Writers On The Edge: 22 Writers Speak About Addiction and Dependency

By Diana M. Raab and James Brown

Writers On The Edge offers a range of essays, memoirs and poetry written by major contemporary authors who bring fresh insight into the dark world of addiction, from drugs and alcohol, to sex, gambling and food. Editors Diana Raab and James Brown have assembled an array of talented and courageous writers who share their stories with heartbreaking honesty as they share their obsessions as well as the awe-inspiring power of hope and redemption.
"Open to any piece in this collection, and the scalding, unflinching, overwhelming truths within will shine light on places most people never look. Anyone who reads this book, be they users or used, will put it down changed. And when they raise their eyes from the very last page, the world they see may be redeemed, as well." --Jerry Stahl, author of Permanent Midnight
"Writers On The Edge is a thoughtful compendium of first-person narratives by writers who have managed to use their despair to create beauty. A must-read for anyone in the recovery field." -- Leonard Buschel Founder, Writers in Treatment
CONTRIBUTORS: John Amen, Frederick & Steven Barthelme, Kera Bolonik, Margaret Bullitt-Jonas, Maud Casey, Anna David, Denise Duhamel, B.H. Fairchild, Ruth Fowler, David Huddle Perie Longo, Gregory Orr, Victoria Patterson, Molly Peacock, Scott Russell Sanders, Stephen Jay Schwartz, Linda Gray Sexton, Sue William Silverman, Chase Twichell, Rachel Yoder
About the Editors
Diana M. Raab, an award-winning memoirist and poet, is author of six books including Healing With Words and Regina's Closet. She's an advocate of the healing power of writing and teaches nation-wide workshops and in the UCLA Extension Writers' Program.
James Brown, a recovering alcoholic and addict, is the author of the memoirs, The Los Angeles Diaries and This River. He is Professor of English in the M.F.A. Program in Creative Writing at California State University, San Bernardino.
From the Reflections of America Series
Self-Help: Substance Abuse and Addictions--General

• Language: English
• Publisher: Modern History Press
• Release date: Feb 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781615991297

Book preview

PREFACE

Use the word addiction and the first images that come to mind are ones of pills, powders, needles, crack pipes, and bottles of booze. Most of us might picture a homeless man staggering down the street clutching a brown paper bag in one hand, or a bone-thin junkie with a syringe dangling from his arm.

But times have changed.

Minus the severe physical, potentially life-threatening withdrawal symptoms of the alcoholic or narcotics addict, today’s definition of addiction includes all kinds of compulsive behavior. Gambling. Sex. Overeating. Even love. Chronic depression and suicide also fit neatly into the subject, for it is hard, if not unwise, to separate them from the conversation, given that as often as not they most certainly feed into the same tributary.

Writers On The Edge challenges the traditional boundaries of the term addiction to include the two most basic elements that define it: obsession and the compulsion to self-destruct. And what distinguishes this book from so many others on the subject is that it is written by well-published writers and poets who have been there, on the edge, who know the hellish terrain of addiction, obsession and mental illness, and through their art take us to those dark places with them. Some discover light at the end of the tunnel. Others do not.

The causes of addiction have been identified as genetic, physical and spiritual. Addiction, for many, is the result of an attempt to cover up psychic, emotional or physical pain, and in some cases reflects an unconscious and non-violent form of suicide. According to psychologist Stanislav Grof, the deepest force behind alcoholism and addiction is an unrecognized and perhaps misguided craving for tran-scendence. Thus, it could be thought that the writers in this collection are searching for something beyond what readily meets the eye. As complicated as the subject may seem, the message is simple. There are those who by whatever means necessary will turn their lives around and survive as a result, and others whose obsessions will consume them. Those chosen for this anthology skillfully articulate their personal struggles, triumphs, and failures, presenting poignant perspectives for reflection, concern and acknowledgement of addiction and its associated issues.

In Scott Russell Sanders‘ classic essay, Under the Influence, we witness the slow, painful disintegration of Sanders’ alcoholic father. It is a story of a father and son, and their unrealized love, stunted if not destroyed by alcoholism.

For Chase Twichell‘s Toys in the Attic, the journey takes us deep into the psyche of the chronically depressed, having lived for fifteen years with psychoactive drugs in my brain, among them Ambien, Celexa, Desyrel, Effexor, Elavil, Pamelor, Paxil, Serzone, Traivil, Valium, Wellbutrin, and Xanax. The goal is to stabilize mood rather than heighten or distort it as one does with alcohol and narcotics. But how do these psychotropic drugs affect consciousness? And how, in turn, does a consciousness altered by these drugs influence Twichell’s poetry, which she describes as the ultimate art of self-annihilation?

Add to the mix Pretty Red Stripes by Linda Gray Sexton (daughter of the late poet Anne Sexton, who committed suicide), and you have a stunningly graphic account of that obsessive, destructive practice known as cutting. Like a drug, drawing a razor through one’s skin brings to some, a sense of relief, pleasure, and release. It’s a way of letting the poison out, Sexton writes, To bleed is a way of knowing you’re alive.

That same need for knowing you’re alive segues smoothly into Sue William Silverman‘s book excerpt, Last Day Out, on sex addiction. The need, the compulsion, the obsession for a heightened sense of pleasure once again crosses the line between what society considers normal versus abnormal behavior. Here is a woman who feels marriage a mundane institution in which she can never be content, and so feels compelled to regularly engage in one night stands with strange men for what she refers to as a need to be loved.

In The Doppler Effect, renowned poet B.H. Fairchild masterfully captures the essence of the unspoken sadness and self-alienation drinkers feel simply sitting in a darkened bar, wondering why they are there, and if not realizing, at least coming to suppose that belonging of any sort is at best perhaps an illusion.

We join and honor the other fine writers and poets in this collection, including, John Amen, Frederick and Steven Barthelme, Kera Bolonik, Maud Casey, Anna David, Denise Duhamel, Ruth Fowler, David Huddle, Margaret Bullitt-Jonas, Gregory Orr, Victoria Patterson, Molly Peacock, Perie Longo, Stephen Jay Schwartz, and Rachel Yoder. They all follow in the great, though unfortunate tradition of their literary predecessors. Charles Baudelaire. Edgar Allen Poe. Jack London. Ernest Hemingway. F. Scott Fitzgerald. William Styron. Dorothy Parker. Virginia Wolff. Raymond Carver. Tennessee Williams. Eugene O’Neil. Jean Rhys. Truman Capote. The list of alcoholic, drug addicted, suicidal, chronically depressed and mentally ill writers goes on and on. But don’t be misled. Though some might consider these afflictions simply an occupational hazard of being an artist, for each name here there are dozens of others who have lived healthy, clean and sober lives and produced great works.

It is hoped that this anthology will be helpful to all artistic personalities who wish to gain a stronger sense of how their colleagues navigate their way through addiction, mental illness, suicide, and other obsessive, self-destructive behaviors. These battles are not fought alone and perhaps these stories will also provide insight and hope to all those and their loved ones struggling with some form of addiction and its inevitable consequences.

~ Diana M. Raab and James Brown,

Editors

WRITING FOR LIFE

Perie Longo

On the edge

he signs his name

with a skid mark

voice a hollow drum

willow without stretch of deer skin

to bring the rain.

Having been on the edge ourselves,

the long way down—or up—

either way barely bearable

we hide behind neatly dressed words.

He writes in such a jumble

(word salad

with blood dressing)

no one understands but that’s the whole idea.

Last time someone figured it out

he was sent down the river

(figure of speech) to get his head screwed on

straight

straight

straight

locked in a room

full of curve balls.

I just wanted to stand out, he says

slinging up the umbrella of his misfortune.

"As if your nails are trying to hang

onto the sky?" I ask (up talk it’s called).

He laughs a cry,

his strong hand over his wet, pale cheek.

Curse the screw of chemicals

that leave who we love tweaked

and double crossed.

UNDER THE INFLUENCE

Scott Russell Sanders

My

father drank. He drank as a gut-punched boxer gasps for breath, as a starving dog gobbles food—compulsively, secretly, in pain and trembling. I use the past tense not because he ever quit drinking but because he quit living. That is how the story ends for my father, age sixty-four, heart bursting, body cooling and forsaken on the linoleum of my brother’s trailer. The story continues for my brother, my sister, my mother, and me, and it will continue so long as memory holds.

In the perennial present of memory, I slip into the garage or barn to see my father tipping back the flat green bottles of wine, the brown cylinders of whiskey, the cans of beer disguised in paper bags. His Adam’s apple bobs, the liquid gurgles, he wipes the sandy-haired back of a hand over his lips, and then, his bloodshot gaze bumping into me, he stashes the bottle or can inside his jacket, under the workbench, between two bales of hay, and we both pretend the moment has not occurred.

What’s up, buddy? he says, thick-tongued and edgy.

Sky’s up, I answer, playing along.

And don’t forget prices, he grumbles. Prices are always up. And taxes.

In memory, his white 1951 Pontiac with the stripes down the hood and the Indian head on the snout jounces to a stop in the driveway; or it is the 1956 Ford station wagon, or the 1963 Rambler shaped like a toad, or the sleek 1969 Bonneville that will do 120 miles per hour on straightaways; or it is the robin’s-egg blue pickup, new in 1980, battered in 1981, the year of his death. He climbs out, grinning dangerously, unsteady on his legs, and we children interrupt our game of catch, our building of snow forts, our picking of plums, to watch in silence as he weaves past into the house, where he slumps into his overstuffed chair and falls asleep. Shaking her head, our mother stubs out the cigarette he has left smoldering in the ashtray. All evening, until our bedtimes, we tiptoe past him, as past a snoring dragon. Then we curl in our fearful sheets, listening. Eventually he wakes with a grunt, Mother slings accusations at him, he snarls back, she yells, he growls, their voices clashing. Before long, she retreats to their bedroom, sobbing—not from the blows of fists, for he never strikes her, but from the force of words.

Left alone, our father prowls the house, thumping into furniture, rummaging in the kitchen, slamming doors, turning the pages of the newspaper with a savage crackle, muttering back at the late-night drivel from television. The roof might fly off, the walls might buckle from the pressure of his rage. Whatever my brother and sister and mother may be thinking on their own rumpled pillows, I lie there hating him, loving him, fearing him, knowing I have failed him. I tell myself he drinks to ease an ache that gnaws at his belly, an ache I must have caused by disappointing him somehow, a murderous ache I should be able to relieve by doing all my chores, earning A’s in school, winning baseball games, fixing the broken washer and the burst pipes, bringing in money to fill his empty wallet. He would not hide the green bottles in his tool box, would not sneak off to the barn with a lump under his coat, would not fall asleep in the daylight, would not roar and fume, would not drink himself to death, if only I were perfect.

I am forty-two as I write these words, and I know full well that my father was an alcoholic, a man consumed by disease rather than by disappointment. What had seemed to me a private grief is in fact a public scourge. In the United States alone, some ten or fifteen million people share his ailment, and behind the doors they slam in fury or disgrace, countless other children tremble. I comfort myself with such knowledge, holding it against the throb of memory like an ice pack against a bruise. There are keener sources of grief: poverty, racism, rape, war. I do not wish to compete for a trophy in suffering. I am only trying to understand the corrosive mixture of helplessness, responsibility, and shame that I learned to feel as the son of an alcoholic. I realize now that I did not cause my father’s illness, nor could I have cured it. Yet for all this grown-up knowledge, I am still ten years old, my own son’s age, and as that boy I struggle in guilt and confusion to save my father from pain.

* * *

Consider a few of our synonyms for drunk: tipsy, tight, pickled, soused, and plowed; stoned and stewed, lubricated and inebriated, juiced and sluiced; three sheets to the wind, in your cups, out of your mind, under the table; lit up, tanked up, wiped out; besotted, blotto, bombed, and buzzed; plastered, polluted, putrefied; loaded or looped, boozy, woozy, fuddled, or smashed; crocked and shit-faced, corked and pissed, snockered and sloshed.

It is a mostly humorous lexicon, as the lore that deals with drunks—in jokes and cartoons, in plays, films, and television skits—is largely comic. Aunt Matilda nips elderberry wine from the sideboard and burps politely during supper. Uncle Fred slouches to the table glassy-eyed, wearing a lampshade for a hat and murmuring, Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker. Inspired by cocktails, Mrs. Somebody recounts the events of her day in a fuzzy dialect, while Mr. Somebody nibbles her ear and croons a bawdy song. On the sofa with Boyfriend, Daughter giggles, licking gin from her lips, and loosens the bows in her hair. Junior knocks back some brews with his chums at the Leopard Lounge and stumbles home to the wrong house, wonders foggily why he cannot locate his pajamas, and crawls naked into bed with the ugliest girl in school. The family dog slurps from a neglected martini and wobbles to the nursery, where he vomits in Baby’s shoe.

It is all great fun. But if in the audience you notice a few laughing faces turn grim when the drunk lurches on stage, don’t be surprised, for these are the children of alcoholics. Over the grinning mask of Dionysus, the leering mask of Bacchus, these children cannot help seeing the bloated features of their own parents. Instead of laughing, they wince, they mourn. Instead of celebrating the drunk as one freed from constraints, they pity him as one enslaved. They refuse to believe in vino veritas, having seen their befuddled parents skid away from truth toward folly and oblivion. And so these children bite their lips until the lush staggers into the wings.

My father, when drunk, was neither funny nor honest; he was pathetic, frightening, deceitful. There seemed to be a leak in him somewhere, and he poured in booze to keep from draining dry. Like a torture victim who refuses to squeal, he would never admit that he had touched a drop, not even in his last year, when he seemed to be dissolving in alcohol before our very eyes. I never knew him to lie about anything, ever, except about this one ruinous fact. Drowsy, clumsy, unable to fix a bicycle tire, throw a baseball, balance a grocery sack, or walk across the room, he was stripped of his true self by drink. In a matter of minutes, the contents of a bottle could transform a brave man into a coward, a buddy into a bully, a gifted athlete and skilled carpenter and shrewd businessman into a bumbler. No dictionary of synonyms for drunk would soften the anguish of watching our prince turn into a frog.

* * *

Father’s drinking became the family secret. While growing up, we children never breathed a word of it beyond the four walls of our house. To this day, my brother and sister rarely mention it, and then only when I press them. I did not confess the ugly, bewildering fact to my wife until his wavering walk and slurred speech forced me to. Recently, on the seventh anniversary of my father’s death, I asked my mother if she ever spoke of his drinking to friends. No, no, never, she replied hastily. I couldn’t bear for anyone to know.

The secret bores under the skin, gets in the blood, into the bone, and stays there. Long after you have supposedly been cured of malaria, the fever can flare up, the tremors can shake you. So it is with the fevers of shame. You swallow the bitter quinine of knowledge, and you learn to feel pity and compassion toward the drinker. Yet the shame lingers in your marrow, and, because of the shame, anger.

* * *

For a long stretch of my childhood we lived on a military reservation in Ohio, an arsenal where bombs were stored underground in bunkers and vintage airplanes burst into flames and unstable artillery shells boomed nightly at the dump. We had the feeling, as children, that we played in a minefield, where a heedless footfall could trigger an explosion. When Father was drinking, the house, too, became a minefield. The least bump could set off either parent.

The more he drank, the more obsessed Mother became with stopping him. She hunted for bottles, counted the cash in his wallet, sniffed at his breath. Without meaning to snoop, we children blundered left and right into damning evidence. On afternoons when he came home from work sober, we flung ourselves at him for hugs, and felt against our ribs the telltale lump in his coat. In the barn we tumbled on the hay and heard beneath our sneakers the crunch of buried glass. We tugged open a drawer in his workbench, looking for screwdrivers or crescent wrenches, and spied a gleaming six-pack among the tools. Playing tag, we darted around the house just in time to see him sway on the rear stoop and heave a finished bottle into the woods. In his good night kiss we smelled the cloying sweetness of Clorets, the mints he chewed to camouflage his dragon’s breath.

I can summon up that kiss right now by recalling Theodore Roethke’s lines about his own father:

The whiskey on your breath

Could make a small boy dizzy;

But I hung on like death:

Such waltzing was not easy.

Such waltzing was hard, terribly hard, for with a boy’s scrawny arms I was trying to hold my tipsy father upright.

For years, the chief source of those incriminating bottles and cans was a grimy store a mile from us, a cinder block place called Sly’s, with two gas pumps outside and a moth-eaten dog asleep in the window. A strip of flypaper, speckled the year round with black bodies, coiled in the doorway. Inside, on rusty metal shelves or in wheezing coolers, you could find pop and Popsicles, cigarettes, potato chips, canned soup, raunchy

Reviews for Writers On The Edge

[tristaz-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Writers On The Edge is filled with emotional and eye opening stories from people in first person! First person is when they write about themselves, which is often hard to do, especially when it deals with addictions. As with any addiction, one can never be 100% recovered. There is going to be a little demon or often real life demon people who try to break ones strength. After reading quite a few of the various authors stories, I understand how difficult it was for them to sit down and write. One way I try to get my students to get their emotions out is through writing. We often do 'Fictional' writing, but I am often encountered with stories that are non-fiction and from his/her own life when we are finished. I accept it because it is a way for them to get their thoughts and feelings out when their mouths can not express it. I give great thanks to the authors who used their strength to give others and to provide such a eye-opening read. Often in the world people say 'those addicts' but really they do not understand the background or struggles that are happening on the inside and outside of that person they are calling an 'addict.' For all those people I highly recommend reading this book - get out of your colorful world and realize it does include some darkness.

[nadia.w · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

If your interested in learning a little bit of what goes on the minds of those with addictions or mental health issues, Writers On The Edge is a good place to start. It gives you a glimpse of many addictions and mental health afflictions. You hear from the dependent or sick person, instead of from the medical professional's, clinical point of view. Writers On The Edge by Diana M. Raab and James Brown, editors, 2012.Although I'm not a huge fan of excerpts, I really enjoyed the various author's personal stories & poems. Many of the excerpts made me want to go and find the original full story to read and enjoy. The poetry, although just as deep, was a needed relief from the stark reality of the author's sometimes disturbing experiences.I also enjoyed the glimpse of times gone by from many of the storytellers. Many of them growing up in the 50's and 60's with addicted or mentally ill family members. Being able to see the difference in how families and society dealt with addiction, when there really wasn't a word for addiction.I also liked the variances in addiction & dependency. From the well known addiction to alcohol to the over-eater to the mentally ill. And of course some of the many reasons why people become addicted. Whether it is genetics, a way to get some relief from their personal demons or simply just for fun.There were 2 stories that hit home and made me feel as though I wanted to read the stories in their entirety.The first was, A Better Place To Live, by Maud Casey. This excerpt was about Maud Casey and her battle with depression. Part of a line that struck me was "Being depressed felt like living in a corpse", (pg. 117). Perfect in the sense that it was a description that has eluded many people in the past. One sentence tells it all.The second was from the memoir, Instructions On The Use Of Alcohol by James Brown. I loved how he wrote as though he was a third party observer. Instead of as the person who went through the drug addiction. In opinion, it could have been a way for him to write honestly or authentically. Writing as an observer may have been easier than writing and therefore having to relive his addictions again?Excellent book!

[busymommylist · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I gave this book 5 stars for the courage behind each author as they so imtimately detailed every part of their addiction for the rest of the world to read and understand a bit better.This book will possibly help many others who have to deal with and cope with addictions, whether their own, or a friend or family member.

[dwgodby_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

"Writers on the Edge" is a book compiled by stories of 22 different writers and their stories of various addictions and struggles they have encountered within their life. While the purpose of the book is very good, I didn't feel most of the stories were well written. There were a few stories that really were gripping and very helpful as I was allowed into their life to see their story. In these few instances it was as though I felt the pain they felt and was drawn to reach out and try to help them overcome the problems they were facing.With that being said, I do feel for anyone facing depression, battling alcohol, drugs, pornography, sexual addiction, suicide, etc... This would be a very good book to help you understand that you alone and that you can find strength and courage from the pages of this book. This would be a good resource to use in counseling and addict groups. Many of the stories were very insightful just not written in a way that I found the most helpful. I do appreciate what the editors have tried to accomplish in putting this book together and hope that people from all walks of life receive help from its material.I received this book from Review the Book for my honest evaluation.

[hrotenberry-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As I started reading the first story, I couldn't believe how much it reminded me of the people in my life that have struggled with addiction. Reading Scott Russell Sanders' story quickly reminded me of my birth father, who was my dad for 14 years until my parents divorced. Then his addiction kept him away from us kids. He came to my high school graduation for approximately 5 minutes and I never saw him again. He died in January 2010 from excessive drinking. The thing he couldn't give up is what killed him.My ex-husband is a drug addict. He was great at hiding it and lead a double life. To the outside world he was "the most genuine guy you'd ever meet". But on the inside he was a raging inferno spinning dangerously out of control due to his addiction to cocaine and crack. Although I never saw him do drugs, I did feel the effects of his addiction, which in turn caused me to be the "saver". It was my mission in life to save him... to cover up for him... to hide his mistakes from everyone, which just made it worse. I had become an enabler. And didn't even know that what I was doing was harmful.This book hit close to home and anyone dealing with addiction, knows someone dealing with addiction, or wants to read the inspiring, insightful stories of addicts or loved ones of addicts must read this book. As an avid creative writer myself, it has inspired me to write my own series on my blog about alcoholism, drug addiction, enabling and co-dependency.This book moved me, more than I ever thought possible and brought back a lot of memories from a past life that is painful yet needs to be remembered so I can teach my children the dangers of addiction and how terribly it can destroy your life in a heartbeat.

[kimberlysthoughts · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Diana M. Raab picked the perfect title for this book. In this book you will find the stories, or poems of 22 writers, who either fought addiction, or was a victim of somebody who was fighting addiction. Either way it’s a long journey to the end and some scars stick with you for life.These writers faced addictions in so many different ways, addiction doesn’t mean only drugs and alcohol, it can be sexual, gambling, cutting, to food and so much more. You would be surprised just what and how easy you can be addicted to something. These writers bear their souls and share their fight or the fight of their loved ones to reach recovery, if they are lucky. Even recovery is a constant battle they have to fight every day, just one slip and it’s back to the start, to do it all over again.Each writer’s story or poem is a look into their deepest, darkest feelings and emotions, their never talked about inner secrets about how they each fought their own personal demons.Writers on the Edge was well written with the truth of how addiction can affect the person fighting it and the loved ones watching it. This book is a must read for everybody, regardless if you have never fought addiction. I can’t think of many people who hasn’t known somebody who had an addiction, whether they admit it or not, this is as the most honest look into the effects of addiction and how the road to redemption is a long haul, but worth every single step. After reading this book, it’s like somebody took the blindfold off my eyes and showed me what it’s like to be in their shoes, to feel their pain and to be careful, before I ever think I have the right to judge again.I think it’s a book that is for everybody to read, you may not know anybody who has an addiction, but you never know when you might meet somebody who has one, or a child living with somebody who has.

[billyburgess · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Addiction and depression can consume anyone, even us writers. From Modern History Press comes a bold new book Writers on the Edge, where 22 writers speak about their own addiction and dependencies. Editors Diana Raab, award-winning memoirist and poet, and James Brown, author and Professor of English in the M.F.A. Program in Creative Writing at California State University, San Bernardino, has complied together memories, poetry, and essays by contemporary authors who bring a new truthful edge with the world of addiction. Writes on the Edge is bravely written from first-person narratives from authors/writers such as Rachel Yoder; Chase Twichell; Sue William Silverman; Linda Gray Sexton; Stephen Jay Schwartz; Scott Russell Sanders; Molly Peacock; Victoria Patterson; Gregory Orr; Perie Longo; David Huddle; Ruth Fowler; B.H Fairchild; Denise Duhamel; Anna David; Maud Casey; Margaret Bullitt-Jonas; Kera Bolonik; and Frederick & Stephen Barthelme. Each segment deals with the author’s addiction, from drugs and alcohol, to sex, gambling, food, etc. Each author in Writers on the Edge passionately and emotionally wrote their true story. There is heartbreak, honesty, and courage in every written piece. I recommend it to all writers & readers.

[cmahan-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

In Writers on the Edge, 22 writers speak out about addiction and dependency. Because I do consider myself a writer and I do battle issues with depression and food addiction, I thought this would be a perfect book for me to write a review on. I was anxious to get started reading it. I enjoyed the fact that these were short stories with some poetry mixed in. I’ve been so busy as of late that trying to sit down and read a novel has been impossible (and depressing me at the same time!) It was nice that I could read a story or a poem as time permitted and not lose from the big picture of the overall story.One of the stories that really stood out for me was the story “Lisa” by Kera Bolonik. Kera tells her story about suicide. Although I do not know anyone personally who has committed suicide, I understand how Kera feels about her own inner thoughts on suicide. Suicidal thoughts are demons I must battle quite frequently. It’s not something I sit around talking to others about, or something I plot doing. I just have these terrible bouts of my extreme depression where I honestly think the world would be better without me. Those thoughts usually quickly fade because I am too chicken to actually even take it any further than thoughts in my head.The other stories of alcohol and drug addiction - neither of which I battled - were just as eye-opening. I felt so much bravery for these 22 opening up their souls to share their tales. I was actually impressed to see a few stories regarding food addiction, something I have dealt with in my life. Just like drugs and alcohol, no one is 100% fully recovered because every day life is a trigger and relapse can happen at a moment’s notice. The stories inspired me and gave me hope.