I am by nature, a shy and introverted person. But one thing I am not reserved about: helping families; particularly those who struggle with alcohol and substance use disorders; physical and sexual abuse and mental illness. They are the things many among us pretend do not exist. But unfortunately for many families they do.

I grew up in a middle-class family in Southern California in the 1960’s and 70’s. You could say that we had many privileges not afforded to some other families. We never worried about food, clothing, shelter, or any other “basic” necessities. We enjoyed vacations at Disneyland and the Southern California beaches, as well as Dodgers games, hot dogs and apple pie.

Although we had many advantages we likely took for granted, we also had a heavy anchor dragging us down to the bottom of a secret ocean from which no light could ever escape. I grew up with my mom, dad and two older sisters. Linda, the oldest, was 12 years older than me and the one I always felt the closest to. When I was with Linda it felt different. I felt relaxed, alive. It’s hard to describe but I breathed altogether differently.

Although I was too young to understand until years later, I learned that our dad had sexually abused Linda from age 8-20. Meanwhile, our mom, seemingly blind, looked the other way while she surrounded herself in a fantasy world of gin and tonic, card games and chocolate cake. Sadly, we lost Linda to a battle with cancer prematurely, likely related to the abuse she endured for many years.

But ultimately, I had to reclaim my life as it was supposed to be: as my own. Choices, feelings, values, relationships, achievements and failures. Self-pride. I had a lot of demolishing and reconstructing to do. The path from boy to man had been mostly unpaved yet disguised as the Yellow Brick Road. Although I had a decidedly late start, with the support of Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA, a 12-step program,) I now had the Owner’s Manual. And most importantly, a map to find my way back to the man I was supposed to be all along.

I had become aware of the heavy chain and anchor bearing down on me. But now I had the tools to cut it free, let it sink to the bottom of the sea, and swim freely in ways that were never possible before. Over the next 20 years I would discover who I really am, and learn how to allow myself to be the captain of my own ship. I would never need that anchor and chain again.

Recovery work changed everything. Some said that that recovery changed me a lot. But actually a lot changed me. At first it seemed impossible to let go of the internal fantasy world I had created to survive and join the real one. Examining the truth of our history, seemed unbearable at first. But then I shared it with a trusted friend, and then another. Gradually I met more “fellow travelers” working on their own recovery, and the sharing became not only possible but welcomed and healing. I decided to say goodbye to the inner world that I had created in order to survive, and I joined the real one. No more pretty lies.

By the time I was 30, I realized that I wanted to help other families. I learned that although cliché, the phrase “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover” is something that many of us need to hear, whether we are social workers or not. I can’t imagine doing any other kind of work. Families matter. Everyone has a story, and we will never have the privilege of hearing 99.9% of them. But on the rare occasion when we do, we should treat it with reverence and gentle caring. I have had this privilege many times, professionally and otherwise. People seem to find me easy to confide in. Whenever this occurs, I always make it a point to look them in the eyes and say “Thank you for sharing your story with me, it is important and it matters. I know it’s hard but you took a brave step and hopefully the telling helps you to feel a little less burdened.” I am mindful about hugs and touching, because for many survivors, physical touch is associated with trauma. So I may ask them if they’d like a hug and then respect their wishes. I encourage everyone I meet to be an “encourager,” for simply sharing our stories is a powerful force for healing. And it is a beautiful thing. Life is better here. It is a life that Linda never had the chance to live. But it’s not too late for so many others. I hope you join us, a healthy, unburdened life awaits.

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