"If You Had My Problems, You Would Drink Too"

You don’t get to write my story. I do. And this is one of my favorite chapters.

There was a time when I believed that quote with my entire soul. "If you had my problems, you would drink too." I used it like a shield, a mantra, a justification. And honestly? It wasn’t even entirely wrong. Because what I was carrying was heavy. The kind of heavy that burrows under your skin and takes root in your bones. The kind of heavy that makes numbing feel like survival.

Here’s the part that most people don’t understand: I didn’t start drinking because of my physical illness. I wasn’t sick when I drank. Trigeminal neuralgia didn’t show up until after I got sober. That’s right. I got clean, I got spiritually aligned, I got honest—and then the pain came forcing me into a cycle of pain medication in sobriety (after my best friend overdosed). The kind of physical and mental anguish that makes your nervous system feel like it’s lit on fire. TN type 2 has become one of the fiercest teachers of my life, and I met her in sobriety, not in my using.

The drinking started much earlier. I was around eleven when a high schooler brought over a plastic Pepsi bottle filled with Bacardi. I drank the whole thing in one go. Not because I was trying to be reckless—I genuinely didn’t know any better. I thought it was some kind of funky flavored water. I couldn’t taste the alcohol: I still can’t. But I was too young to understand what that meant.

What I did understand, even at that age, was that something in me had broken. I had experienced sexual abuse and it was continuous from a neighbor I used to babysit. I was silenced, suppressed, and emotionally fenced in. I wasn’t allowed to think for myself or feel out loud. I wasn’t allowed to explore anything outside the path my parents had planned for me before I was even born. So I drank. Because it was the only thing that made the pain and confusion shut up for a minute.

But here’s the plot twist: I don’t anymore.

I don’t drink, and not because my life got easier, or my pain disappeared, or because some miraculous light descended from the sky. It was the opposite—most people think their lives get better in sobriety... well, I may not be drinking but—I lost the two most important people in my life, got diagnosed with this BS disease that causes constant pain, needs the most ridiculous cocktail of meds on the planet... and once all this happened—my family just decided it's easier to check out.

I stopped drinking because I wanted something more sacred than escape. I wanted to become the person I kept looking for in the bottom of a bottle. And I knew that if I wanted to survive—really, fully, soulfully survive—I couldn’t do it numbed out. I had to fight this one... and I had to make sure this was one of the wars that I won.

So now? I make art. I call it Recovery Art... it's not a real term, I made it up... you're welcome! It's not just what I do—it’s how I heal, and how I live. It's messy and beautiful and raw. I rip up 12 Step literature, random books, the Bible, magazines, and write in quotes from everywhere... glue them to watercolor paper or lately—whatever is in front of me. I have a psychopath downstairs who wants nothing but to hurt me... so since I don’t want to give up my medical marijuana license as it’s the only pain medication that won’t put me in liver/renal failure in 10 years... I took a trip over to my local hardware store and had me a little shopping spree. I now own a GIANT AXE which I have painted baby pink and gold-leafed the entire blade... thats right, your favorite bimbo celebrity meets the Renaissance. (I may have been smoking a little when I did that but what a terrific idea it was... I made a matching sledgehammer and baseball bat... so far!) I paint my pain in gold and baby pink. I stitch together broken pieces and call them sacred... because the broken IS sacred.

I light candles. I surf other artists looking for inspiration when I can’t find it myself. I talk to the moon like she’s my therapist. I let my German shepherd Nicky bark at the Roomba like it's a demon. I question concepts like time, space, and death (since we made them up to understand this weird thing called life)... and I laugh at the absurdity of it all.

This past week alone I’ve set boundaries with family that felt like tearing old skin off. I’ve battled light sensitivity from my 20-foot apartment windows which I was promised would be covered prior to move in (who here is surprised that someone with more money than God would find it less convenient to keep promises meant to keep me safe and healthy... don’t worry, I never actually expected to get these and gave up after my last mention. I just can’t be inside my apartment between 1-4pm as it’s excruciating... yes they know... they don’t care anymore than they care that there is a psychopathic rapist stalker downstairs just waiting for the time that I am visibly disabled so he can swoop in). If you are wondering why I’m bitching instead of leaving on my own - I’m not the only one on the lease.

I’ve felt deep anger. Deep grief. Deep pride. I’ve let go of the idea that healing is linear. It’s a spiral. A sacred mess. And every day I don’t pick up a drink, I step deeper into the truth that my problems don't justify my destruction. They call for my resurrection. So I plan to keep reading, keep writing, and keep sharing this journey for all those who are looking for hope.

So yeah. If you had my problems, you might drink too. Yeah—most people would drink over these problems... and I used to—until I took away their power. The people I’m talking about—lol, they WISH they had the power to make me start drinking again... I came close a few times but it was a different person/different topic—that may make me start drinking one day but my family? Yeah right… lol. If anything I owe them a giant thank you for all the material.

But maybe—just maybe—you'd also make magic. You'd paint. You'd howl. You'd rise. You'd write.

Because I did.

And I still am.

But what i would really love is to hear your story. This blog is not a lecture, its a conversation. If you have no where to turn and need to live your life in secret like a damn holocaust survivor then WRITE ME. I want to talk about all the raw messy things everyone will roll their eyes or condescend you for. You have a safe space, even if it starts here, with a simple email until you find your own ways of coping. I see you, I hear you, and I am here to listen.

With Love,

Dana & Nicky