My name is Mickey, and for much of my life, I’ve lived two conflicting realities. On the surface, I was the embodiment of recovery success: sober since the age of 21, a stable career, a family, and decades of commitment
Years ago, I was asked to speak at a conference on Addiction and Mental Health about Vietnam, PTSD and combat veterans. And so I did. And, during that talk, I also spoke in depth of my father. My father, Dennis,
The weight of war clings to me like a shadow, one that I’ve learned to carry in silence. When I first came back from active combat, it felt like I’d been dropped on a planet where everyone spoke the same
Growing up Catholic, I learned early on about sin, guilt, and penance. I remember sitting in church, watching candlelight flicker across the statues of saints, feeling awed by their holiness but convinced I could never be like them. I prayed,
Growing up, Halloween was…different. My parents were draped in their own chaos, often more interested in the next drink than in their children’s happiness. I’d cobble together costumes from whatever I could find, dreaming of the “real” costumes I saw
At my first recovery meeting, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being both relieved and trapped. The room was dim, the chairs arranged in a circle, and the walls were bare save for a few posters with slogans: One day
For most of my adult life, I’ve considered myself an agnostic—sometimes, if I’m honest, an atheist. I walked into the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous over two decades ago, desperate and determined to get sober. And I did. I stayed sober
I never imagined I’d be here—sitting across from my patients and sponsees, carrying the weight of a secret that could destroy my career, my license, and my standing in the recovery community. But here I am, a clinician in recovery,
Living with someone struggling with addiction is like riding an emotional rollercoaster. It’s not just the person with the addiction who is caught in the grip of the disease, but also those who love them. I’ve been on this ride
There are days when I wake up, and my first thought is, “Is today the day I lose him?” My son, now in his twenties, has been battling opiate addiction for years. Every morning, I brace myself before looking at
For over a decade, Alcoholics Anonymous has been my sanctuary. It was the place I turned to when I was lost, hopeless, and struggling to survive my alcoholism. In those early days, the rooms of AA felt like home—a place
Addiction is a tricky beast. It takes a beautiful thing and turns it into the hellish nightmare of obsession. It comes in many forms. An afternoon cocktail to take the edge off becomes a bottle a day. The rush of