the subject of Alcoholism. With his question he tells us that he believes Alcoholics have some amount of control over their drinking, IF only the matter is important enough to them. So in other words, his wife and children were not important enough to him, but the restaurant, now that was a line he wouldn't cross. "Hmmmm" said all who were really listening.

NO MATTER HOW IMPORTANT something is, our drinking will take it down if we don't stop it. Like a raging forest fire, it will not stop on its own.

Much to my relief the chef answered just as I hear in the rooms of recovery, he said something along the lines of: “If I had continued drinking, I would’ve stopped at nothing . . . I would have stolen if I had to.” And he went on to say that during his first year of sobriety he didn't drive and was never left alone; because that is the reality of this disease. There are no lines we won’t cross, for it is progressive (that means the addiction and reaction to alcohol gets worse and worse over time), and eventually this thing takes over all aspects of our life—no matter how important to us.

People that believe we can control our drinking convince us that we just need to try harder to do so, and many of us try to control it, over and over and over. But in reality, Alcoholics are allergic to alcohol—when we drink, it controls us, it is NEVER the other way around. Society's lack of understanding on the subject of Alcoholism not only keeps people out of the rooms of recovery, but it also decreases their chance of staying there.

In the beginning, most, if not all Alcoholics resist the idea that they have a problem with alcohol. We tend to be a group of like-minded individuals, many of which have immense pride and assumed self-control. We do not like rules, we rarely fit in and we always want more. More of whatever it is. So, when our spouses or mothers, like both of mine, tell us it’s just a matter of control and to try harder, we are quick to believe them. We are quick to say, “Ok, I don’t have a disease that makes me a loser—I just need to try harder.”

I told my mother in January 2007 that I had a problem drinking, she told me to get it together and learn how to better manage it. It wasn’t until 2010 when I lost my job that I considered once again that I had a problem. My then boyfriend, now husband, didn’t even believe Alcoholism existed. He believed too that is was merely a control issue that only weak people are talked into having a problem with. And so, from 2007-2010 I drank more and more and more, until I lost my job due to drinking. In the three months from the time of losing my job of five years to going into rehab, I managed a lot of damage. My son decided he had enough and left to live with his dad, I had three hospital stays, one in which I pulled out my IVs (twice) trying to escape, and a mysterious black-eye while at home alone in a blackout. I would lose three days at a time—I would have a drink and wake up three days later, half alive, dehydrated and hungry. I began to believe something was literally taking over my body and I went somewhere else for the duration. Each time I was simply trying to control it, I can do it this time, I really can. And then I would wake again, with my first thought being: “Damn it, I did it again.” And then I’d swear off alcohol for hours, days or weeks, and inevitably I would try again. After my 28 day stay in rehab I managed another month of sobriety, and to reward myself, and also to prove I can control this thing, I drank again. And this time I managed my first, and hopefully my only DUI.

I spent the next three years relapsing. I would get some time and I would either reward myself or test the waters again. I consider myself an intelligent person, I have degrees to prove it! Yes plural, I have a Master’s and a Bachelor’s and two Associates degrees; doncha know I can lick this drinking thing on my own—my mother and boyfriend told me so? I thought I was proving that I could control drinking, when in reality, I was proving that it controls me.

It may not look like it on paper, but rehab saved my life. Rehab introduced me to another perspective of AA, not one in which they praised God and Bibles, but one where they all shared a common struggle and a common goal. It was the first place and time I raised my hand, with no shame, and said “Hi, my name is Tara, and I’m an Alcoholic.”

Needless to say, I had a hard time with Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable. But my time in college taught me to never give up, so I kept going to meetings. I didn’t believe in a God (graduate school made me a hardcore Agnostic), but I could somewhat get on board with a "Higher Power." I questioned and doubted everything everyone said, but I had eyes and ears—it was clear something in those rooms was working.

For a long time I believed they said it was a “progressive disease” just to scare us into not drinking again. I had to learn everything empirically, the hard way. In many ways I was trying to prove them wrong and show them how very different I was—that what worked for them, just wouldn't work for me. But I was desperate and so very broken; I had tried everything and everything kept getting worse. So I listened when I showed up, and I heard them say "Keep Coming Back" and "Don’t Quit Before the Miracle Happens." I mostly doubted all their bullshit, but I kept coming back anyway; they had something I wanted: sobriety and joy. And still much to my surprise, a miracle did actually happen. And eventually I found the old me when I had some real sobriety, and I remembered: the old me can handle anything, even Alcoholism.

Hello there,

You may have heard the term "adulting".

The time in which a teenager must become a successful adult.

It is a transition in life where responsibilities are jam packed

and decisions must be made in order to survive within the world's new set rules or constructs.

I for one, am a 19-year-old that is heading toward their third year of college.

Shamefully, I admit that I cannot adult.

I hate it.

I know I am not the only one who feels this way as there are many others that have posted various memes on FaceBook or Instagram on how they cannot adult.

Maybe it's a generational thing, who knows?

Getting a job, driving, getting passing scores and multitasking has been increased ten fold when increasing with age. 

I remember as a kid when the adults around me would say to enjoy my childhood when I wanted to grow up and now, I understand what they meant. 

It is what it is.

I follow troubled paths

Just as darkness falls

I hear the soft echo

As each demon calls

All the broken hearts

Each have whispered cries

Through a tortured mind

Finally this body dies 

Giving up on recovery 

My mind only wants death 

So now I say goodbye 

And draw my last breath 

I'm not sure what made my sister-in-law want to walk down that street, but a compliment of a woman's home turned into a twenty-minute conversation and history lesson with a stranger. She leaned on her rake as she told us about the old days and how she came to buy a turreted Victorian on a shady street opposite the Minneapolis Institute of Art.

She bought the house in the early '70s when the city offered first dibs to the renters who occupied the old Victorians located across the street from the MIA. Then, like now, there's lot of artist types who live along the row.

She'd moved to Minneapolis from San Francisco with her then-husband, a sculptor of some acclaim. He's now her ex and living back in San Francisco, and when we ask about him, her current husband tells us how to find him on Google. They are all still friends and put one another up when they come into town. No hard feelings, you know?

She tells us that in the early 1970s, the MIA became a non-profit. The rents they were charging the students to live in the houses across the street were considered profits, so they had to get rid of them and ended up selling or donating them to the city. I forget which now. The city, in its infinite wisdom, was going to raze the old homes to put in parking. We gasped at this information and she nodded at our appropriate horror. The residents back then were of the same mind and raised such a fuss that the city decided to offer the houses to the current residents.

For a dollar.

We stood stunned on the sidewalk as our minds tried to wrap around that...and then immediately went to thinking what it's probably worth now.

She told us that the renovations were extensive. And expensive. New copper pipes, new electric, and a host of other cosmetic fixes had to be made. At one time, the house boasted five layers of roof shingles. And when they redid the turret, they found an old newspaper from a previous rehab that was layered in the wall and signed by the construction crew. They framed it and it hangs in the house now.

We chatted for a while about where we were all from. About the skyrocketing San Francisco real estate market and art - of which we knew nothing, but nodded along. About how her ex now owns the home of the first mayor of that city, but he's going to rent it out and move to his studio on the beach. About how San Francisco doesn't feel like home anymore now that the artists are being pushed out by the tech people. About getting older and how she doesn't want to leave her home, but what if she can't deal with the stairs anymore? She's seventy, but doesn't look a day over fifty, so we marvel at that.

As we were winding down, her husband told us we needed to visit the Guthrie (pictured above). We got directions and thanked them both for a lovely visit. She told my sister-in-law to ring the doorbell next time she was visiting the Institute.

Such a fascinating woman. I wish I knew her name.

Evil. 

Everybody has their own way of explaining the word.

Sandy Jane had her own way too. 

Evil. The men that hurt her.

They ripped away every ounce of dignity and pride she had, just as easily as they tore the material from her young body.

Sandy Jane has her own way of explaining evil. Of remembering it.

Sandy Jane experienced evil.

And she survived.

Sandy Jane beat Evil. The devil still tries to scrape the surface of her vulnerability. With memories and flash backs. Smells and sounds.

Sandy Jane beat it.

She beats it every single day. 

Those men are the meaning of evil for Sandy Jane. 

And for me the meaning of Brave is HER.

Yes we argue,

Yes we fight,

But we always cuddle up in bed at night.

Yes we hurt,

Yes we cry,

But we always stay at each others sides.

Yes we smile,

Yes we laugh,

We know we love each other when we look into each others eyes.

K.

Name; You can call me C.

Age; unknown. 

Position ; You already know. 

I will soon be working under your command. You and I both know that I will be chosen. I need not give reasons nor theories. 

Your wife and child will also be put under my protection. For an extra fee of course. And obviously if you also want the 18 year old beauty you've been having a secret affair with watched too, that can be arranged. 

All secrets are secrets for a reason.

But with the right person on the job, all secrets, just like weaknesses can be found.

I am the best.

And I always will be.