2013-05-21T13:59:15-04:00 Stanice Anderson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=stanice-anderson Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Stanice Anderson Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2389649 2012-12-31T15:34:58-05:00 2013-03-02T05:12:02-05:00

Stanice Anderson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stanice-anderson/
1. Pray and Meditate. Use Step 11: "We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him, praying only for His will for us and the power to carry that out." At this point, I know His will for me is to stay clean. From that understanding, a fruitful and lasting recovery became possible.

2. Bottled Water. I take my own bottle water to office parties, even family gatherings thereby assuring that what I drink is available and unaltered. I NEVER drink from a glass that I've left unattended. Thus, I can be assured no one put any anything in my water. This also alleviates my picking up someone else's drink by mistake.

3. Non-Alcoholic Beer a No-No - I don't set myself up with non-alcoholic beer. I know me and the taste would tickle my fancy and before I know it, I'd want the real thing--an alcoholic beer. Eventually, the beer would not be enough for me and I'd be back in the vicious addiction cycle again. As the 12-step program literature reminds me, "One is too many and a thousand never enough."

4. 12-Step Program Marathon Meetings - Before the holiday arrives, I've already mapped out where all the marathons are in my area or wherever I'm going to be for the holidays. These come in handy in my early days of recovery as well as with family when negative feelings can arise. Nobody knows how to push your buttons, like family. I can get away to a meeting for an hour, share my feelings, listen to the experiences of others, get a hug, and then go back to the family--reinforced and focused on what I need to do to make our time enjoyable. In the beginning, I couldn't go around my family because they would pressure me to drink, out of ignorance of how addiction works. They were so glad I wasn't using "hard" drugs they'd offer me alcoholic drinks. As far as my life goes, it's all hard!

5. 12-Step Program Hotlines and websites. Before I go out of town, I research to find out where meetings are located. I've also asked members to meet me at a meeting, and talk to then when an urge to use arises. Online driving directions can sometimes throw in a wrong turn; so having the number to the hotline, where people are familiar with meeting location is always a good thing. There are many 12-step programs and recovery links on my website.

6. Rely on God to allow you to lean on others. To do supernatural things, I need supernatural help which is God and the people God uses to help me one day at a time. Doing the opposite of what comes natural for me to do. For example, I naturally do not want to call somebody but with supernatural help, I can reach out to a trusted friend for guidance. 9 times out of 10, when you talk about your urges to use, you won't act on it.

7. Gratitude. I try to remember what the season means to me: A new beginning that God so graciously gave. The thoughts usher in an attitude of gratitude because I'm free from the bondage of active addiction.

8. Do not hang out with people that still use. There's a saying: "If you hang around a hotdog stand long enough, you're going to eventually buy a hot dog." Instead, I surround myself with those are serious about their recovery and mine.

9. Understand you have an allergy. - During the holidays, drinks and drugs abound. People are offering, trying to persuade you that "you've been clean awhile, you can handle it." When offered anything that would compromise my recovery, I say, "I'm allergic. I break out!" If they insist, I continue, "I really am allergic! I break out in hopelessness. un-employability. homelessness. whorish behavior, thievery..." Everyone usually laughs first; then back up off me. The offers cease. I get through one more day.

10.Don't take yourself too seriously. Be easy on yourself, laugh, and develop a sense of humor. Happy New Year everyone. Keep your primary focus--staying clean and sober no matter what.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1707938 2012-08-01T08:15:48-04:00 2012-10-01T05:12:03-04:00

Stanice Anderson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stanice-anderson/
When I got clean and sober at the age of 35, my son Michael was nine. He deserved his mother back. He now calls me "Moms", a precious title that took years to earn.

My deeply difficult dilemma? I was a mother in name only. Though I had birthed him; I had not been a "mother" to him. Facing this fact and discovering the solution was one of my biggest accomplishments. 27 years later, I know that if I did not try to make it right with Michael, I would not stay clean and probably die a slow, painful, and humiliating death. I would as I called it, "misery away."

I remember being a newbie in recovery on a taxi ride somewhere with him. I attempted to apologize to my son for not being in his life as I should have been. I tried to explain to him why and how it was going to be now that I was clean. He nestled up close to me, without a word. He didn't care about any of that. Through many moments, Michael showed me that all he knew was that he had his mother back.

While he still lived with his paternal grandmother, he came to my apartment on some weekends. During one weekend, I was cooking my famous pancakes for him, while he was drawing and coloring in the living room. He came into the kitchen and asked, "Mommy, how do you spell 'penetrate'?"

Astonishingly, I responded, "Say what?" Penetrate! Why that word, Michael?"

"I'm doing something and I need to know how to spell, penetrate."

Now, I was not that far away from the drug culture and lifestyle. So when I heard THAT word, my devious mind was ticking. Through my Christian faith, I knew my past was forgiven but still. The word "penetrate" scared me.

I thought I'd better go into the living room and see what my kid was doing; but, he blocked my way through the doorway. "Come on, Mommy. You can't see yet. Just spell it for me, please!"

I surrendered. "P-e-n-e-t-r-a-t-e."

I poured more pancakes in the frying pan, as I prayed a quick, "Lord, help me with this mother thing. I don't know what my son is doing; but I'll trust you to renew MY mind."

Minutes later, in runs Michael, smiling, holding something behind his back and with a child's first day of school excitement. "Mommy, I made this for you!"

From behind his back he shoved a white poster with two red hearts, twin black marker thunderbolts, pointing to the ballooned lettered, MOM and SON. In the middle of the poster, he wrote, "Nothing can penetrate our love."

I hugged him close and could have made a meal of him, instead of the pancakes. He was living out what had only been theory to me at that point--unconditional love. I knew God loved me. But love from a fellow human being?

As we ate breakfast, I become leery of my son's love. How could I get what I did not earn without stealing? How can you love the un-loveable and not make excuses for loving them? How can you be free to be who you are, right where you are and not be judged?

It was clear my son and God had forgiven me. Forgiving myself and my past was a harder process -- one that wouldn't have been possible for me without my faith and Dorine, my sponsor from a 12-Step program.

In one conversation, I told Dorine, "I want my son with me. Everybody it seems has his or her child. I want mine to live with me." Realizing it was too late to suck my words back down my throat, I prayed a quick, inaudible, "Help me, Lord."

She started in, "Stanice, look, Baby, you have to consider what's best for him. Ask yourself, 'Is he flourishing where he is?' You live across the street from a crack house. He has to learn how to trust you. Keep calling him. Go see him when you say you're going. Just keep doing what you're doing. Keep going to church andyour (12-step) meetings. His grandma has been raising that boy and you must show her the respect she deserves. Ask her permission..."

Feeling bold, I walked the plank, "But Dorine... He's MY son."

"Like I said, ask for permission. Don't be calling his Grandma saying, 'I'm coming over to get Mike for the weekend...or take him to the movies...or whatever, whenever.' Respect her! Thank God for her! You don't know nothing about being a mother; now, but in time, you will learn. But you can't give what you ain't got! And if that boy wants to live with you, he'll let you know. You just keep working the steps in your life, reading those stories in the Bible, and in God's time, Mike will be with you. It's not tell and show time; it's SHOW and tell."

Her words struck my pride first; then my heart. The years passed. He still lived with his grandmother and dad.

But I took my sponsor's suggestions. I diligently worked on my relationship with God and recovery. In the 11th grade, Mike's English teacher assigned the class to write an essay on the topic, "Three People I'm Grateful For."

At age 16, my son's wrote, "My mother comes to mind first. Although she may not have been there for me I love her as if she was. The reason we were not together most of my life was because she was an addict and she knew she was not fit to take care of me; so she gave me to someone she felt could. Back then, I did not understand; but I have grown to respect her for that because I know it took a lot of strength to give up a child and not be there to watch him grow. Even so, she always kept in touch with me, showing me she cared. I never gave up on her, and when she got clean, she never forced me to come live with her. I think this was a plus because being apart brought us closer over the years."

What I thought I wanted, I didn't need and what I needed God gave and infinitely more than I could have asked, thought or imagined.

Then, what I had hoped for all those years finally happened! After college, Michael lived with me for a few years before buying his first home.

That little boy grew up to be a good and faithful man raising three personality-charged kids who love Jesus, too, and call me "Hallelujah Grandma". That addicted mother became his "Moms". As I look back, I see that little inimitable and bright nine year old knew it all along, "Mom and Son -- Nothing can penetrate our love."

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1660335 2012-07-10T12:01:01-04:00 2012-09-09T05:12:04-04:00

Stanice Anderson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stanice-anderson/
The truth? I was so sick and tired of myself and my inability to fix my life. I would do anything but deal with my life; so it was not unusual that I went to work by myself on a Sunday knowing that no one else would be there. Before beginning the day's tasks, I pulled out my freshly stolen stash.

Heroin is what quelled the emotional pain of resentments, piercing memories of rape, abuse and other dark secrets that festered within me. Though, I only meant to wet my feet -- it pulled me in -- the waters of addiction run deep. I had long since abandoned my son to his paternal grandmother. My hopes of ever becoming a good mother were lost. I squandered my dreams of writing. Belief in God? Gone. Any semblance of self-respect? Also non-existent. All that was left was the job that anchored me to any type of social acceptability.

As I cooked the heroin up in the bottle top, I noticed it was pale yellow in color. Perhaps, I had stolen from the wrong plastic bag. There were two. One was pure uncut and one "scrambled" or cut and ready for street sale. What does it matter, I thought, I'm sick of myself anyway. I tied my panty hose that I kept in my desk to use as a tourniquet, found a willing vein in my wrist, drew blood into the syringe, and slowly pumped in the heroin mixture. The usual warm rush flowed up from my feet and radiated up through my legs and then ... everything faded to black.

I felt and heard the sound of thuds on my chest. Sweat cascaded from my body in what felt like rivers. Spikes of light came into an unfocused view. I heard the shrill of a siren. I saw glimpses of trees and buildings in what seemed like warp speed. For a moment, there was a familiar face. I heard muffled voices of snatches of words that together made no sense to me.

"Pressure dropping ... line ... call ... doctor ... heroin ... office ... chest." There were overhead florescent lights; a chill on my back, a pinging sound ... a long shiny needle ... "Ms. Anderson" ... a scream.

I woke up in ICU.

Crying and with a smudged tissue, my boss, standing at the foot of my bed dabbed makeup from her tearful eyes.

Please tell me this is a dream somebody! Come on, anybody but my boss, the thoughts did not alter reality. I settled into it. This is not a dream. I did steal from the wrong bag ... and OD'ed!

Once out of ICU and transferred into a regular room, what I tell you now, I only know because the three paramedics who transported me to the hospital came to that room and filled in the missing pieces. The spokesperson of the trio insisted, "We HAD to come meet you."

The one seated jumped in, "One of your co-workers happened to come through the office suite to pick up her briefcase that she had forgotten. She saw your key ring hanging from the entrance door. She knew they were yours because etched into the key ring were the words, The Boss.

She went looking for you so you wouldn't be alarmed if you heard her. She heard music coming from your office and knocked. When you didn't answer, she turned the knob but it was locked. She banged and still no answer. So she called the security desk and a guard came up and opened the door."

As if rehearsed, one of the paramedics standing continued, "When we got there, you were sprawled over your desk with the needle and syringe hanging from the vein in your wrist. You were more dead than alive. You were breathing only seven times per minute."

"On the way to the hospital you stopped breathing. Straight out flat lined. After, we resuscitated you, you whispered, 'I ... want ... to ... live.' Within minutes, you flat lined again. After we brought you back, again, faintly we heard, 'I ... want ... to ... live.'"

As if not to be left out of the telling, the taller paramedic added, "You just don't know. It was a day we will never forget!"

Except for the tears and a few "Oh, my God" and "Say What?!" As if to pinch myself, I asked, "Are you sure?"

"Am I sure? Look, Ms. Anderson, that's why we're here! We had to meet the woman who kept dying and coming back." He paused, looked at his buddies and continued, "Hold up! That's not the whole story. Minutes before arriving to the hospital, you flat lined again! It took longer, but we were determined to bring you back. Look, I'm not a praying man, but I prayed like I ain't never prayed before and ... again ... you came back. And again you said, 'I ... want ... to ... live.'"

Like a relay race, the next paramedic grabbed the baton and exclaimed, "Once we got you to the hospital and you were back in the treatment area with the doctors, your left lung collapsed. You were on a respirator for days. We followed your progress. You are a living, breathing miracle. "

As the paramedics shared the details of that hot and humid August day, it was like an out of body experience; but this time, I didn't see myself drowning, but rescued and lovingly laid safely on the shore of the Someday I Wills.

Slowly, someday morphed into today. I'm now 27 years clean, sober and free from active addiction. The impossible became possible, maybe because the possible is too easy for God anyway. By grace, I am an inspirational speaker, published author, addiction recovery expert and, most cherished of all, an active mother and grandmother.

I witnessed this son, whom I had abandoned, graduate from college and grow into a God-loving, good man, in spite of the hardships my life inflicted on him, and now a single father raising his three children. And me, "Hallelujah Grandma," as the kids call me, get to make a positive impact on their lives.

That night after the paramedics were gone, and before the nurse's pulse checks; hope shed its light into the darkest recesses of my soul where the secrets resided, as I listened intently with an opened heart. I knew God dispatched my thoughts because they were so pure. "Stanice, I love you. You are mine. I have marvelous plans for your life. I am with you, always. I brought your co-worker through. You are precious to me. I orchestrated it all. Trust me." I wept, as my thoughts showered me with God's love, in spite of all I'd ever done or left undone. Could it really be?

As if a postscript on a hand-written love letter, one of the paramedics leaned over, hugged me, "Please get help with your addiction before you leave the hospital. We did our part; now, it's on you."

I told the paramedic how thankful I was for everything and that I would get help. We hugged, dabbed at our tears and said goodbye. Later, alone, in my room as I surrendered to sleep, my last thought was a simple prayer, "Lord, please help me overcome my ... addiction. Amen."

Even though I couldn't help myself, I believe God stepped in. "God was bigger than my addictions. Bigger than my secrets. Bigger than my past. Bigger than death. God snatched me back from death's grip, not once, not twice; but three times in one day. Yes, God's last word for my life was live.

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