How to Overcome Alcohol Use Disorder

How to Overcome Alcohol Use Disorder

Guilty Verdict Leads to Freedom

I quit drinking nineteen months ago. Overcoming alcohol use disorder was both hard and easy. Living with the decision to quit felt better than living with ambivalence. I’d had lawyers arguing inside my head 24/7. They couldn’t even agree that there was a problem, much less what to do about it. I mostly just felt relief that a verdict had been rendered. It was over—whatever it was.

The hardest part of overcoming alcohol use disorder was figuring out what to do with myself. Drinking and thinking (about drinking) consumed a lot of mental energy. I hid my preoccupation with a façade of productivity, worthiness and normality. “No problems over here! I’m happy and healthy! Hashtag Blessed!” After I quit drinking, I had no reason to keep pretending that everything was fine.

Ironically, that’s the first step towards becoming fine.

But “fine” is complicated. I felt well. Positive. At peace. I also felt uncomfortable. My brain was fuzzy. My emotions were unpredictable. It felt like I’d walked away from a bad car accident. There were no obvious injuries, but I was stunned and traumatized all the same–unsure what to do next. Do I stop and cry? Rejoice in gratitude? Just move on? See my doctor? A therapist? Have an existential crisis?

Yes. Yes. Yes–all the above.

Welcome to Recovery

Alcohol had been my go-to for managing anxiety. To borrow a phrase from our grandmothers’ generation, I believed it was the medicine I needed to “calm my nerves.” And so it was. The placebo effect is real. But like any medication, alcohol suppresses the symptoms of dysfunction while also creating new ones. Sadly, for those of us that rely on them, most drugs eventually lose their efficacy. We build a tolerance; side effects get harder to ignore. Alcohol kept me going for a long time. First it was fun. Then it was fine. And then it was neither.

Once I accepted that I was not doing myself any favors, and actually hurting myself, I was able to overcome alcohol use disorder.

Recovery is the process of learning to live authentically—sobriety is just the gateway to self-love and self-care. When I quit drinking at age 46, I was on the cusp of a midlife identity crisis anyway. I had raised four children, experienced divorce, remarriage, stepchildren and multiple careers—including being a “stay-home” parent. My sole purpose in life had been to reflect what the people around me expected. The concept of “loneliness” felt like a joke. How could I be lonely when I have no time for myself? I hadn’t even peed with the door shut in twenty years (at home). In my mind, alcohol was a sacred form of self-care—a hard-earned reward for a job well done (or at least the absence of criminal charges). It helped me cope with the never-ending stress.

Alcohol is the Problem Not the Solution

Unbeknownst to me, alcohol was my number one source of stress. It overshadowed the other problems vying for second place. My belief that only “alcoholics” are addicted to alcohol prevented me from seeing the truth. I thought I drank every day because I wanted to. Granted, the amount I consumed was a source of shame—it wasn’t lady-like. I relied on positive self-talk to reassure myself. Fuck the patriarchy—I can drink like a man–and all that. But trying to function while either intoxicated, hungover and/or distracted became a very high-stress, full-time job.

Alcohol is a serious handicap.

Deciding to “get sober” seemed to require me to stop drinking AND admit I was an alcoholic. Unfortunately, in our intoxicated culture, it’s a step down to go from high-functioning drinker to a sober alcoholic. That’s quite the contradiction considering the balls it takes to admit there’s a problem.

We’ve been brainwashed to believe there’s a difference between normal drinkers and alcoholics. There isn’t. Coffee drinkers experience withdrawals from caffeine when they stop. No one is encouraged to use heroin “responsibly.” Anyone who smokes every day is addicted, yet we don’t refer to former smokers as “cigarette-aholics.” Overcoming an addiction in any other context is viewed as powerful. With alcohol, the path to freedom is marked “powerless.”

Fuck the patriarchy. And all that.

The Sober Revolution

Upgrading my status to “badass” was my first act of self-love as a newly sober person. If people can pick their pronouns, I can reject the “alcoholic” stereotype. “Hi, my name is Colleen. my pronouns are she/her and I am NOT an alcoholic.”

Sobriety isn’t just burning your bra and flying the bird at the cultural hypocrisy. It’s called recovery for a reason. No matter how high functioning you are, drinking takes its toll on emotional, mental and physical health. Alcohol is a drug classified as a depressant. Think about the expectations we have for antidepressants (SSRIs inhibit the reuptake of serotonin). Yet we expect regular consumption of a depressant drug will make us feel better? In reality, alcohol downregulates the natural production of dopamine because the brain comes to rely on the booze. If we don’t drink, we’re left with a dopamine deficiency.

And that’s the cycle of addiction. It’s not that we want to get high. It’s that we feel low without our “medicine.” It’s not unusual or even shameful. It’s simply how drugs work.

The average recovery time for brain chemistry to recalibrate after quitting drinking is fourteen months. As most of us also have a low tolerance for emotional discomfort (because we used alcohol to treat that), it’s easy to understand why early sobriety is difficult. These symptoms are known as post-acute withdrawal syndrome (PAWS). If you don’t understand what’s happening, it’s hard to stay the course. It’s easier to think that life was better when we could at least look forward to drinking. Unchallenged, that thought gets stronger, which is why PAWS is the number one reason we start drinking again.

There are a lot of things you can do to accelerate recovery, but “blah” days are inevitable. I’m now 48 years old, and recovery has taught me that self-neglect is not a function of resilience. There’s no hack around the hard stuff. Whatever we refuse to deal with will eventually bite us in the proverbial ass.

Overcome Alcohol Use Disorder with Self-Care

Self-care is now my top priority. I am challenging the urge to agree to things I don’t actually agree with. I’ve stopped using other people’s opinions of me to calculate my own. I know that self-care is more than just keeping myself pretty and presentable. When I find myself reaching for a substance to control my energy and mood, I stop. Instant gratification leads to long-term deprivation. My needs are no longer negotiable.

Overcoming alcohol use disorder wasn’t easy. But living with it was worse–and pointless. The battle I waged was against myself. I used to laugh as I poured my wine–“No good story starts with a salad!” I now smile as I sip my mocktail. No good story ends with–“she drank every day and lived happily ever after.”

Get help to overcome alcohol use disorder @ Recovery University, my 12-week online sobriety program for professional women looking for alternatives to AA. Register for my free 45-minute webinar to learn the five strategies to achieve spontaneous sobriety and overcome alcohol use disorder.

 

Open Letter to All Facebook/Instagram Users

Open Letter to All Facebook/Instagram Users

If you’re on Facebook, Instagram and/or use Messenger or WhatsApp, you need to read this.

Three weeks ago, I had no sympathy for the people whose accounts were being disabled due to the posting of “dangerous content.” I had no doubt that some were caught in an overcorrection in the fight against misinformation. But at this point, if you decide to post something controversial, the risk is assumed. I have seen “this content is no longer available” posts on friends’ pages and have heard stories of people getting thrown in Facebook “jail” for anywhere from a week to a year. While censorship is inherently problematic, so is rampant misinformation. After former President Trump got bounced, it was clear there was a new set of rules.

That’s not what this is about.

Two weeks ago, I returned from a retreat (I did not check social media or email for 5 days) to discover I was locked out of Facebook, Instagram, Messenger and WhatsApp. A hacker gained access to my email account and bypassed the two-factor authentication. After changing my profile information, he/she hijacked my existing Facebook and Instagram ad campaigns to post content that “violated community standards.” I have no idea what was posted or why. I disabled the ads by shutting down my credit card, which also shut down my funnel for new business and removed me from the groups and pages I’ve created to provide content and serve my clients.

Full Stop.

 Two weeks ago, I was five months into a new business. I was spending $1800 a month on Facebook ads and generating 3-4 times that in revenue. I was doing all the things you’re supposed to do to “nurture” my growing community. I was having fun, feeling successful and hopeful. My hard work was finally paying off. The coaching, content and resources I was offering to people about nutrition and recovery from alcohol use disorder was making a difference.

 Game on!

 I did not post, share or even “like” anything close to controversial content. If you searched my accounts, you wouldn’t be able to guess who I voted for or what I think about mask mandates. I used Facebook to “host” my community and to learn from other people that I admire. I have worked HARD to earn every single follower and spent a lot of money and what feels like most of my time fighting the algorithm every day to stay relevant. It was a lot of work. I was doing Facebook lives, using IGTV, posting in stories and trying to figure out reels (has anyone but the urban dance choreographers managed to get anywhere with those?)

Doesn’t matter.

You need to know that contacting Facebook through the Help page when you’ve been hacked (and locked out of your account) is impossible. There is no customer support. After a week of mind-bending frustration using a multi-device/browser/app strategy to circumvent the bots, I finally regained access. Only to find that my account was disabled. The subsequent process to “request a review” was pointless from the start—you can’t submit comments, explanations or evidence of fraud. Nonetheless, it was sucker punch to the gut when the final verdict was rendered: I have been permanently disabled.

 

I now understand that Facebook users aren’t customers—we are resources being harvested for data. This includes those of us with businesses heavily vested in Facebook ads. There is NO help–no people to call. You’d think there would be a support department to investigate fraud. It might take a while, as thousands of accounts are hacked every day. You might have to wait, but surely if you’re patient and persistent, someone at Facebook will acknowledge the oversight. That’s their job, right?

Wrong.

Facebook doesn’t care that I’ve lost my livelihood. Beyond that, I’ve lost my tribe. My people. My friends. I have contacts all over the world that I was in regular contact with via Messenger and WhatsApp. All of that’s gone. I’m gone.

 

Being permanently disabled from Facebook means that I can’t use Instagram, Messenger or WhatsApp either. I’m banned from opening an account on any of the Facebook platforms for the rest of my life. If I wanted to circumvent the system, I’d have to change the IP addresses on all of my devices, start shady email accounts and alter the structure of my face. And cross my fingers. Because any sign of the old Colleen Freeland Kachmann will trigger the Facebook police.

 You’re fired. Again.

 I remind myself that given a choice of problems in life, I’d pick this one in a heartbeat. My children are safe and healthy. My basic needs are met. Coaching isn’t my only source of income. Nevertheless, this IS a big deal and it isn’t just happening to me. There are thousands of people like me who have been permanently banned from the largest world-wide social network through no fault of their own. Social media is being increasingly classified as a “utility”–meaning people need access to function on a level playing field. I’ve been given a life sentence without due process. There is no court of appeals; there is no road to redemption.

This increasingly common circumstance has serious and detrimental impact on mental health and financial stability—not to mention people’s basic ability to communicate. It’s a big damn deal to be permanently removed from anywhere, not just Facebook, especially if you’re not guilty of a crime. And no one seems to care. Advice forums on Reddit and Quora take the same tone as Facebook—this wouldn’t be happening if you weren’t guilty of at least being stupid.

I’m not stupid. And you should care. You could be next.

What can you do? First of all, realize that the pictures, videos, and intellectual content on your pages and groups can be confiscated at any moment. You might “own’ them via copyright or trademark, but Facebook has full custody, and full authority to remove you from your belongings. We’ve been conned into believing that this is a public space–we have a right to conduct legal business (while pretending we have a right to privacy). We don’t! It would be like opening a business in a brick-and-mortar building without a contract and then being surprised to find the doors locked one day and all of your property confiscated. Think about the personal and professional belongings you store on these platforms: what would you do if you had 24 hours to salvage what you can?

Do that.

 After two weeks of fighting with reality, my indignity is losing steam. While I’d like to get my pictures back and reroute some of my contacts, I’m done with Facebook. I’m glad this happened. I feel free. I’m tired of jumping around like a puppet trying to please an algorithm that is literally working against me. Only 7-8 percent of my followers even see the content I spend hours making. Screw that! I’d rather have twenty people that want to hear from me than thousands who “liked” and then lost me in the noise. Being removed from Facebook has restored my time and focus–I didn’t realize how much energy using these platforms was costing me. My stress level has decreased significantly–despite dealing with this stressor! Instead of worrying about “engagement”–99 percent of which is absolutely meaningless, I am figuring out how to build a business (and a life) that doesn’t rely on the toxic grid. I’m finding new ways to stay connected to those I care about and creating an online space that truly belongs to me and serves my clients. All of this feels much more meaningful than all of that. 

Thanks Universe. Buh Bye Facebook.

Please share this article–forward it to friends and post on Facebook (it doesn’t violate community standards–maybe someone at Facebook will see it and help me). You can also download your data from Facebook.

If you think you can help, here is a link to view the evidence of my story and my (former) contact information.

How to Heal Loneliness

How to Heal Loneliness

Lonely vs. Alone

The root of loneliness isn’t the absence of other people but a lack of connection with yourself. When you are aware of yourself, you feel grounded and worthy. Having a strong sense of your own identify means you are never really alone, even when no one else is around. To be clear, loneliness is also a form of grief when death, divorce and other traumatic life circumstances leave us isolated. The focus of this article addresses the type of loneliness that accompanies mental health issues such as addiction, depression and codependent behavior.

Loneliness is an internal feeling—not an external circumstance. Loneliness occurs when you’re uncomfortable in your relationship with yourself. Feeling alone has little to do with being alone. Loneliness is not the result of what is (or isn’t) happening around you. It’s a reflection of what’s going on inside of you. The act of being alone is not painful. It’s the story about why and how you’re alone that creates suffering. Loneliness, like all emotions, is the consequence of thought.

What creates loneliness?

We create loneliness when the stories about our life circumstances fail to recognize our unique peculiarities and needs as “normal” and valid. Connection in any relationship (including and especially with our self) requires honesty, acknowledgement and shared identity. We stop feeling lonely when someone else validates how confusing life is, how frightening death is, how painful relationships can be, how disabling anxiety is, how overwhelming regret can feel, how miserable and monotonous everyday life can be, how threatening unexplored potential feels, how disappointing and even embarrassing it feels to age, and how the older we get, the less we know for sure. When we fail to listen and empathize and/or to feel heard and understood, the relationship breaks down.  

 The disconnect with our self occurs when we believe that we “should” or “shouldn’t” feel the way that we do. We make up stories about what we’re doing and how we feel that aren’t true in that moment—not because we are liars, but because we are ashamed of the gap between what we sense in ourselves and what is acceptable to speak of. We present a one-dimensional façade and edit for awkwardness. But the image we project is not who we are. Unfortunately, in order to identify with the image we’re projecting, we must first disconnect from our real self.

Lacking a sense of self, we evaluate and adjust our projection according to the reactions of other people. We believe our identify is located in their reflection. We become who they think we are. For this reason, relationships (especially with partners) fall apart not just because we stop liking who they are, but because we stop liking our reflection within the relationship. Also, we may not even recognize loneliness for what it is if our connections appear solid on the surface. Even seemingly healthy relationships cannot substitute for the basic need for intimacy with ourselves.

 Loneliness often manifests as a dull ache and vague discomfort. The feeling can be denied or ignored; the stories kept subconscious. High-functioning, busy and extroverted people may attempt to avoid loneliness with external distractions (people, substances and/or behaviors). They notice feelings of depression when the chaos recedes but fail to attribute the emotion to the internal disconnect. They continue to search for identity (and comfort) outside of themselves. The cycle continues; the loneliness grows.

Learn how to heal loneliness.

  1. Acknowledge it. Loneliness simply reflects an unmet need–to establish and strengthen our relationship with our self. Why do we avoid this? Because there is pain in our subconscious stories. But the fear of the pain is usually worse than the reality. Our stories can be mined for wisdom. We’re so conditioned to “flinch” and run the other way. Stop flinching. Stop running. Just focus on how you feel. Have compassion. Loneliness feels heart-wrenching, but the physical sensation itself is usually bearable. Observe the sensation and acknowledge the pain. And you can handle it.
  2. Empathize with yourself. Humans need validation. Empathize with yourself the same way you would a friend. By observing your loneliness instead of ignoring it, you’re building a connection to your Higher Self. Say to yourself, “I see you. I feel your pain. You are not alone. I’m here. I’ll stay with you.”
  3. Skip the pity party.Don’t entertain the thoughts about people or circumstances that have let you down. Don’t think about how you’re destined to always be alone because something is wrong with you. Stay out of the story and remain in the present. Just breathe—don’t think. You don’t have to figure anything out. It doesn’t matter why or who or how. The antidote to loneliness is to establish a connection with yourself. Focus on that and the healing will begin.
  4. Make regular time and space for emotional hygiene. Solid relationships require regular investments of time, energy and respect. You can’t expect to have a thriving partnership with someone who neglects and ignores you. Be consistent. Allow yourself to cry. Or scream. Sing, rock, sway, moan. Punch a pillow. Write in a journal. Or just be still. Numbness is a feeling too. In the beginning, it may feel overwhelming because there’s a lot to process. Set a time limit to avoid plunging into a black hole. It’s okay to process in increments. But the more you practice feeling your feelings and exploring your inner world, the easier it gets. It won’t always feel so foreign! This process is as essential as going to the bathroom. Think of emotional hygiene as flushing the toilet. Do it regularly so the system doesn’t get backed up.
  5. Identify your unmet needs. Often loneliness stems from some combination of need for connection, variety, certainty, contribution, growth and significance. Consider how you have been attempting to get these needs met. What expectations have you placed on friends, family, career and activities? Expectations are resentments waiting to happen. If the people and situations you’ve chosen to meet your needs don’t have the capacity, explore other options. Accept the reality, process your disappointment and take responsibility for your own needs.

Loneliness is an emotion that signals an unmet need. It should not be ignored. Humans have a basic need to belong—to matter, to grow and to feel needed. These feelings are rooted in self-awareness and identity. If we cannot acknowledge, validate and care for ourselves, we cannot expect anyone else to understand who we are and what we need. Authentic relationships are built on a strong connection to self.  

Are you struggling with loneliness? Join my Normalize Sobriety Facebook Group to connect with me and others who are learning to be authentic and do the hard work it takes to deal with their feelings.

Why We Drink and Why it’s So Hard to Stop

Why We Drink and Why it’s So Hard to Stop

Why We Drink and Why It’s So Hard to Stop

I have a master’s degree in health coaching with a concentration in applied nutrition. And I had no idea that I was addicted to alcohol until after I stopped drinking. My addiction hid behind 1) my ability to function (things to do, places to go and people to see) and 2) the multitude of health-hacks (exercise and supplements) that I used to offset my consumption. The only clear warning light on the proverbial dashboard was that I was drinking more than seven drinks per week, which put me in the “heavy drinker” category. But that felt arbitrary. We were in the middle of a pandemic–the world was on lockdown. I was more concerned with staying sane than I was my alcohol consumption. Acting like I was okay and pretending to care was getting harder every day. Alcohol was a life-preserver that beaconed me to happy hour every night.

But then one day–as I purchased 2 bottles of Grey Goose vodka at a COVID-safe curbside liquor store/tent–my reality cracked. I had just “stocked up” last week. This wasn’t for a party. I wasn’t buying two because of a sale. The vodka would be hidden in my closet–in my secret stash. I’d drink it all. Alone.

That realization briefly tipped the scales toward common sense. I was motivated to change my trajectory. On impulse, I called AA and asked for a temporary sponsor. I bought “quit-lit” books, subscribed to podcasts, followed support groups on social media and immersed myself in the topic of sobriety. I was all-in. The withdrawal symptoms lingered for ten days. They weren’t bad. I could have pretended they weren’t there. Or that my hormones were to blame. Instead, I allowed the evidence of addiction to both mortify and motivate. As I lay awake each night, drenched in a puddle of sweat, I felt grateful that the poison was leaving my body. I wasn’t giving up alcohol, I was throwing it out. Managing the discomfort felt like an accomplishment. Sobriety is an upward spiral–you going somewhere new and fun and happy. Drinking is a downward spiral. You’re sinking and stuck and it will only get worse.

After nearly a year of sobriety, I’ve challenged most if not all of my underlying beliefs that alcohol is somehow necessary and/or beneficial. I now understand why we drink and why it is so hard to stop. It’s because we believe things about alcohol that aren’t true and ignore experiences to the contrary.

Here’s a list of my top delusions:

Lie #1: Alcohol makes you happy. Actually, just the opposite is true. The more we drink (in both a single sitting and over time), the less we are able to feel pleasure. It’s true there is an intial high. In fact, that first drink can stimulate two to ten times more dopamine than natural activities such as eating, social connection and even sex. The problem occurs over time when everyday activities feel less fulfilling by comparison. What’s more, artificially inflated levels of dopamine threaten our well-being (think: “let’s get married right now!” “take this job and shove it” or “I believe I can fly”). The brain compensates by releasing a neurotransmitter called dynorphin, which anesthetizes our perception of not only pleasure, but any emotion. As we build a tolerance to alcohol, we’re also building a tolerance to feelings of happiness, satisfaction and empathy. Research shows that our mood is lower after a drinking session than before we started. Next time you drink, see for yourself. It’s easy to observe.

Lie #2: Alcohol helps you sleep. Not really. It can help us fall asleep—but not for long. The brain releases stimulants to counter the sedative effects of the alcohol. Once the buzz/sedation wears off, stress hormones like adrenaline and cortisol linger. We often wake up once the alcohol is metabolized, unable to return to deep sleep due to agitation. Even if we stay in bed, we sleep fitfully and restlessly. Our mind races. Worse, the sleep after we “passed out” was altered—too deep. Alcohol inhibits the natural REM cycles, which are critical for mental health and overall well-being. Chronic exhaustion was one of the symptoms that motivated me to give up alcohol. I was so tired and apathetic I didn’t even want to drink anymore! Sad. Also helpful.

Lie #3: A high tolerance is a sign of a healthy liver and/or a genetic advantage. Sadly, for those of us who can drink like “professional rockstars,” tolerance is simply a sign of dependence. It’s a function of compromised brain chemistry, not superior liver function. Tolerance occurs when the brain releases dynorphin before we drink (basic Pavlovian conditioning) to ensure that we don’t get swept away in the currents of incoming alcohol-induced euphoria. We subsequently consume more alcohol because the first drink didn’t get the job done. The more we drink, the more our brain must fight the sedative effects of alcohol with cortisol and adrenaline. So, yes, thanks to high levels of stimulants coursing through the bloodstream, tolerant drinkers can walk without tripping and talk without slurring while less seasoned drinkers fall asleep under the proverbial table (they won’t fool a breathalizer though). But once the buzz wears off, feelings of agitation and anxiety are evidence of the lingering chemical warfare. FYI: periods of abstinence do not reset tolerance for long. The brain’s ability to manage alcohol consumption is learned through repetition. It’s like riding a bike. We don’t forget.

Lie #4: I’ll just have one. Maybe two. Why is moderation so hard for people who are otherwise disciplined? Because brain chemistry is stronger than willpower, especially if you are don’t know there’s a fight. The first drink of alcohol feels relaxing and even a bit euphoric as high levels of dopamine flood our system. Pleasant feelings last for about 20-30 minutes—while our blood alcohol level is rising. However, what goes up must come down. Once our BAC starts to fall and the buzz wears off, we feel agitated from the neurochemicals released to counteract the alcohol. Our subconscious does the math: that half hour of pleasure costs us 60-90 minutes of discomfort. That’s not what we deserve after the day we’ve had (awesome, awful or average—any story works). Our resolve to “just have one” waivers. We keep drinking to avoid the comedown. This explains why I tended to drink until it was time for bed. It was much easier to sleep through the discomfort. This is the crux of addiction. Once dependency is established, we don’t drink (or take any drug) to get “high.” We drink to feel normal (stop the withdrawal). Telling someone to drink less is like telling a sick person to cough less. They might be able to control it for a while. But it’s uncomfortable. It requires a lot of effort and focus. The difficulty of stopping after one is why many people (like me) find it easier to abstain from alcohol than to moderate. An intense battle of competing wills is not the definition of relaxation and/or reward for anyone.

Lie #5: Not having a reason to not drink is a sufficient reason to drink. This dangerous assumption is the double negative that put me into a downward spiral once quarantine hit. Self-imposed limits felt like a joke. I promised myself I wouldn’t drink on weeknights. But Wednesday and wine both start with “w.” That’s a sign from God. I made gin and tonics to cut back on vodka because I don’t like gin. Problem solved. Kids, dogs and Facetime meant I was never drinking alone. Legit loophole. And the suggested two-drink limit drowned in my 36-ounce Yeti. RIP moderation. I felt like a snowball rolling down a hill. WTF happened? I used to be able to have a drink and stop, and/or abstain without issue. How did a headstrong, intelligent and health-conscious person find herself unable (and unwilling) to follow the basic rules?

I now understand that regular alcohol consumption keeps the body flooded with stress hormones (to counteract alcohol’s depressive effects). There are two ways to get rid of these stress hormones: 1) feel uncomfortable as you wait for them to metabolize (which can take a week or more for heavy drinkers) or 2) have another drink. The quickest solution (to have another drink) seems logical because we don’t associate feelings of discomfort with alcohol withdrawal. We’re distracted by the belief that alcohol is relaxing so we attribute our need for another to soemthing (anything) else.

Anyone who’s drank their way through a wedding weekend has experienced the chemistry. You drink your face off on Friday night and ease into Saturday with a hair of the dog. You promise yourself to take it easy, but it’s an open bar and you don’t want to be rude. The hangover is worse on Sunday, so you swear to never drink again after a mimosa or bloody Mary. Because alcohol relieves the pain caused by alcohol. The same process is in play with even moderate drinking. Everyone who drinks on a regular basis will experience withdrawal (mild discomfort and vague uneasiness) when they abstain. This is how “I need a drink” becomes a true story.

Lie #6: There are two types of drinkers: normal and alcoholic. Anyone can become dependent on alcohol, just like anyone can become addicted to nicotine, opiates, cocaine—and caffeine and sugar. Alcohol is an addictive drug. The more you use it, the more dependent you become. While a small percentage of alcoholics end up drinking mouthwash out of a paper bag, many are high functioning. They suffer behind closed doors. I didn’t get DUIs, abuse or neglect my kids, or fail to show up for commitments. The belief (perpetuated by AA) that there’s a difference between “normies” and alcoholics prevents all of us “normal” drinkers from recognizing that we are vulnerable to dependency and addiction. The truth is that anyone can qualify for rehab. Alcoholism is an equal opportunity disease.

Lie #7: Quitting drinking means admitting to being an alcoholic. The term “alcoholic” is a cultural term not a medical diagnosis. Regardless, we now live in a create-your-own-lifestyle-brand society. Personally, I don’t consider myself an alcoholic. The label feels overly dramatic. It doesn’t describe me. Why would I start calling myself an alcoholic now that I’ve stopped drinking? That doesn’t make any sense. I’m willing to say I was an alcoholic but technically, there is no such thing. The official lexicon in the DSM 5 is person with “alcohol use disorder” (AUD), which is “characterized by an impaired ability to stop or control use despite negative consequences.” I definitely had alcohol use disorder. In hindsight, I can see how it developed over about ten years—one justified drink at a time. My ability to control my use was definitely impaired (my “shut down” switch was broken). Luckily my ability to ask for help was not impaired. Once I admitted to myself and someone else that I had a problem, the lights came on in the tunnel. The nightmare was immediately over. 

Because I was physically “healthy,” I didn’t think my drinking habits were of much consequence beyond the occasional hangover. I drank more than I cared to admit but I was clueless as to why that was a problem. I didn’t know that I had become dependant, meaning I experienced withdrawal symptoms when I wasn’t drinking. I didn’t know that my body had chronically high levels of cortisol, adrenaline and dynorphin. I just knew that I was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. Thank God my survival instincts kicked in. By the time I was through the detox, the physical sensations prompting me to drink each night (agitation, anxiety, apathy, etc.) had mostly gone away. There’s still been a lot to work through and it hasn’t been fast or easy. But forward progress of any measure feels better than the downward spiral of addiction. Freedom feels amazing.

If you’re struggling, having someone to talk to makes a huge difference. As a coach, I provide direction, support and accountability for people who want to make changes in their life. Email [email protected] for a free consulatation. 

    Thankfully Sober

    Thankfully Sober

    I just celebrated my first Thanksgiving sober. My parents, three siblings and our 13 children gathered at my brother’s home in the country, where we could social distance and stay outside (in the frigid drizzle around a smoking bonfire—not as cozy as it sounds. Thanks COVID). We told lots of jokes, ate too much food and no one fell off the roof. It was a good day.

    I prepared my dishes in advance and brought fixins for mocktails—kombucha, ginger beer and alcohol-free IPAs—so that I could participate in the ceremonial “pouring of the drinks.” To my pleasant surprise. I felt relieved to skip the alcohol this year. Family events are chaotic. Even when everything goes as planned and everyone is on their best behavior, it’s a marathon. In the past, I’d have started with mimosas, moved to cocktails, opened the first bottle of wine and volunteered to find the whiskey once the dinner dishes were cleared. I’d have titrated my intake like a professional, hydrating to stay above the buzz and accentuating the fun in my dysfunctional. All while serving food, helping with clean up and putting out fires (both real and metaphorical).

    Newly sober people wonder how to make it through the holidays without drinking. Now that I’ve done it, I have to ask—how did I manage all that chaos while intoxicated? That was exhausting! It’s been eight months since I’ve had a drink, and while I intended to keep it that way, I wondered if I’d really enjoy myself. I was delighted to discover there was no desire to escape from the people I’ve been looking forward to seeing, or to get through the day with the “assistance” of alcohol.

    I did need a few time-outs, however. So, I found space on an unoccupied porch, walked around outside and even did some snooping–no dead bodies, porn movies or falsified papers were found, but I do have some follow up questions for my brother that I will save for another time. With so many people in various places, no one missed me for a few minutes here and there. It is possible to carve out alone-time in a crowded place if you don’t count the dogs.

    Throughout the day, whenever I started to feel discombobulated, I acknowledged the sensation in the same way I would the need to use the bathroom. It was a private matter that called for healthy emotional hygiene. Alcohol isn’t a cure —it never was. In hindsight, it was actually a huge source of stress. I only needed to catch my breath, quiet my mind and give myself some room. Staying present was a strange and pleasant, albeit mildly taxing experience (meaning that it required some attention and effort). In comparison, it was far better than the alternative. I had more fun than I’ve had in a long time.

    An opportunity to share this lesson with my 16-year-old daughter presented itself. She was having fun with her cousins. They were playing Minecraft, shooting hoops, one-upping each other’s stories and Lord-only-knows what else. I hadn’t seen her all day when she pulled me aside. The tears in her eyes startled me. “Mom, do you have anything I can take for anxiety? I’m feeling really overwhelmed.”

    A year ago, I’d have rushed to my bag of supplements, essential oils and placebos. I might have even given her a swig of my wine. I still believed in external remedies for internal discomfort (and also that wine was a God-given panacea designed specifically for family gatherings). But this time, I decided to teach her how to soothe herself. As she has her learner’s permit, I offered to let her take us for a drive and listen to some music. We snuck out and hit the country roads. It worked like a charm. Within 15 minutes, we rejoined the party, both of us feeling refreshed. The bonus for me is an awesome memory of the two of us belting out Lady Gaga at the top of our lungs. We nailed it.

    I am grateful to have a family that I enjoy being around. For those who are not as lucky, however, the same approach to self-care applies. It’s about setting boundaries and respecting your limits. For some, that may require foregoing a booze-filled gathering all together. For others, it may require a smaller time slot, a sober buddy or change in venue. There is no need to negotiate agreement from other people. You do you. Let other grownups take care of themselves. The only priority is staying sober, whatever that takes.

    Sobriety is a gift, not a punishment. Drinking through the holidays is exhausting–brutilizing to both mental and physical health. Alcohol is an addictive substance that requires so much effort to control (only to fail anyway, whether anyone notices or not). This year, I didn’t have to try so hard. I had nothing to hide and no need to second guess what I was thinking, feeling or saying. I enjoyed just being—with the people I love the most—clear-headed, grateful and more energetic than I’ve felt in a long time. I’m thankfully sober . . .

     

     

    Thankfully Sober

    Thankfully Sober

    The question isn’t how to stay sober during the holidays but how we survived them intoxicated.

    What is Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome? (PAWS)

    What is Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome? (PAWS)

    Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome (PAWS) is Real

    Glossy brochures touting the joys of sobriety fail to mention a few of the not-so-sexy, real life details. I didn’t exactly expect the first few days to be fun. Just kidding. Yes, I did.

    Hello? I quit drinking! I should immediately be vibrant and well-rested, with glowing skin and the stamina of a passionate 22-year-old. Probably I’d get back to running marathons, transform my fledging coaching business into a multi-national beacon of hope and fix all the problems with all the things. If not in the first week, then in the first month (I can be reasonable). I’d listened to enough sober success stories on podcasts to know that beauty, happiness and creativity are side effects of giving up alcohol (provided you accept these gifts with humility and gratitude, of course). In my first few days sober, I dutifully attended support meetings, did some journaling, and waited for Amazon to deliver my superpowers.

    Fast-forward to Day 214. This morning, I barely made it through my workout for middle-aged moms. The instructor advised me to use my knee as a kickstand in side-plank and do low-impact jumping jacks. I swear that class was easier when I was chronically hungover (and motivated to prove to myself that I was triumphant over alcohol). And now, instead of feeling energized after the workout, I’m contemplating a nap—even though I slept 8 hours last night. Also, a deep scrutiny of the mirror shows that time is still marching (or skipping) forward. I probably look better than I did eight months ago, but I’m not a fan of the “b” in subtle. I want the “A” in awesome. And adding insult to injury, I’ve gained a few pounds.

    What the hell is going on? What is Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome? (PAWS)

    Early sobriety was difficult. I suffered from anxiety, insomnia and fatigue. But as bad as the symptoms were, they reinforced that I was doing something right. Had they not been an issue, I could have too easily decided that drinking had also not been an issue. Early sobriety required a lot of self-care, and I made peace with that. I’d been beating myself up for a long time both mentally and physically. But as weeks have turned into months, the initial withdrawal phase faded into kinda-happy-but-mostly-blah phase. I feel good. But I also feel like I’m in recovery.

    My symptoms qualify for what is known as PAWS (post-acute withdrawal syndrome). Various addiction websites say PAWS can last anywhere from a few weeks to two years. This is the bullshit in the fine print that the sobriety commercials fail to mention.  This felt unacceptable to my addictive personality, which is fueled by instant gratification. A month is a long time when you’re taking things day-by-day (or minute-by-minute). Who’s got years to deal with suboptimal performance?

    I can only hope I do. What’s the alternative? To keep drinking? Where does that option put me in two years? Even if nothing gets worse (which it would—that’s how alcohol use disorder works), the best-case scenario is that I’d still be struggling. At this point, I’m eight months closer to the life I want. Time moves fast in a slow and grueling kind of way.

    My former self would have had no tolerance for this recovery process. But the gold nugget hidden in the muck is that I’m not my former self. I had a similar realization after I had a baby (or four). There is no getting back to normal. We adjust our expectations, priorities and goals based on new needs and desires. A new normal is created one day at a time. I now liken recovery to giving birth–to me!–and my new life. For now, I’m breathing through the contractions, sleeping when the baby sleeps, and decorating my vision board with all of the wonderful things to come.

    Everyone experiences sobriety differently. But if you’re new and struggling, here’s an excerpt from my journal—Maybe it will help adjust your expectations—both good and bad.

    Day 30–Sober and Sad

    I have not forgotten the parched brain buzz that greeted me every morning for years. I do not miss feeling intoxicated in the evening or falling asleep in a stupor. The cycle of clawing my way out of a hole each morning only to slide back each evening has been broken. Now, I begin and end each day with gratitude for this perspective. Treating my body with kindness feels like a stay of execution.

    But life is not all rainbows and butterflies. It’s May 21, 2020, and we’re still under lockdown orders. A few days have been sunny and warm, but most days are dark, rainy and cold. I feel more relieved than enthusiastic about my sobriety. My energy is low, and I struggle with motivation. Thanks to my dog, I exercise every morning, but I’m not breaking any training barriers with stadium stair-laps or burpees. Consistency is my only goal. Today, after completing the bare minimum, I crawl back into bed at 1 p.m. I shouldn’t be tired. But I am tired. It feels like depression.

    I realize that it probably is depression. Not likely clinical or serious, but I ponder my history with anti-depressants anyway. They have provided short-lived reprieve in the past, but the side effects quickly outweighed any benefit—especially when combined with alcohol. Now that I’m not drinking, might they help? I’m doing everything I can to feel good—eating a whole food plant-based diet, taking handfuls of supplements, exercising, meditating, and spending time in nature. What else is there? Why do I still feel flat and lethargic?

     For the first time in a month, I consider pouring a drink. I’m home alone. No one would know. I could easily slip into my old routine—grant myself a reprieve—take the night off. I allow myself to consider the possibility—play it through. Thankfully, I have run that experiment countless times and have lots of data to show the hypothesis is false. The only thing that I truly crave is the fraudulent promise—the potential in the pour. I do not actually want to feel drunk. Drinking when I feel low does not produce a high. And it’s way too soon to forget the hangover.

    But I’m still depressed. And bored. I need to do something to fix that. Until. I remember Glennon Doyle’s words in Untamed. She says that all feelings are meant to be felt. We are taught to pursue happiness as though no other emotion has merit. But it’s okay–necessary–to feel all the feelings. She notes that in reality, many of our painful feelings don’t actually hurt worse than a paper cut. I check in with myself. Does this depression hurt as bad as a paper cut?

    I scan my body. The melancholy feels a bit heavy, but my movements are unencumbered. I can still raise my arms above my head, so that’s good. Thoughts of loneliness bring tears to my eyes, but the sting is more like a minor itch and they don’t even fall. Sadness is a pinch of pressure around my heart, but my tennis elbow hurts worse. So, all things considered, the sensations of my depression do not, in fact, hurt worse than a paper cut.

    That’s useful information. I decide that I can handle this feeling of depression. I make a mocktail, grab some dark chocolate and salty pistachios, and flip on Netflix. I turn on the fireplace, burrow under a blanket and invite the dog onto the couch. Turns out, she’s feeling depressed too and misery loves company. She extends the same grace to the two cats who join us in the covers. We all stay that way until 10 p.m. Then, I wipe the crumbs from my shirt, brush the dog and cat fur off the couch and call it a day.

    It wasn’t a great day, but it sure as hell wasn’t a bad day. I could fill several pages in my gratitude journal. I learned (or remembered–I forget) that resisting difficult things is far worse than just leaning in. And feeling depressed under the influence of sobriety is far better than the alternative.

    That was 185 days ago. (Yes, I’m counting)

    The disappointing news for those of you on a sobriety journey is that I still have days like that. The good news is that they are fewer and farther between, with shiny bursts of productivity sprinkled among the doldrums. The lows are getting higher. My life is like a sepia-toned photograph with spots of color being added each day.

    Symptoms of PAWS are cyclical (meaning they come and go in waves). What do the symptoms cycle around and what triggers the symptoms? No one seems to know. It’s not likely female hormones, as men experience post-acute withdrawal syndrome too. Maybe it’s stress? The moon? Karma? Whatever– I’m don’t particularly care. My curiosity tends to coincide with aforementioned doldrums.

    Suffice it to say that when the symptoms come, as they did today, I spend a little time trying to decide which doctor/specialist to call as there must be something seriously wrong with my physical or mental health (or both). Then I realize it could also just be a rerun episode of Groundhog Day. So I try to relax, do my best and focus on my progress. PAWS is a sign that the brain is recalibrating. We can trust the process, even if we don’t understand it. This too shall pass.

    Symptoms of Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome (PAWS)

    Detoxing from an addictive substance often includes acute symptoms like muscle ache, nausea, headache, increased heart rate, the shakes, agitation, sweating and insomnia. For heavy drinkers, this usually lasts 3-10 days. Severe addicts need medical supervision as detox can trigger seizures, hallucinations and delirium tremens (DTs).

    Long-term recovery begins once the withdrawal process ends (as in, you’re not done, you’re just getting started). Some impairments persist for months and even years. According to Hazelden/Betty Ford, symptoms include:

    • Foggy thinking/trouble remembering/impaired focus
    • Urges and cravings
    • Irritability or hostility
    • Sleep disturbances—insomnia or vivid dreams
    • Fatigue
    • Issues with fine motor coordination
    • Stress sensitivity
    • Anxiety or panic
    • Depression
    • Lack of initiative
    • Mood Swings

    Navigating early sobriety is analogous to paying down credit card debt. The first step towards freedom is to stop charging to the account. Then reduce expenses and pay down the balance. This requires an uncomfortable adjustment in the budget and an honest evaluation of needs versus wants. Expect to alternate between feeling deprived and feeling liberated.  The process is the same with PAWS. When we were drinking, we used alcohol to soothe our discomfort. Developing new coping skills takes time and effort. Moving away from instant gratification is a long-term strategy that requires us to learn how to manage short-term discomfort.

    Instant Gratification undermines post-acute withdrawal syndrome.

    Turning to sugar, caffeine and nicotine is a natural instinct when attempting to manage our mood. Unfortunately, addictive substitutes reinforce the cycle of cravings and ultimately undermine sobriety. The best offense in PAWS is to eat a nutrient-dense diet and avoid junk food. This is way easier said than done in a crisis. There is wisdom in the adage, “quit the addiction that is killing you the fastest.” When faced with a powerful craving, is it better to eat ice cream or smoke a cigarette than to take a drink? Of course.

    However, it’s important to understand what’s happening on a biochemical level. Mood and cravings are a function of brain chemistry. Habitual alcohol consumption causes dysfunction of endorphins, serotonin, dopamine and other “feel good” neurotransmitters. It takes time for the brain to recalibrate. A balanced diet and a variety of supplements will accelerate the process and reduce the symptoms. Most recovery programs do not include nutritional support. Those that do have a 75 percent recovery rate, versus the 25 percent typical of A.A.

    I found two books that explain this missing link, with detailed suggestions for specific symptoms. Check out Seven Weeks to Sobriety: The Proven Program to Fight Alcoholism Through Nutrition by Joan Mathews Larson, PhD., and The Mood Cure by Julia Ross.

    When I quit drinking, my diet was already about as clean as it gets. I take vitamins and supplements. Regardless, I suddently had cravings for sugar and struggled to avoid foods that haven’t been a problem for me in years. After reading Mathews-Larson and Ross’s books, I paused my intermittent fasting regime and started eating a high protein breakfast. That helped. I also started taking 5-HTP, tyrosine, GABA and glutamate twice a day. This decision was based on my symptoms. You need to do your own homework. My general recommendation to anyone would be to take a multivitamin, eat as many fruits and vegetables as possible, and check out those websites and books.

    Nutrition and supplements are no more an overnight cure than recovery meetings. But they are just as essential if you want to thrive in sobriety. PAWS is manageable. The most helpful thing is to remember that the lows get fewer and farther between. Accept them as part of the process and practice self-care. Rinse and repeat, one day at a time. Practice gratitude for bursts of clarity and joy. You will get through this and it is so worth it!

    [I’m adding this addendum at 19 months sober. After getting certified as a professional recovery coach, I started Recovery University — check out the fabulous community of women supporting each other in this process. You don’t have to do this alone! Also, here’s a link to a video I produced about PAWS, and another that addresses the impact of SSRIs and supplements for post-acute withdrawal syndrome.

    Thankfully Sober

    Thankfully Sober

    The question isn’t how to stay sober during the holidays but how we survived them intoxicated.

    There is No “M” in Sober

    There is No “M” in Sober

    My alcohol-free journey is unfolding in beautiful and simple ways, right in the middle of the day-to-day difficulties of life (during a pandemic). I’m moving at an intentionally slow pace. Most days, I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing much. But when I look back over the last eight months, I see how far I’ve come on all fronts. I used to hit the day running, trying to accomplish more before breakfast than other people can in an entire day (intermittent fasting until noon was my cheat). The need to prove myself was harsh and fueled by anxiety–a direct consequence of my alcohol use. Now, I prefer a slow start: checking in with myself; setting intentions for the day; honoring my space; focusing on gratitude and peace and hope.

    Life is so much easier without the chaos in my brain and body—the below-surface chaos I didn’t even realize was there until it was gone. The fact that I no longer need or want to drink still shocks me—into smiling. I don’t ever want to go back there. I’m coming to terms with the fact that I was a full-blown addict, disguised as a busy mom and super-healthy health coach. It snuck up on me. “Did it?” You might ask. “Really? How sneaky was it?” Well, we all know hindsight owns the market in the obvious. But for a long time, I was a naïve little frog in a pot of warm water, enjoying a glass of wine after a rough day. I failed to accept the water had started to boil, the entire bottle was gone (again), and I didn’t have the strength to jump out.

    Why did it take me so long to break free? I don’t shy away from hard things—especially when they are clearly within my ability. Technically speaking, not drinking doesn’t require a specialized skill set. I’ve run marathons (with a hangover), learned to open water SCUBA dive and breastfed a baby while potty training a toddler and functioning on no sleep. Pushing through pain is my thing. What was I so afraid of?

    Let me try to articulate my fear.

    I was afraid of cutting off my supply. If I admitted there was a problem, it’s a forgone conclusion that I should stop buying alcohol. Maybe even stop drinking it too. That’s a non-action I didn’t want to be forced into. I was afraid to lose control and in denial of the fact that I had already lost control. Every day, I cycled between the tension-building and honeymoon phases of an abusive relationship. I didn’t want to move forward because I was so focused on going back—back to a time when I could take it or leave it, set limits and act in my own best interest. Back to a time when I could drink and feel happy. Back to a time before it all seemed pointless. Back to a time when I followed my own rules. I wanted to control my drinking, not stop drinking. Cutting off my supply of alcohol would also cut off my identity. I was a drinker, not a quitter. I had to make my relationship with alcohol work.

    I had FOMO—fear of missing out. I was afraid that life wouldn’t be fun anymore—that I wouldn’t be fun anymore. My pronouns are she/her and I identify as a party girl. I believed, as so many of us do, that alcohol eases anxiety and promotes relaxation. Certainly, I felt better after the first sip. Just one sip opened the valve and released the pressure that had been building all day. That first sip had become the highlight of my day. I’ve since learned that alcohol jacks our brains with so much (feel good) dopamine that a counter assault of (feel bad) cortisol and adrenaline is launched in response. This is why regular drinkers have trouble enjoying social functions without their drug of choice. They need a shot of euphoria to balance the drag. (Both of which are a function of brain chemicals and not objective reality.) The process of chasing a buzz forges a connection between drinkers—the conundrum and the cure. I didn’t want to forfeit my sense of belonging with the other problem solvers.

    I was afraid of change. The rut I was in still qualified as a comfort zone. What would be left if I quit drinking? What would I hold in my hands? How would I calm my busy brain? How could I have a pleasant conversation without a bit of a bump? What would I laugh about? What would I focus on? The irony was that life had already changed. My mental and emotional state was chaotic. I wasn’t connecting with people. I hadn’t laughed in a long time. I couldn’t focus on anything but the next drink. Alcohol was once paired with friends, food and fun. Now it was a futile ritual conducted mostly alone. Drinking had sapped all of my energy. The thought of figuring out how to not drink was exhausting. Drinking was easier. Until it wasn’t.

    Quitting required a hard stop. Anyone who has tried knows that attempting to drink less doesn’t usually fix the problem. It’s like people who eat less and lose a bunch of weight, only to end up heavier a year later. Because they are hungry. Maybe thirsty too. Willpower is not an effective strategy if you still want what you can’t have. You’ve got to rewire your brain and learn to want something else. A hard stop induces discomfort—often so much that it proves to be impossible to do alone. It requires an alcoholic to do what an alcoholic stopped doing a long time ago—admit there’s a problem, ask for help, and surrender the supply.

    Teetering on the edge of the decision is brutal. It’s feels as overwhelming as that hiker who must cut off his own arm to free himself. Except it’s not. You just have to put down the drink. You can keep your arm.

    Early sobriety is no picnic either. I tried to experience every symptom of withdrawal and detox as confirmation that quitting was necessary. The charade was over and I was heading home—to myself. When I lay awake at night, soaking my sheets with night sweats, I felt gratitude to have escaped. When I couldn’t focus during the day and was too exhausted to do much of anything, I gave myself permission to rest. I let things go, I called in sick and I didn’t apologize for taking care of myself.

    Honestly, I did beat myself up more than I’m acknowledging. But my primary focus from the beginning was to stop doing that. Self-care is not self-indulgent. When I was drinking, I kept going at all costs, hiding my pain and problems. Admitting them might have implicated the alcohol, and my addiction could not allow for that. I blamed others where I could, but I mostly kept quiet in my suffering because I suspected that alcoholism might be the problem.

    It feels amazing to finally be able to admit that alcoholism was my problem. That took a minute. It started with a silent surrender. And for months, it was at most a whispered agreement. Now it’s a roar. I still feel some shame, but I’m hitting the override button. Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s action despite the fear. My aversions to somberness have proven to be unfounded. There’s no “m” in sober. It hasn’t been easy, but it sure beats drinking myself into mental and physical isolation and agitation.

    Sobriety programs usually include making amends. I was eager to make whatever apologies necessary, purging my shit once and for all.  However, I’ve realized that the first apology—my primary amend—would be to me. I have hurt, denied, betrayed, neglected and wronged myself. I own that without shame because it’s my truest story. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gone there. Feeling whole and empowered, I can now acknowledge the hurt I’ve caused (myself and others) and take action—which is the only amend that really counts.

    Are you struggling with sobriety? Maybe I can help. I have an MS in health coaching with applied nutrition and a professional recovery coach certification. I’m also 47 years old and dealing with and learning about midlife hormone issues, which make everything more difficult. If you want support, email me at [email protected] to schedule a free consultation. 

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