“I want someone to tell me the truth,” my patient said as he sat at his kitchen table. He’d had a stroke in the right hemisphere of his brain. Right brain strokes cause disorientation in place and time. “What’s the truth you want,” I asked? “Everyone tells me I am home, and I must admit this place

“How old are you? The eight-year-old boy in the swimming pool asked my nephew, Kevin. “Five.” said Kevin, “but I’m closer to eight.” “Duh, if you’re five, you’re not closer to eight.” the older boy scoffed. “Well, I’m closer to eight than I am to one.” said Kevin, adding, “And I don’t mean to hurt

You’re in a recovery program, perhaps working the steps. You’ve checked your list and crossed off the names of people you’ve made amends to. Things are going well and then your eyes fix on your fingers. They’re bitten to the quick nubby and sore. Your cuticles look destroyed and torn and you even spot a scab of dried blood. Crap

“Happy Hour” has a complicated history of origin, but regardless of who and how (The French or the American Navy) there was a collective awareness that at a certain time of the day between 3-7 p.m. people are at the end of their will power. The end of their blood sugar. The end of working hard.

I stood on the playground in my green, parent-volunteer apron. Kids were eating, playing, running, sliding, screaming. A fifth grader carrying a lunch tray frantically ran toward me and then screeching to a halt. His eyes bulged. He looked like he was going to throw up. But there was no sound. Oh my God are you

I am on the verge of a Borderline Personality Disorder diagnosis. When I faced disappointment today, I recognised something about myself that came out in this poem. The stereotype Borderline Personality Disorder sufferer is reactive outwardly. I am not. I wanted to share this. I live in words unspoken, the shore you see, gives no indication

The illusion of uncertainty masks the depravity of the fear I feel locked in the void of not knowing but not wanting to stop either Looking out at the endless rain and mucky landscape there is always something else to ponder aways a sense of not being there yet And not knowing where the hell

Last night I sat in a circle with 124 other women. The questions were asked. What are you done with? What are you ready to scrub off yourself? What have you processed and cooked and beat to death this year? What are you ready to throw on the compost pile. I stress the word compost

The first ever self-help book to find its way to me was “You Can Heal Your Life” by Louise L. Hay. It was 1993 – I was 18 years old. Already deeply rooted in addictive behaviour, I had started to realise that my life was not normal and was suffering a lot with emotional issues.

Many people who choose recovery find themselves battling depression. Often it has been an underlying problem that becomes more apparent when they stop their addictive behaviors. For many  years  our drug or behavior of choice took our attention away from our mind and body and as a result our physical, mental and emotional health suffered