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Recovery in the News
Tear down the social barriers to recovery
Barbara Isaacs
Bangor Daily News
January 4, 2007
I was raised in Houlton, Maine, in what some would consider a prominent family. And though I was a fairly good student, I began drinking in high school and thought nothing of it. I thought I was just being one of the crowd. Drinking and getting stoned was, and still is, one of the primary recreational pursuits in rural Maine, because, don’t you know, "there’s nothing to do." I wish I had seen the warning signs, but at the time, I much more enjoyed my reputation as someone who could "party hearty." Getting an OUI was almost as much a rite of passage as shooting a deer. I was 21 when I got my OUI; I never did shoot a deer.
I went to college, got a job, got married and tried my best to settle down. By this time, I had served a brief stint in the local psych ward, earned that OUI, and was developing a growing sense that despite outward appearances, my life was all smoke and mirrors. When my first marriage failed, all pretense of social drinking was lost, and I drank and used drugs more heavily than ever. My public life, where I would show up responsibly for work each day, was increasingly shadowed by my private life, and my ability to "look good" was slipping fast. I needed to do something before I became a public embarrassment and brought shame to my family, to my employer and to whatever was left of my dwindling sense of self.
I tried seeking help, but to me, sobering up meant that I would be a total social outcast. I was still in my 20s, and the small local recovery community was comprised of people more than 20 years my senior. Church programs weren’t an alternative because I wasn’t religious. So when a professional told me about "situational alcoholism" — meaning that my drinking problem would resolve when I got my life back on track — I seized on that notion for as long as I could. But within a couple of years, things were worse than ever, and I did the only thing I thought was available to me. I left town.
I ended up in California, and for the first six months, my drinking and drugging seemed to ease up. But it didn’t take long for the blackouts and insanity to return, and now I did not have the system of small-town enablers available to pull me out of the ditch when I drove off the road. I began to slide toward that "rock bottom" we hear so much about. Once again, I sought help. And this time, it was different.
Perhaps I was more "ready" than I had been before, but what I can say for certain is that the presence of a thriving and diverse recovery community made an incredible difference. I was living in an area about the size of greater Bangor and there were more than 200 self-help meetings each week, with three fellowship halls in the northern, central and southern parts of the county. None of this required any type of government funding; it was all self-supported. I was surrounded by hundreds of people my own age whom I could relate to and rely upon for support. There were also older veterans of the recovery war, whose wisdom kept us from making more missteps than we might have otherwise.
This fellowship offered acceptance and friendship, without which recovery would be an unbearably lonely prospect. I learned that my personal recovery depended upon the unity of the recovery community, and I was taught to invest my time and energy in helping to ensure its health.
After 20 years, I returned to Maine with my family and settled in the Bangor area. While I was in California, I had read about the opiate addiction problem here. I scratched my head because I could not understand how that came to be. But after working at Acadia Hospital for a year and a half, I obtained a better understanding of how it has come to plague our community, along with the traditional addictions to alcohol, cocaine, prescription drugs and marijuana. Now, methamphetamine labs are lined up at our borders, waiting for the demand here to become high enough.
Substance abuse has long been the major engine driving up child welfare caseloads, filling courts and prisons, and stressing health-care systems. Yet funding for prevention and treatment is pathetically insufficient. According to estimates from the state Office of Substance Abuse, the total amount of substance abuse-related costs in the part of southern Aroostook County where I grew up exceeds $8 million annually. Contrast this to its prorated share of treatment expenditures of $258,620. Costs exceed treatment funding by a ratio of 31:1. Yet research has shown that for every dollar invested in treatment, $7 in associated costs are avoided. Even a small investment in treatment could harvest large returns in the Houlton area, which could then be used for additional treatment. This would be wise public policy, but it requires a significant amount of political will in a time of great competition for precious tax dollars.
As a social worker, I am awed by the profound impact that substance abuse has on our society. As a husband and father, I am committed to the safety and sanity of our community. As a man in recovery, I have always been amazed by the tenacity and perseverance of my fellows in the recovery community. I believe this would be so much easier if we address the social barriers to recovery. When our families, schools and communities support the recovery process, the true resilience of individuals struggling with addictions is allowed to manifest and restore people from what had seemed a hopeless state of mind and body. When I see this happen, I have hope and optimism.
Bruce Campbell has been a professional social worker for more than 30 years. Currently, he is the program director for the Men’s Residential Services of Wellspring Inc., a substance abuse services agency in Bangor.
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