Leave the Light On Read online

  SPECIAL PRAISE FOR

  Leave the Light On

  “There are few books about lesbians in recovery. This is, by far, the best I’ve read. Those of us who work in the narrow niche of LGBT recovery know the connection between the twelve-step recovery process and the process of “coming out.” Jennifer skillfully blends the two together in this memoir. Every gay and lesbian person in early recovery needs to read this book to know they are not alone in their experience. What a gift to our community!

  Joe Amico

  President, National Association of Lesbian

  and Gay Addiction Professionals (NALGAP)

  “By generously sharing her story in Leave the Light On, Jennifer Storm adds to the literature of recovery and hope so helpful for those who think they are alone in their journey. This memoir is a welcome addition to anyone’s recovery bookshelf.”

  Kate Clinton

  Comedian and author of I Told You So,

  Don’t Get Me Started, and What the L?

  “The odds of substance use for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender youth are on average 190 percent higher than for heterosexual youth, according to a study by the University of Pittsburgh. Jennifer’s touching memoir of addiction and recovery is something that resonated with my life, and I’m sure for many others as well.”

  Charles Robbins

  CEO, The Trevor Project, a non-profit organization

  focused on crisis and suicide prevention efforts among lesbian,

  gay, bisexual, transgender, and questioning youth

  “For someone who found recovery fairly late in life (I was 42), I find Ms. Storm’s struggles over her addiction at such an early age especially courageous. Peer pressure to “keep the party going” is so strong at her age. She is a shining example of the power of recovery for youth. I applaud her and hope this book brings the treasures of a life in recovery to many, many young people.”

  Leslie Jordan

  Emmy Award-winning actor

  and author of My Trip Down the Pink Carpet

  “Jennifer takes the recovery world “by storm” in this gripping account of her struggle with self-destruction and self-acceptance. In Leave the Light On, Ms. Storm offers her readers an accessible, honest, and intimate account of the unique challenges faced by those whose recovery as substance abusers is dependent upon honest exploration and loving resolution of their sexual histories and identities. By sharing her own story, Jennifer lays the groundwork for others to follow. It’s a book that every clinician who works in the field of addiction and every person who hopes to find recovery can benefit from reading.”

  Paul L. Hokemeyer, JD, PhD(c)

  Licensed Marriage and Family

  Therapist The Caron Treatment Centers

  LEAVE THE

  LIGHT ON

  A MEMOIR OF RECOVERY AND

  SELF-DISCOVERY

  BY JENNIFER STORM

  CENTRAL RECOVERY PRESS

  Central Recovery Press (CRP) is committed to publishing exceptional material addressing addiction treatment, recovery, and behavioral health care, including original and quality books, audio/visual communications, and web-based new media. Through a diverse selection of titles, it seeks to impact the behavioral health care field with a broad range of unique resources for professionals, recovering individuals, and their families. For more information, visit www.centralrecoverypress.com.

  Central Recovery Press, Las Vegas, NV 89129

  © 2010 by Jennifer Storm

  eISBN-13: 978-1-936290-40-6

  eISBN-10: 1-936290-40-5

  All rights reserved. Published 2010. Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  16 15 14 13 12 11 10 1 2 3 4 5

  Publisher: Central Recovery Press

  3371 N Buffalo Drive

  Las Vegas, NV 89129

  Publisher’s Note: To protect their anonymity, the names of some of the people in this book have been changed.

  Cover design and interior by Sara Streifel, Think Creative Design

  In loving memory of Mara Jean Storm

  This book is dedicated to my Higher Power and

  the rooms of recovery, for without the combination of these

  two powerful entities in my life I would not be here.

  To the alcoholic or addict who is still sick and suffering,

  may this book read as a hopeful guide to recovery

  for whatever you are going through. May you

  find hope in these pages.

  To Melissa and Rose, may you both respectively rest in peace.

  To anyone who has ever loved an addict,

  I encourage you to never give up and to always

  leave the light on in the hope that

  it will guide them home.

  Contents

  PART I_____________

  Keeping It Simple

  1 Floating on the Pink Cloud

  2 Lyrical Rants

  3 No Relationships

  4 Bad Coffee and Hard Chairs

  5 Checks and Balances

  6 Finishing Something

  7 Sticking with Winners

  8 New Friends

  9 Beer Pong and Other Misadventures

  10 Freak

  11 Superhero

  12 No Really Means No

  13 Letting Go

  14 No Filter

  15 Who’s That Girl?

  16 Pseudo-lesbian

  17 Mourning

  18 Anniversary

  PART I I__________________

  More Will Be Revealed

  19 Applying Myself

  20 Mixed Messages

  21 Smoke Screens

  22 StartingSchool

  23 Higher Power

  24 Feeling Smart

  25 Unexpected Theatrics

  26 Flashback: Trauma and Blackout

  27 Flashback: Drugs and the C Word

  28 Release, Finally

  29 Flying Out of the Closet

  30 Buses and Butterflies

  31 Proud and In Love

  32 Fireworks

  33 No Means No Sharing

  34 The Gift of Magi

  35 Sociology Lessons

  36 Coming Out in Sobs

  37 Token Dyke

  38 Queer Prom

  39 Something in the Water

  40 Death and Protest

  41 Threats and Instant Messages

  42 A Life of Activism

  Epilogue

  Resources

  PREFACE

  THIS BOOK IS FOR ALL THOSE WHO HAVE READ THE plethora of books out there on addiction and recovery that end with the person entering a rehabilitation program, quitting cold turkey, or simply not stopping the behavior at all—leaving you to wonder, what happened? My first book, Blackout Girl: Growing Up and Drying Out in America, published by Hazelden in 2008, was one of those books. I wrote of my addiction to drugs and alcohol, which started at age twelve after I was raped. I proceeded to follow a path of absolute destruction for the ten years that followed that pivotal event. I wrote of my struggles and the trials and tribulations that went along with living on the wrong side of society’s norms. I also wrote of my decision to enter a rehabilitation facility and of my first few months in treatment. I flashed back and forth a bit from that time to ten years later, when I was still living a life in recovery that was filled with joy and success beyond my wildest dreams.

  But what of the years in between? Where are the books on how one actually lives in recovery? They are few and far between, because the rough roller coaster of addict
ion is much more appealing to our society’s thirst for drama than the years of recovery that must come after the ride ends in order for one to truly survive. This book is my survival story as it continued into my first years of attendance in college, my first relationships, and my emotional upheavals as I dealt with my demons—the monsters that lived in my head and that had driven me to drink and to use other drugs in the first place.

  After I was raped, I began choosing dark paths. It was as though I was drawn to trouble, addicted to the thrill of defeat rather than the pursuit of anything good or happy. If two paths were placed in a clearing in front of me, but one had danger signs all over as it curved into darkness while the other was straight and clear with a bright light at the end, I would always choose the dark path. My gut would scream, “Go toward the light!” But my feet would veer off onto the curvy, dangerous path that only brought more darkness into my soul and more pain into my life. I never chose the path of least resistance. I fought my entire life, fought unnecessary battles against myself and everyone who crossed my dark path. Those choices kept me living a life in the dark. I was in the dark about my sexuality, my addiction, and my emotional pain caused by sexual assault and the premature losses of people I loved to death and suicide. I hid everything and kept myself numb to all of life’s hardships. I welcomed them into my life rather than pushing them away. I invited trouble, thrived on it, and embraced the messes that always followed my careless decisions.

  The messes created yet another reason why I should escape and get high or drunk. The cycle of bad choices, initially, was a cycle I placed myself in voluntarily, partly for my own survival. As a young person, I just didn’t know how to face the pain in my soul from being raped, so I hid it. I also hid the knowledge that I was gay, and I hid the loathing I had for myself. As I grew more mature and gained the ability to face these demons if I chose to, I was already too deep in the destructive ways I had created to summon up the courage I would have needed to face anything. It was so much easier to just escape—to choose darkness over potential light.

  Today I choose the light. Early in my recovery, that wasn’t entirely an option; but as lights of knowledge began to flicker in my mind, I knew I could never return to the dark places I had lived in before. As a rape survivor and recovering addict beginning to face my own demons, light became a part of my survival in many ways. For the first years of my recovery, I left the light on at night. I couldn’t sleep or feel safe without that light on. Light provided me with a sense of security and well-being, so ultimately I could choose the path with the light at the end of the tunnel. Now I bask in the sunshine of my newfound freedom, joy, and happiness. Darkness is no longer an option for me or a desire, thanks to working a program of recovery.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my family, as always, for providing me with hours upon hours of support, laughter, unconditional love, and insanity! James and Patricia Storm, Brian Storm, James K. Storm Jr. Love you all!

  Cynthia Romano, thank you.

  My two beautiful inspirations, Cheyanne and Mia Storm. You are both my sweet angels.

  My sponsor, Magi, and her amazing girls, Morgan and Jordan, who kept me sane in early recovery and who continue to serve as daily touchstones for me in my life.

  All those who made this book a possibility, Central Recovery Press and Nancy Schenck, Valerie Killeen, Ben Campbell, and Bob Gray for reaching out to me and making this book happen! Jean Cook for your amazing editing skills and constant support and encouragement of my writing, thank you! Sharon Castlen for staying by my side and being an amazing friend and supporter of my work. Devra Ann Jacobs, my agent, for believing in my work and me! Cathy Renna for your mad skills and connections! Jennifer Merchant, you are my ambassador of public relations and my birthday sista. I got mad love for you, girl.

  As always, my incredible staff at Victim/Witness Assistance Program and my board of directors; your encouragement, space, and support mean the world to me.

  INTRODUCTION

  I used to live my life deep inside the vortex of addiction. My life spun and spun out of control for ten years as I plunged further down the scale of disgrace and detriment. I picked up my first drink at age twelve and drank addictively the minute the liquid spilled down my throat. It was as though I had been dehydrated for the first twelve years of my life, and suddenly my mirage appeared in the shape of a tall tin can of beer. I blacked out that first time, and when I woke up I was being sexually assaulted by a man more than twice my age. Thus my introduction to sex and alcohol came in its most destructive and painful manner. Instead of that crime serving as a deterrent from alcohol, it drove me right to the bottle, searching and longing desperately to ease the ache and to quiet the confusion.

  I had my first overdose/suicide attempt at age thirteen. What should have been a carefree summer leading to junior high, I wound up spending in a psych ward. Drinking quickly led to smoking pot, dropping acid, and snorting cocaine—which became a weekend norm by age seventeen. I was a bad drunk. I couldn’t hold my liquor. “Beer before liquor, never sicker; liquor before beer, you’re in the clear”—this age-old saying didn’t apply to me. It didn’t matter in what controlled combination I attempted to drink; two things were certain: I had no control, and I was always sick as a dog, puking my brains out. That is, until I found cocaine. Cocaine became my great love. It became my savior. It became the great enabler I was looking for. It allowed me to drink more, longer, and stronger. I became dependent upon the combination of drinking and cocaine. It was always about the alcohol, and cocaine gave me the freedom to drink as much as I wanted. I was looking for anything that helped me dull the pain and escape the disorder in my life. I went to great lengths to maintain a chemically induced state of euphoria.

  Drinking that way led me straight into more victimization. One day, after discovering for the seventh time in three years that another person I loved was dead, I tried the drug that brought me directly to my knees. I was addicted to crack cocaine before I exhaled my first hit. It engulfed me in a state of nothingness that I demanded at the time. Daily I hit the pipe. I lost many jobs, friends, relationships. I was totally unstable and my life was completely unmanageable.

  I drank to avoid dealing with my feelings. Emotions were a foreign concept to me. I quelled them, squashed them, and attempted to create a fantasy world where all things were happy. Except that it wasn’t real. I don’t think I ever experienced a real emotion. It’s not that I didn’t feel—emotions would rise in me like a great tide, building and building, with waves of sadness or anger crashing over me—but I would immediately detach. Go somewhere safe in my mind. Or hit a pipe. Or take a drink. Anything to escape and create a state of flat affect that became synonymous with my day.

  I was an escape artist.

  But I never got away.

  Everywhere I went, I was still there.

  My emotions were all stuffed inside me, hidden just beneath the surface, encased in darkness like a box of valentine chocolates. Some were darker than others. All were contained and appeared pretty and normal on the outside, but when people tried to scratch beneath the surface, they would find a sticky mess. It became harder and harder to keep my feelings hidden beneath the protective glaze I gave them with my daily dose of whatever substance was most convenient.

  Eventually it became impossible to tame the rising surge of shame, guilt, remorse, horror, self-loathing, denial, defeat, despair, and hell I was living in for the ten years I used and abused. All those avoided emotions came to an abrupt head one night after a weekend bender. They wanted out like caged animals and began seeping through every pore of my being. No matter how much I drank, how many hits I took off the pipe—they wouldn’t stop coming out. Tears spilled uncontrollably down my face. Anger reddened my cheeks and ears. I sat with a pretty pink razor with daisies on it, slicing and dicing my own wrists apart. Intent upon ending it all, I turned my mattress into what looked like a blood-soaked maxi pad.

  The feelings were released and exp
osed to light. When I woke up the next day in a hospital bed, I was amazed and changed. I had an awakening. It wasn’t a moment of clarity, but undeniably an awakening, for it lasted well over a moment. I began hearing what people said around me. I became willing to listen. Words like “alcoholic” and “drug addict” passed my lips with ease. I just knew I was. I was addicted. I was alive. I had a chance. I had hope.

  PART

  1

  KEEPING IT

  SIMPLE

  The beauty of recovery

  was that it was mine and mine alone.

  I charted my path as it suited me.

  1

  FLOATING ON THE PINK CLOUD

  “OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN, HALLOWED BE Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us… give us…” Blood was dripping over my fingers that were clutched tightly around a rosary—the rosary that had been handed down by generations of emotionally unstable women, the rosary I was trying to use to connect to a God whom I never really spoke to until this moment as I screamed out, “Give us… give us…” Frustration overcame me when I couldn’t remember the words. My grip tightened until I couldn’t distinguish the blood running out of the gaping wounds in my wrists from the blood emerging from slices the crucifix was making. Suddenly the wound, the gaping space of black emptiness in my left wrist, came alive and began to breathe. I realized in horror that the gap wasn’t breathing; it was laughing. It had taken on a lifelike shape. The violent gash I had just created with a pretty pink razor was erupting like a volcano, laughing and spattering blood everywhere. Then it began chanting, “Our Father, Our Father” in a childlike, mocking tone, as if it were taunting me for my inability to complete the prayer—or the deed.

  My body bolted upright in bed as I was violently ripped from the nightmare. Sweat beads slowly traveled down my spine as my eyes attempted to adjust to my surroundings. Immediately my right hand found my left wrist, and my fingers gently traced the soft, raised pink scars that had begun to close the flesh I had torn apart only months before in a desperate attempt to take my life. I drew a deep breath into my lungs as I pulled my knees to my chest, hugged my arms around them, and slowly exhaled, thanking God it was only a dream. It was a dream that wakened me all too often, although it was the memory inside the dream that made it worse to deal with. I slowly looked around the room for the clock. I didn’t have my glasses, so everything around me was out of focus. I saw a bright red, fuzzy blur of numbers but couldn’t make them out. I squinted tightly to try and focus my eyes around the numbers, but it was no use. I found my glasses on the table and placed them on my nose. As the lenses dropped down over my tired eyes, they revealed 6:30 a.m. in a bold, red glow. I was still so used to getting up early from being in a structured living environment for the past eighty-odd days that it almost felt normal to be awake at this hour.