Tag: vulnerability

No Moments Slip By

By Mark E. Smith

John Sparicino was my first banker. He was in his seventies, and I was 18, having just graduated high school. I was emptying my bank account to go knock around Portugal and Spain for a few weeks, with little idea what I’d do when I got back – maybe line-up some speaking gigs, freelance write, enroll in college, or all of the above. All I really new was that I had read Hemingway, and going off on a foreign adventure seemed like a great idea.

When John asked why I was cashing in my savings for traveler’s checks, I told him of my half-thought plan to go cross Portugal and Spain in my manual wheelchair for a few weeks – and to my surprise, he told me it was the best idea he’d heard in years. “All we have at the end of our lives are memories and the people we shared them with – make lot’s of them,” he told me.

In my roles within the disability world, I deal with mortality on a daily basis – those who are in the process of dying, and those who have died. And, that old banker, John Sparicono’s, words have proved among the most profound wisdom I’ve ever leaned. See, over and over, when I’m friends with those who are terminally ill, money, status, or careers are never a priority. Rather, what they reflect upon are the memories and relationships that truly made their lives worthy and memorable. All the money in the world means nothing when we’re dying – it’s who’s by our side that’s all that counts.

And, what I’ve learned is that the same holds true in life: The relationships we form and the fond memories we make are what truly matters. And, when we move beyond living to impress others with our careers or material possessions, we move closer to lives of true merit, of true meaning, of true connections, where our true net worth is based on who we love and how deeply we love.

There’s someone special in my life these days, and while we both work hard and have the ability to materialistically do some neat things in life, we share the understanding that it’s the seemingly smallest sentiments in life that actually mean the most. We live about two hours apart, so weekends are our time together. Yet, on a Monday, after we’d spent the weekend together, she drove the two hours to surprise me on my lunch break. All the shared gifts and nights on the town have meant a lot, but for her to surprise me with her presence on my lunch break “just because,” meant the world to me – something I’ll never forget because of the genuine sentiments behind it.

Again, what really completes our lives are the true connections that we make with each other. And, it takes an openness and courage to make those connections. It takes a lot to be the first I say I love you. It takes a lot to express true concern for others. It takes a lot to say you’re sorry and make things right. But, when we’re emotionally expressive at that sincere level, we’re building a life of real connections, where at the end of it all, it’s not just a life of disposable goods, but one of everlasting adoration, love, and respect.

Let us not wait till our dying days to realize the ultimate purpose of life: To connect, express, and love others. After, all, we’re all living on borrowed time – don’t let a moment of creating cherished memories slip by, especially with those you love.

Consider the Source

By Mark E. Smith

Have you ever noticed how quick others are to make negative, diminishing comments as to your value as a person, from little snipes to direct put-downs? Often those closest to us are the worst offenders, using words to painfully try to degrade us. I remember as a very young child, my father constantly implying that I would never amount to anything due to my disability, and as much as the sting of that stays with me till this day, from as young as I can recall, I somehow had the insight to know that he was among the least qualified men on Earth to assess my “value.” The reality was, he was an unemployed alcoholic, who went on to be the poster boy for deadbeat dads – not exactly someone who should have been throwing stones in his glass house. If I could have expressed it at that young age, I would have gladly said, Remind me again how that beer can in your hand qualifies you as ultimate judge of my potential? You might say that I learned to “consider the source” at a very young age as to others’ assessments of me.

Of course, my father was no exception. It’s downright alarming how quick many are to strive to diminish others’ “value,” and it’s even more alarming how readily many take it to heart, feeling lesser because of what others have said. …Don’t be silly, you’ll never accomplish that. …Why would anyone ever love someone like you? …You’ll never amount to anything… I mean, I’m keeping my examples here tame compared to how vicious some can be – words from others that sting, scar, and damage. Think about how many children have had their dreams crushed, or how many spouses have had their self-worth shattered, by so-called loved ones diminishing their value with spiteful, hurtful, abusive words. Maybe you, too, have been there?

However, here’s what’s ironic about those who strive to diminish your value: They are not just morally wrong, they’re factually wrong. Assuming you’re living an integrity-based life, no one ever has a right to assess your value as a person – not your parents, not your significant other, not your friends, no one. While none of us are perfect – we all can always grow and improve – you are intrinsically “enough,” where you deserve to be embraced, wholly, as-is. No one gets a vote as to your intrinsic value – ever. You – and your higher power, if you practice such – are the sole deciding factor toward who you are, and what you can achieve, point blank.

What’s even more telling is when we consider the source of such verbal attacks. It’s never anyone of real merit. The Dali Lama or President never call to tell us how worthless we are. Rather, it’s always a bitter, deeply-troubled person – an alcoholic parent, spiteful spouse, or teen bully – who has no right to judge anyone. We know that anyone who’s compelled to belittle others to make oneself feel better is really projecting one’s own horrendous self image onto others.

I live my life very simply. I set my value high, where I know that I bring a vast offering to the table of life. Cerebral palsy is part of who I am, but not all of who I am. Yet, if someone is to be in my life at a sincere level, he or she must truly love and accept me wholly, as-is – no exceptions. In return, I love and accept others wholly, as-is. It’s these reciprocated, unconditional relationships that elevate our lives to levels of love, trust, and safety that are greater than many have ever known.

The next time someone takes a verbal swing at your value – not accepting you wholly, as-is – consider the source and don’t give such ignorant words credit. Little people say belittling things. Know that you are a giant in comparison, where you have unlimited potential to not just rise above all, but to truly soar.

Rock-Starring Into Oblivion

By Mark E. Smith

Indeed, I am on the cover of the July 2012 issue of New Mobility, as the author of the magazine’s feature story, which is an all-night, true-life tale of me in Vegas (and, yes, it involves booze, chicks, and a bowling shirt – that is, the cerebral palsy version of Charlie Sheen, minus bi-polar disorder and cocain).

For me, making the cover of New Mobility as just … well …me, is among the coolest accomplishment in my career – and very humbling. Appearing in mainstream magazines – usually skewed toward a heroic, inspirational persona – isn’t my gig. Who I really am is lost in that. But, to make the cover of New Mobility not because I’m an inspirational figure or because I’m interviewed or because I’m representing anything, but because I’m just me on a tangent in Vegas is pretty darn cool, the ultimate compliment from those who truly matter to me – my peers and readership. (And, it’s an impressive feat for a man of such indiscernible skill and as void of charm as me, where somehow my just hanging out in Vegas and writing about it qualifies as a partial way to make a living – I’m like the Kardashians, but with even less talent, if that’s possible.)

However, while the cover is already framed and hung with pride on a wall among other such achievements in my home, it ultimately represents a larger truth: Beyond the lasting positive impacts we’ve had on others, what we accomplished yesterday does not dictate our potential for today. There’s no riding what we did yesterday. A magazine cover is great, but it’s yesterday’s news – my sleeves remain rolled-up and working, making the most of today. After all, today is all we really have to work with. Life’s like peddling a bike – the minute you stop putting effort into it, you stop.

Think about how that concept applies to every part of our lives. So many people get caught up in yesterday that they completely waste today, using excuses from the past not to make the most of the present. I hit my sales target for the month, so I can coast for a bit. My relationship has been good, so I don’t need to do that little something extra for my partner. I accomplished that awesome feat, so surely I’ll forever command respect.

No, yesterday is gone, and our only true merit is based on what we are accomplishing today. Just because you hit your sales target doesn’t mean you stop there. Just because your relationship has been good doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t make things even better today. Just because you had major accomplishments doesn’t mean that you should quit striving.

If we’re going to be successful, we can’t look at life as riding waves, where we just try to coast from one periodic success to another. Rather, if we’re going to be successful, we must look at life as a never-ending mountain to climb, a daily work ethic toward new growth in all areas.

Sure, it’s nice to hang a new memento of my success on the wall – rock-starring it on the cover of New Mobility, looking every bit the absurd part – but it’s all just memories and decoration in the end. My only value is in my current project, whatever it may be, where I’m hopefully making a difference in the lives of others.

As you read the piece, I hope you’ll recognize that any sort of celebrity is really an illusion, where such stints as the glitz and glam of me rock-starring is cool, but it’s not where the true value in life is. Rather, the real message in the piece – as in life – is that it isn’t who we are or what we have accomplished that adds value to our lives, but it’s our capacity to embrace others, from all backgrounds, that truly makes us each a superstar from the inside out, everyone equally deserving of gracing a magazine cover.

Read “Freewheeling in Vegas” online here.

It’s What We Ask For

By Mark E. Smith

I’m very mindful of progressing week by week, month by month, year by year in my workout routine, regularly increasing the amount of weight on various excersises, constantly pushing myself to lift heavier and heavier weights, per each exercise on my universal gym.

However, I recently made a seemingly grievous error. In bopping out to my iPod and switching excercises, I forgot to change the weight on my machine. Instead of dropping the weight down from lat pulls to chest flies, I accidentally left the amount of weight far above the maximum weight with which I can do 20 reps of chest flies.

Not knowing that the weight was set too high, and mindlessly bopping to my music, I cranked out my 20 reps of chest flies. Sure, in the moment, each rep seemed a little harder, but I didn’t think anything of it, completing my set.

When I realized my error, I also realized a fact far more profound: My limitations weren’t where I thought they were. While in my mind I thought that I could only lift so much – which is where I set my limit – the reality was that, by mistake, I proved that I could physically lift much more. My body wasn’t holding me back, my self-expectations were.

My workout that day reminded me of how, in many aspects of our lives, we’re not limited by reality, but by our own self-imposed limitations, where our potentials are vastly greater than we recognize. I’m not looking for a better job because this is as good as I can get. I’m staying in this unsatisfying relationship because I’ll never find anyone who is a better match. I’m always broke, so I can’t save money. My relationship with my family will never get better – it is what it is. I’m 40, I can’t get back in shape. …Our self-imposed limitations go on and on, even though they’re not based on reality but limits we project upon ourselves – that is, low self-expectations.

Yet, when we take accountability – pushing ourselves beyond our self-imposed limitations – our lives expand to deliver what we ask of them. That is, our expectations for ourselves define the quality of our lives, so set them higher than you or anyone would expect. Believe that you’re qualified for that better job. Assert that you deserve the most fulfilling relationship. Have faith in your ability to save money. Expect your family to respect you. And, know that you can get in the best shape of your life. Again, the list goes on and on, but the fact is this: Where you set your limitations is what you’ll achieve, so set them high!

I heard a great parable. A man was walking down the street, when a homeless man asked him for a quarter.

“All you want is a quarter?” the man asked.

“Yep, just a quarter,” the homeless man replied.

The man pulled out a money clip filled with $100 bills, then he pulled out a shiny quarter, placing it in the homeless man’s hand. “Next time ask for more,” he said, holding up his money clip. “Life pays however much you ask.”

Too many of us sell ourselves short, setting limitations not based on our true potential, but based on low expectations that we place upon ourselves (or, worse yet, having been degraded by others, and believing it). The question is, however, why do so many set their expectations so low in many aspects of life?

The answer is, much of it is trauma-based conditioning that we don’t even realize (the clinical term is compulsive re-enactment). The easiest example that most of us can relate to is how amazing people consistently get caught-up in bad relationships – that is, where they base relationship decisions on devastatingly low expectations stemming from past experiences (usually trauma-based). What we know is that “conditioning,” from childhood on, creates our expectations, and as we live to those expectations, they get cemented within us, where we have an uncanny subconscious drive to seek those patterns – including painful, harmful ones – throughout adulthood. Studies show that if you grew up in a dysfunctional home, you will go on to pursue dysfunctional relationships. In fact, psychology shows that we’re the only creature that keeps pursuing patterns of trauma – no animal will keep pursuing that which has harmed it, but humans do, simply repeating self-defeating patterns over and over again. What makes this especially tragic, is that when healthy relationships or opportunities arise, our conditioned low expectations cause us to either avoid them or self-sabotage them – and it’s created a culture where, statistically, half of us can’t sustain marriages, let alone get through one day without self-doubt toward many aspects of our lives.

Now, when it comes to compulsive re-enactment – that is, consistently pursuing living to a lower standard than we deserve or are capable of achieving – I am simplifying a profoundly complex emotional condition. However, it ties into an easily understood goal: Let us raise our self-expectations, no longer relying on dysfunctional comfort zones or self-defeating patterns, but have the courage – because we’re all capable! – to push beyond them, raising our expectations. When you find a healthy relationship, but don’t feel unworthy or are scared, raise your expectations, and take a chance on it, truly investing yourself in new ways that you’ve never known. When you don’t feel qualified to pursue a better job, raise your expectations, and know that you are equipped. And, when anyone questions your stature in any way, raise your expectations, sticking up for yourself, empowered. In short, if any aspect of your life isn’t going your way – truly toward your healthy interests – you owe it to yourself to ask, Do I just keep settling for as-is, or do I evoke the courage to raise my expectations, inviting positive change?

The correct answer is, of course, you raise your expectations, no matter how much courage it takes. By raising your self-expectations – and following through with the work needed to live up to them (which can be unfamiliar and scary), you’ll be surprised at how the quarters in your life turn into $100 bills. It can’t be said enough: Life pays what you ask of it. Ask for a lot – you deserve it.

Failing Greatly

By Mark E. Smith

Anyone who saw the movie, Apollo 13 – or never saw the film! – knows the iconic phrase, Failure isn’t an option.

Indeed, the phrase is inspirational and catchy, now part of our motivational lexicon. However, here’s what few know: Not only was the phrase a fictional creation for the film and book, but it was derived from the NASA Control Room philosophy that really meant that quitting was never an option.

See, the catch phrase was skewed from an interview where Apollo 13 flight controller, Jerry Bostick, said, “…When bad things happened, we just calmly laid out all the options, and failure was not one of them. We never panicked, and we never gave up on finding a solution.”

Truly, what Bostick expressed was that failures – or, in his words, “bad things” – occurred all of the time, but what the flight control team did was never quit, they never gave up on finding solutions. They wouldn’t accept a failure as an end-all.

That’s such a vital distinction: Failures are bound to occur in virtually all that we do. However, quitting in the face of them is not an option. In fact, among the greatest people and accomplishments have always been born from huge failures. Babe Ruth struck-out 1,330 times. Henry Ford went broke five times. Jack Canfield’s Chicken Soup for the Soul manuscript was rejected by 140 publishers. James Dyson’s vacuum had 5,127 failed prototypes.

Of course, these catastrophic failures lead to among the greatest success stories in history. Babe Ruth, is arguably the greatest baseball player of all time. Henry Ford revolutionized manufacturing and the automobile. Chicken Soup for the Soul has sold 130 million copies. And, the Dyson vacuum became a market leader, changing its industry.

As Confucius put it, “Our greatest glory is not in never failing but in rising every time we fail.” As Samuel Beckett put it, “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” And, as President John F. Kennedy put it, “Only those who dare to fail greatly can achieve greatly.”

All of these great men – as well as all wise individuals – know that failure is part of the path to success. Learning always involves failure – it’s why students study, athletes practice, and businessmen develop. Failure is “practice making perfect.”

Now, I’ve outlined a few extraordinary examples of huge failures leading to astounding successes. However, failure – and how we address it – plays an even more important role in our personal, everyday lives. If we fail, and quit as a result, we lose everything, it’s game over. Yet, if like the greats that I’ve previously noted, if we fail, but keep striving, finding new approaches and solutions, learning and growing, we will ultimately succeed. No matter if it’s my two year-old niece who was frustrated by a baby gate, so she used her toy box as a ladder to climb over it, or my friend who went on over 30 job interviews before landing his dream job, both experienced failure after failure, but followed through with a tenacity to success.

As for me, my life remains one big failure. From my daily living skills, to my career, to my relationships, to my parenting, truly, there’s nothing that I haven’t failed at. Heck, I’m failing at this very writing as I create the first draft (by the time you read this essay, I will have failed with four or five drafts). But, I don’t give up, ever. There’s nothing too physically tough, too intellectually challenging, to financially burdensome, too emotionally harrowing for me to ultimately succeed at. Sure, again, I will – and have! – fail at many aspects of life, unquestionably many more times to come. But, failure doesn’t scare or deter me; rather, failure drives me to push harder. Through failures, I learn, I grow, I adapt, I change my approach, and eventually I succeed. I’m going to fail, but in that process, I know that I’m moving closer to success.

I don’t know what challenges – read that, failures – you’re facing in your life right now. However, try shifting your perspective to a mode where you see failures as direct paths toward success. Does it take perseverance? Yes. Does it take determination? Of course. Does it take patience? Sure. But, does it ultimately lead to success? Absolutely. After all, without failures, there is no success.

What The Real Question Is

By Mark E. Smith

My friend was recently interviewed on a television show. And, based on my friend being a triple amputee, the subject of sex came up, and the interviewer was bold enough to ask, “Can you?”

My friend answered, “Yes, I do well,” and both he and the interviewer chuckled.

However, I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for the real question to be asked relating to the subject: “What about true trust and emotional intimacy – are you capable of having that?”

But, the question was never asked, keeping on par with how skewed both our personal and cultural perspectives on sexuality are.

I mean, many question whether those with disabilities can have sex, and it’s an assumed that those who are able-bodied can have sex. Yet, few ever ask anyone or ourselves, Are you truly capable of exceptional trust and emotional intimacy? – which is a far bigger part of sexuality than the physicality of jumping in bed (which is absurdly easy). In fact, the physicality of sex is often a mask or mechanism to avoid true intimacy. For many, physically engaging in sex is far easier than engaging in emotional intimacy – there’s less vulnerability involved. Physically acting is easy; opening ourselves up to be emotionally vulnerable is a much tougher, scary process. I read a wonderful quote that said, “Truly making love means allowing ourselves to be emotionally vulnerable and finding security and pleasure in it.”

I see many of my peers – regardless of disability – who use sex as a way to avoid real feelings, or confuse it for feelings. If we have esteem issues, body image issues, vulnerability issues, having sex is a quick, validating fix. I must be a real man because she’s having sex with me – see I am worthy! But, such superficial validation is never lasting (and often merely has negative results on our emotional issues in the long run – the validation leaves with the sex). Sure, feeling desired in the moment can chase away all kinds of insecurities. But, once the moment passes, all of our emotional struggles are still there, only magnified for the worse. Put simply, physical sex for the wrong motives can often drive us farther apart from real intimacy with others, and emotionally isolate us further.

In this way, we often have the process backward: Sex doesn’t lead to true trust and intimacy; rather, true trust and intimacy leads to great, healthy relationships – and all of that leads to truly healthy sexual experiences that then encompass the mind, body, and soul (it’s the difference between staring at the ceiling versus making the Earth stop in its rotation, time standing still).

Therefore, forget the question of, Can you have sex? It’s an absurd, moot point. And, start asking the question of, Are you capable of true trust and emotional intimacy? It’s only then that we’re on our way to deep, loving, lasting relationships.

Chased By It

By Mark E. Smith

Among the incidents in my life that has haunted me most is the suicide of singer and quadriplegic, Vic Chestnut. Some things just hit too close to home for comfort.

As I’ve written and spoken extensively about – although Vic’s suicide was a combination of factors – arguably the largest factor was an overwhelming sense of isolation and loneliness. And, as I’ve processed Vic’s final act over several years now – an act made as much out of heightened self-awareness as depression – I’ve never been able to answer the question of, did Vic simply kill himself, or did the world around him indirectly take his life?

In the realm of psychology, there’s a term, “parentified-child,” which applies to children who, based on extremely dysfunctional parents – addicts, mentally ill, physically ill, emotionally inept – must assume adult-like roles, literally parenting their parents. At a time when a child should be nurtured, he or she is thrust into the role of nurturer. As a result, the child learns that his or her feelings and needs are second – or, non-existent, really – to everyone else’s, and identity and self-worth are sacrificed. Such children grow up being drawn toward very unhealthy, unbalanced relationships and lifestyles, rarely capable of truly looking out for their own interests. And, the internal isolation that ultimately exists – where he or she struggles to let people in, to be nurtured – often leads to self-destructive behavior. You might say that such individuals implode rather than explode from emotions.

As adults, we can find ourselves in similar situations due to any number of circumstances, where we’re always the nurturer, never to be nurtured – and, again, it implodes the soul. Vic lived this, where he absorbed too much of the pain from others and the world around him, with little space to express his own, that it literally killed him. Going from “fame” on stage where you give yourself to others so completely, then being alone in a hotel room with not a single person in the world with you – or who you feel emotionally safe enough to call – is a harrowing experience. It helped kill Vic, and it’s chased me a few nights.

I was born a “parentified-child.” I learned early in life that loving someone meant saving him or her at your own expense – but that’s not how love should work, does work, or can work. My mother was as dysfunctional as one can be – substance abuse, mental illness, divorces – and from as young as I can recall, I just wanted to make her feel better, where her emotions were far more important to me than my own. And, it’s not a bad trait as a son or a person to want to save someone who you dearly love. However, there has to be a line we draw between being forced into that role as a child, versus choosing that role as an adult in relationships. And, I’ve chosen that role for too long, where loving has always been easy for me, but being loved, not so much. And, so my comfort zone has always been giving as much as I can to others, and using it as a smoke screen to avoid my own feelings of vulnerability. And, it works really well.

Until it doesn’t. And, ultimately, like Vic, I’m alone in a hotel room, staring at a cell phone, unable to call anyone. But, it’s not that there’s no one to call. I just can’t. They have spouses and children and jobs – and who am I to interrupt their lives with my desperate moment of all-consuming isolation and loneliness, where I’ve gone from the soaring affirmation of a public event, to an emotional crash landing, alone.

But, I’m cognizant of it all. On a recent trip, my friends bought me a rock-star-size bottle of Southern Comfort, all in good spirits. And, with it sitting on the restaurant table, not only did I know that I couldn’t drink out of fear of drinking heavily, period, but that if I took the bottle back to my hotel room, all of Hell could break loose for me. Isolated and ungrounded, with my past still not allowing me to reach out in such moments, I could easily unscrew the cap from the bottle over the bathroom sink, chug it one-fisted, toasting to Vic, the whole bottle – gone.

So, I left the bottle on the restaurant table, and split – sober and safe. And, I made it through the night, alone in my hotel room. “Mark takes care of Mark,” I said to myself while shaving in the mirror the next morning. And, I was back at it with the new day, there for everyone – and I meant it.

Then, as the day turned to eve, then to night, the bottle showed up again with my friends. “You left this at the restaurant last night,” they said.

I went along with the well-intended amusement, but, again, with Mark looking out for Mark, never to drink with Vic because I know where it could lead, I ditched the bottle somewhere – so much in a panic that I don’t recall where – and I made it through another night, isolated, lonely, but safe.

However, like the isolation and loneliness that’s come and gone much of my life, the bottle mysteriously showed up again – in my van. And, so with a friend leaving town, too, I tucked the bottle in his truck, and sent it on its way, far from me.

I got in my van, and headed a few hours home, where I couldn’t wait to see my daughter, our two dogs, and ultimately get back to the stability of my office routine. And, so just as the bottle of Southern Comfort went away, soon would the isolation and loneliness – at least for now.

There’s No Problem

By Mark E. Smith

Authors of online “blogs” are always tracking the statistics of their readerships. And, here’s a statistic of my readership that horrifies me: 25% of you will die of a drug-related death. No, I’m not talking heroin or cocaine or any illicit drug. Rather, it’s the prescribed medications – the benzos, the oxys, the hydros – that, statistically 50% of you are addicted to, will kill half of you. It’s a catch phrase known as “accidental overdose,” or more discretely, such conditions known as “heart arrhythmia.”

See, according to government statistics, those with disabilities are four times as likely to be substance abusers than the general population, and 50% of those with spinal cord injuries, for example, are addicts. Think about that: If you go to a disability event, every other person who you meet is addicted to prescription drugs – and half of them will die from it. As a population, we’re not WheelchairJunkies; we are just junkies.

Interestingly, there’s a scientific basis why those of us with disabilities are so prone to addiction. Modern research into addiction causation shows a direct link to emotional trauma – where we abuse substances to both mask and maintain trauma. On the one hand, substance abuse can be an escape, but it often also ties in to a deep-level psychology where we’re the only creature known that actually strives to “re-inflict” trauma unto ourselves, “maintaining” it throughout our lives (a simple – but tragic – example is that 76% of women abused by a spouse were abused as children, unwittingly “maintaining” the trauma throughout their lives by being drawn toward unhealthy relationships). Disability often has any number of emotional impacts attached, resulting in trauma, so it’s the prevalence of trauma surrounding disability that dramatically escalates the risk of substance abuse.

And, make no mistake, our culture and the medical community supports the abuse of drugs to address disability. If a crack-head walks into a doctor’s office, they call the police. But, roll in to that same doctor’s office in a wheelchair, with a spinal cord injury, multiple sclerosis, or cerebral palsy, and the prescription pad comes out. What would you like? Klonopin, Baclofen, Oxycontin, Soma? No problem. What – you want to up your dosage? No problem. And, no one questions you – not the doctor, not the pharmacist, not your family. Why? Because no one wants to doubt your physical struggles, and everyone wants you pain-free. But, they don’t know that you’re blazed out of your mind, that the drugs have bonded with your dopamine and endorphin levels, where the prefrontal cortex of your brain just drives you toward more drugs, more drugs, more drugs – and you are metabolically a full-blown addict.

But, what’s even more awesome is that you don’t think you’re an addict. From rationalizing in your own mind that your disability necessitates medication, to the legitimization of it all from the medical community, you’re right on course – there’s no problem. What’s more, we know that addicts lose the capacity to truly know that they’re addicts – the drugs literally crank up the denial chemistry in the brain. At best, addicts can dish-out victim mentality, “I’m fucked up.” And, in ways, they’re right. For decades, we’ve heard that the first step to recovery is admitting that there’s a problem. However, we know now, through modern addiction studies, that while addicts may occasionally voice that they have a problem, that they’re fucked up, they truly don’t have the capacity to recognize that they have a literal disease that’s killing them (and, it is a disease in that it alters your biology beyond your control) – it’s usually only after intervention, detox, and months of focused recovery that one truly realizes one’s addiction. So often a lack of willpower is socially equated with addiction (and it can be argued still that a lack of handling stresses in life, along with a genetic predisposition toward addiction can begin the process, itself). However, recent studies show that once addicted, the most instinctive drives of the brain are effected, and conscious volitional control is lost – that’s a disease.

And, so if you’re reading this, taking prescribed pills right on schedule, with them in neat rows, lined up on the kitchen counter, don’t worry, you’re not an addict. There’s no problem. The drugs are there just to help you function normally, as directed.

And, if you’re the loved one of someone whose medication has him or her agitated, nodding off, eyes glazed over, don’t worry, he or she is totally fine – just keep telling yourself that, due to disability, he or she needs the prescribed medication. It’s OK – it’s all normal, there’s no problem.

Yet, there’s nothing normal about any of it, and it’s a life-threatening health issue that kills – and, to top it off, there’s virtually no treatment. Tragically, even if, as an addict, you expressed your problem to most addiction specialists (which you would never really do because, again, addicts lie to everyone, especially themselves), even the specialists wouldn’t believe you. You’re a person with a disability taking prescribed drugs – there’s no problem. So, even if you or your loved ones strive to get you help with addiction, the medical community isn’t trained to offer it to you as one with a disability. In fact, even the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services publicly states, “Substance abuse prevention, intervention and treatment services are not physically, attitudinally, cognitively, or financially accessible, to persons with disabilities for many reasons.”

And, so the question becomes, as those with disabilities, when we start off with a lack of accountability by turning to medication, then use the medical system to become drug addicts, and the medical community legitimizes it, with no ability to treat it once it becomes a disease, what happens? Well… we die.

However, there are a few ancillary solutions. Firstly, toward those with disabilities, as a community – and especially within the medical community – we must all be aware of this health crisis, where the acceptance of use and prescription process must be dramatically curbed. We have to acknowledge the problem and stop it before the pen hits the prescription pad.

Secondly, if you’re the loved one of an addict with a disability, and your loved one’s addiction has become your family’s problem – and it always does – get help for yourself and your family, where you’re not a codependent to the addict. Addicts have a clinical narcissism where they lose the capacity to care about anyone but themselves and their addiction, and they will gladly emotionally, mentally, and financially destroy their families without an inkling of conscience. Addicts slowly consume relationships, and you have to break-free of that cycle, no matter how much you love that person (or, more aptly, how much you loved that person before he or she became an addict, as again, the brain changes so much under addiction that the original person no longer exists).

Therefore, as individuals and a community, let us stop addiction before it starts. If we have a loved one who’s an addict, let us have the strength to prioritize ourselves and our families to distance ourselves from the addict. And, if you’re already an addict – which you’re truly incapable of knowing – there’s statistically no U-turn for you: You’re simply buying time among the living dead.

The Jackass Chronicle

By Mark E. Smith

The first and only time that I met Jacki, I ate a cigarette. Everyone else in the group knew me, but Jacki and I didn’t know each other, and I immediately recognized that the impression that I made upon her was the wrong one. See, I performed a vaudeville trick, where if the weather is just the right temperature, you can eat a cigarette, take a deep, warm breath, and blow smoke. But, of course, it’s not really smoke, just breathing “frost.” Everyone who knew me understood that it was me goofing off, that there are mostly serious sides to my life, depth to my character, but I can be hilariously over-the-top when appropriate. However, not discounting Jacki’s own gracious character, I got the impression that she only saw me as a cigarette-eating jackass – which in the moment, I was. And, that soon troubled me.

Firstly, for me, “legacy” is a life-driver, where if I can have even a small, positive impact on a stranger’s life, it’s really important to me. And, every time I thought about Jacki for months, I cringed, realizing that I was nothing more than the jackass who ate the cigarette – not very impacting.

And, secondly, I was admittedly smitten with Jacki, where her eloquence struck me – the way she carried herself, you might say. Have you ever met someone in passing, and just thought, wow. Well, that was my moment seeing Jacki – only I was eating a cigarette like a total jackass.

So, for some time, when it came to my one and only encounter with Jacki, I saw myself as the underdog in every teen movie: I was the goofy guy who the really attractive, popular girl only saw as a dork. But, life went on, and I reckoned that, at least to Jacki, I’d forever just be a jackass.

However, I recently ran into Jacki again while working a trade show, and I immediately had to ask her out to dinner with friends. In fact, I openly prefaced the whole conversation with the fact that I wasn’t the jackass who I may have seemed before, that I was a far more serious guy. It wasn’t that I had anything to prove, per se, but I just wanted the chance to be me – the real me, not some jackass eating a cigarette – and I wanted the chance to likewise get to know her on a genuine level. I mean, maybe after spending an evening with me and friends, she’d still see me as a jackass, but at least she’d see the real jackass in me.

Now that you know the back story, let’s fast forward into present tense….

So, we meet for dinner in Los Angeles, and become fast friends, chatting each other up with a lot in common. And, Jacki is an amazing woman – smart, funny, successful, compassionate, and beautiful – and, at some point, it comes out that she has a boyfriend. But, I’m OK that she has a boyfriend because I’m a grown-up, and I’m pleased to be getting to know an amazing person on a totally sincere level. We have a great seafood dinner, and Jacki is kind enough to feed me raw oysters, which are forever challenging to balance on a fork. We learn a ton about each other – admittedly ignoring our friends to some degree throughout the eve – and end the evening with a hug. And, I, the once-jackass, feel like I was able to be my true self, not a seeming jackass after all. And, Jacki was, of course, a remarkable person to get to know.

As I fall asleep in my white-comforter, king-size hotel room bed, I feel like I’ve done right by all, and slip off into a sound sleep.

However, around 1:30am, I awake with my stomach boiling over – and it’s too late. Even if I was the world’s fastest sprinter, I couldn’t have made it to the bathroom. In the pitch black, I vomit toward the side of the bed – and it just keeps coming. I’m praying that I’m targeting the dirty clothes between the nightstand and my wheelchair, that I’m not hitting the bed, the nightstand, or my wheelchair – but likewise knowing that I’m probably nailing all three at once.

Finally, through the dry heaves, I turn on the lamp, scared to see what I find. I glance at the night stand: clean. I glance at my wheelchair: clean. I glance at side of the bed: covered in vomit. Damn, I missed everything but the all-white bed!

Now, I’m kind of panicked because I’ve vomited seafood all over a white hotel bed, and it’s a horrible situation. I begin racing through solutions on cleaning this up: a wash rag and soap; I’ll strip the bed and take the sheets and comforter to the cleaners down the street; or, I’ll just live with it till check-out another day, and skip-out of town. But, none of these strike me as valid solutions.

However, I have being a bachelor on my side. See, if a woman was with me, it would require immediate action. I’d have to act embarrassed, strip the bed, brush my teeth, and fawn being sicker than I was. But, I’m alone, where the only action required is scooting across the bed, to the clean side, and promptly going back to sleep. This is where being single on the road totally rocks. No, I’m not getting drunk or laid, but the fact that I can vomit on my hotel bed in the middle of the night, and do nothing about it till morning, going right back to sleep, makes being single the best lifestyle ever. And, so, I just go back to sleep – winning.

In the morning, I shower and dress – and know that I have to do the inevitable. I have to march up to the front desk and declare, “I’m Mark E. Smith, in room 318, and I’ve vomited on my bed….”

However, I realize that I’m only partly to blame. See, Jacki has to have some responsibility in all of this. And, so with little more than shame, I roll up to April, the woman at the front desk, and spill out my heart:

So, last year, I ate a cigarette as a prank, and made myself look like a jackass in front of this amazing woman. And, so to show her that I’m not a jackass, I took her and friends out for seafood last night. And, the woman is totally smart, funny, and caring – but, she has a boyfriend, and I respect that. So, long story, short, I made a new platonic friend, but the seafood, not so much, and I vomited all over my bed. …I mean, all over – the comforter the sheets, running down the sides….

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Smith – we’ll get that changed for you,” the desk clerk said. “At least you were sleeping alone last night, from what it sounds like.”

“Trust me, April, when it comes to women and me these days, I’m glad to be sleeping alone every night,” I replied, and headed off to start my day.