OFM THOUGHTS

A Queer in Recovery The Trip of a Lifetime The Trip of a Lifetime The Trip of a Lifetime

Hi, my name is _______, and I am an alcoholic.

When I have thought back over all the years I used mind-altering substances, and the varying reasons why I used them, I always arrive at the same conclusion: it’s all for escape. I think in some instances, escape is a completely healthy and natural desire, and it often is a gift that there are substances that can distort reality, mangle perception, and deliver feelings of relief and ecstasy. However, it’s when the altered reality becomes the preferred version of existence that we then cross the threshold from recreation to addiction.

Alcohol is not the only substance I have been abused, though it still remains my drug of choice. From my first consumption at age 13 to my final drink more than 20 years later, it’s the one I always come back to and can never control my usage with.

In 12-step programs, we define craving as being a broken “off” switch and very different from the urge to drink. The way to understand craving is to put it in this context: once I have a drink, the craving kicks in, and I want more and more until I physically cannot tolerate any more. From making myself physically sick to blacking out, no amount of alcohol was ever enough. If I have a bad day, I may have the urge to drink, but it’s the fact that I can’t stop once I’ve started that led me to the decision to abstain from alcohol altogether.

Any other mind-altering substance I have used, including cannabis, have been unfavorable, if not downright distasteful to me. I was introduced to cannabis in high school, and it’s primary purpose at that time was to escape the grip that depression had on me. In a way, it did become very medicinal, even if my initial desire to use was also coupled with rebellion against my parents and the religious construct I was raised in. At that age, I was also introduced to cocaine, and that led me down a dark path and closer to addiction than any drug encounter had before.

I was using cocaine as often as I could, and I was definitely developing an unhealthy reliance on it. Secrecy and lying were my life, and prolonged cocaine usage was becoming a very expensive hobby, so that eventually led me to snorting crystal meth. In a lot of ways, I was fortunate that I overdosed that first time because that was enough to scare me away from further usage of both meth and coke.

Throughout this time, I was still smoking pot, but developed paranoia when I used, so the frequency became less and less. That is still my reaction to this day when it comes to consuming any form or strain of cannabis; I become fixated on things like time and feel out of control of my body in a way that I don’t like. I had hoped, during one of my bouts of sobriety last summer, that I could switch from alcohol to cannabis, but that proved failure because I can’t shake the anxiety-inducing effect that cannabis has on me.

An area that I have found interestingly beneficial, and went from escapism to healing, was the use of LSD. As the result of childhood trauma, I developed an eating disorder by age 12, and that helped me bring some sense of control back to my life in adolescence. Through the body abuse of this eating disorder, I also began to hate my body and even look at it as though it were the enemy. I found the only thing that would turn off the negative thoughts in my head about my body was to use alcohol. By age 34, I was actively using my eating disorder, in full-blown alcoholism, and felt trapped.

That is, until I tried LSD for the first time in my 30s, and it was a hard trip down a healing road I didn’t know I needed.

While camping with friends in the summer of 2020, I dropped acid for the first time. The initial distortion of reality was intense, but fun. I discovered I am a wanderer, walking around by myself and exploring the world through new, hallucinogenic eyes. After some wandering that day, I found myself climbing up a hill, becoming acutely aware of my body, how it moved, and how it served me. For the first time, I was immensely thankful for it and the way that it worked for me, and not against me like I had thought all those years. I appreciated how strong it was; I loved how capable it was, and I felt so regretful for they ways I had abused it with my eating disorder and substance abuse all those years.

I was filled with such gratitude as I felt every muscle flex, working to move me up that trail. I took notice of the motion in my joints and how they pulled me up as I pushed down into them. I applauded that it was imperfect, yet perfect, giving me exactly what I needed.

I arrived at the top of the hill and sat down on a large boulder, overlooking a lake that spanned further than the eye could see, and began to weep. Tears streamed down my face, one after the other, as I allowed myself to feel all the pain from my self-hatred. The present moment intersected with my past in the form of blissful serenity and true acceptance. I had never known rest, never understood peace, and never felt completely acceptable in myself until that moment.

I turned around to look behind me, taking in the large mountain pass we had driven through to arrive at this campsite. In it, I saw my own body. The curves of the peaks were the curves of my own chest, hips, and thighs. The inlets of the valleys were the indents of my neck, waist, and ankles. I balled as I came to the realization that I had celebrated this abundance of Earth for its ridges and furrows in a way I had never celebrated myself. I had given permission for them to exist, without change or expectation, because they were beautiful just as they were.

My body housed its own beauty in the way my heart beat in both times of pure joy as well as utter sorrow, in the way my liver and kidneys worked together to sustain my health amid all the alcohol I was pouring into them, and the way that my lungs took in oxygen and transformed that breath into life. The mountain pass was in fact my body. How could I not be anything other than grateful?

Then, I looked forward, at the lake and the next pass of mountains on the horizon. I continued to cry as I thought about my future. If I could finally arrive at a place of not only acceptance but of appreciation for my body, then what kind of happiness would I reside in? If I no longer feared the memories from my childhood, if I no longer looked at food as the enemy, and I no longer was a slave to my addiction to alcohol, then what kind of beauty would I have the gift of bearing witness to? I sobbed for my former self, fully realizing the sadness that I truly never felt good enough. I sobbed for my future self and the hope that one day I could take care of myself the way I would care for someone I loved unconditionally. I sobbed for the gift of that very moment and the ability to exist in time and space that was not logical, but existential.

Since that time, I have taken LSD once more and had a completely different trip that involved a lot of Earth breathing and critter crawling. I’m not sure if I will ever drop again, seeing as I’m currently in a place of total abstinence from all mind-altering substances. At this stage of recovery, I must draw a very clear line for myself so I will never find myself drinking alcohol again, but I can say that I’m so thankful for that day because it truly did change my relationship with my body.

Right now, my number-one priority is staying sober from alcohol, and I will not subject myself to anything that may stray me from that. What works for me is just focusing on today and doing what feeds my recovery and brings healing to my heart and mind. One day at a time, I get the chance to evaluate the best plan and set of choices that will bring me closer to my goals and further from harmful behaviors. I am willing to do whatever it takes to save myself, and I finally have the courage to life a life free from any and all escape.

-An anonymous queer in recovery

Follow @queer.in.recovery on Instagram, or email a.queer.in.recovery@gmail.com for additional support and resources.

Recovery and My Ongoing Relationship with Cannabis The Industry by Keegan Williams

Our favorite, weed-friendly day of celebration is approaching yet again, and if you know me and my past experience, you know that’s a mostly sarcastic sentiment. People often fawn over the idea when I explain I was in the cannabis industry for about two years, and I usually say something vague but fairly descript, like, “It was definitely a unique experience I wouldn’t do again.” I worked in the cannabis industry in Northern Colorado starting in 2017 for about a year-and-a-half as a front-of-house manager and patient coordinator, and then again at another, multi-location spot in the Denver area as an assistant manager, before I finally made my abrupt and cathartic exit from the industry in February 2019. I ended up in cannabis by accident, following a period of unemployment and a two-month stint as a pizza delivery driver. I liked to smoke and liked the feeling of being high, and I immediately tried to absorb all of the information I could in the new, starting role as a budtender. While I knew I didn’t quite have the same passion for cannabis as other coworkers and patrons of the shop, I was eager to embrace the industry as a means of helping people and destigmatizing the plant. As with any customer-facing industry, you have the good ones (some regulars

in the store I am still friends with today), and you have the bad ones, like the couple who called me a fucking faggot because we banned them following numerous warnings around cheating our loyalty system to get free product. The two 420 holidays I worked, every person was required to show up, and everyone had a task. In Fort Collins, with far fewer shops than Denver, we teased the deals well in advance, and our shop was packed, line around the building, the full 10 hours we were open. This holiday, and working in the cannabis industry in general, reflected the dissonance between what many folks preached about cannabis, versus how it was often being used. Working the rec counter, I saw the need for cannabis as medicine regularly, with a fair amount of recreational customers sharing their need for cannabis as inherently medical. “What will help me sleep?” “I’m looking for something that will lower my anxiety.” “I messed up my back and want to stop taking prescription meds.” As often as this sentiment came up in the shops, there were far more people walking in asking, essentially, “What’s going to get me the most fucked up?” The same budtenders who would confidently boast, “Cannabis is a medicine,” would be the same people getting off their shift and dabbing on their couch at home until they couldn’t move. I think my alcoholism would have come to a head sooner or later, though the environment my specific shop fostered, especially in a college town like Fort Collins, amped up my addiction fully. The culture WAS getting fucked up. Following a day at work, we were almost always at the bars. Most mornings, opening, it was typical for everyone to be hungover. There was a Saturday where one of my fellow managers dipped midday because he took laced molly the night before. Instances like this weren’t isolated and were somewhat typical at the shop. When I decided to stop drinking, I was no longer working at this dispensary, and weed was not part of the conversation. Friends asked if cannabis was something I’d be giving up as well, and I replied, “I never had a problem with weed. Weed isn’t fucking up my life.” However, while I often use cannabis medicinally for my mental health and sleep, it is dangerous, especially among folks in recovery with addictive tendencies, to act like this substance is without faults and cannot be misused. I only smoke flower. I find the highTHC concentration of dabs and edibles can make dosing hard, and the few times I’ve passed out from getting too high on an edible after quitting drinking, I felt triggered by the lack of control and was reminded of the days when I drank too much, too often. I try to be intentional when I smoke. I try to ask, “Why are you smoking, now?” Sometimes, the answer is, “I want an appetite; I want some assistance sleeping; I want to relax after work.” Other times, the answer is simply, “I would like to be high.” None are more or less valid than the others, but the important piece is recognizing why I might be rolling up a joint, or more importantly, another joint. Every person in recovery is different. My use of cannabis keeps me away from prescription medication with worse side effects and often acts as a way to destress while steering clear of booze. Alcoholism and drug use is rampant in the LGBTQ community and often marketed right to us. Especially during periods of hardship and trauma (like the drawn-out and seemingly unending one we are currently navigating), it is important to step back and evaluate our personal relationships with substances, and all of the positive and not-so-positive ways they exist in our lives. I now have more knowledge about the plant than I know what to do with. Alcohol is surely the accepted drug of choice for Americans coping with life in late-stage, pandemic capitalism, so I will always advocate loudly and proudly to destigmatize the use of cannabis as a far more medicinal alternative, though let’s not be afraid to look at every angle of the conversation.

American Queer Life

How Culture Saved A Little, Gay Boomer Boy

by Rick Kitzman

Movies

So starved was I to see myself represented on the movie screen (or on TV or in books), those seven words both shocked and elated me. I was not alone.

My childhood in small-town America during the 50s and 60s provided safety and security but little exposure to culture. Saturday morning TV movies opened different worlds to me. Tarzan and his son Boy, Charlie Chan and his bumbling son, or Sherlock Holmes and his wifely Dr. Watson ignited two desires: male companionship and adventure. Tarzan, portrayed in a glorious black and white glow by Olympic gold medalists Johnny Weissmuller or Buster Crabbe, revealed a voyeuristic pleasure: masculine beauty.

As a kid and into adulthood, a new release or reissue from Disney heralded exciting entertainment. The pretty princes of Snow White (1937), Cinderella (1950), and Sleeping Beauty (1959) began a tradition inherited by the royal heroes in The Little Mermaid (1989) and Beauty and the Beast (1991). (Am I attracted to male cartoons? Isn’t there enough shame in the world?)

The cotton-candy joys of animation yielded to the cinematic feast of West Side Story (1961). The film dazzled my senses, made my heart leap with indescribable joy like the beautiful, butch dancers who defied gravity. Sadly, I didn’t know one of the film’s directors, its composer, lyricist, maybe even one of its stars, were gay: Jerome Robbins, Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, George Chakiris. If only I had known ... Mary Poppins (1964) solidified my love for musicals and Julie Andrews. At 11 years old, I longed to live with her blissfully in her animated world, penguins waiting on us flipper and foot, maybe in a prince’s castle just beyond the hill and dale. Ft. Lupton’s Star Theater offered free, Saturdayafternoon flicks for two milk carton coupons. The 7th Voyage of Sinbad (1958), starring Kerwin Mathews and Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion animation, launched my thrill for hunky heroes and special effects. Harryhausen’s other films—Jason and the Argonauts (1963), The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973), Clash of the Titans (1981)—starred swashbuckling

Brian: “Oh, screw Max!” Sally: “I do.” Brian (scoffing grin, pause): “So do I.” Cabaret, 1972

hunks Todd Armstrong, John Philip Law, and Harry Hamlin. (Hamlin would later star in Making Love (1982) about a married man finding love with another man, a noble Hollywood effort to equalize gay and straight relationships.)

Responding to the AIDS crisis, the New Queer Cinema movement of the early 90s rejected the arrogant and smothering judgment of Reagan politics and religious castigation. Todd Haynes’ Passion (1991), Derek Jarman’s Edward II (1991), Tom Kalin’s Swoon (1992), Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho (1991), Gregg Araki’s The Living End (1992) and Mysterious Skin (2004) interpreted queer stories and their protagonists as real and heroic, creating a unique cinematic language. While I appreciate the Chris trio (Evans, Hemsworth, Pine) and the Ryan duo (Gosling, Reynolds), their prettiness and films do not compare with the Greekgodlike beauty and artistry of Brando’s A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), Clift’s From Here to Eternity (1953), Dean’s East of Eden (1955), Newman’s The Long Hot Summer (1958), McQueen’s Bullitt (1968).

What of the female stars? Watch Davis in The Little Foxes (1941), Stanwyk in Double Indemnity (1944), Crawford in Mildred Pierce (1945), de Havilland in The Heiress (1949), Garland in A Star Is Born (1954), Taylor in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1966). They used the talents they had to get ahead in a man’s world. Gay men related to their struggles; that’s why we adored them.

Movies became a guide to gaydom. I snuck in to see Midnight Cowboy (1969) at the Brighton Twin. The film was X-rated; I was underage, the owners desperate. Win-win! I loved The Killing of Sister George (1968), a compassionate tale about lesbian lovers and an all-time fave. The original La Cage Aux Folles (1978) brought tears of laughter and made farce socially relevant. I read how Alien and its sequels were metaphors for the AIDS plague, a disease injected inside a victim that bursts out in some disgusting co-morbidity. I looked for the gay subtext in The Mechanic (1972), only to discover decades later that to get made all homosexual references had been cut. In Ode to Billie Joe (1976), the dramatization of Bobby Gentry’s mournful, Southern song, I discovered why Billy Joe McAllister jumped off the Tallahatachie Bridge. He had sex with a man. Once. Well, it’s not for everyone. But Something for Everyone (1970) really did present something for everyone: Michael York, every character’s object of desire.

I was living in New York when William Friedkin began filming Cruising (1980), raising a ruckus with gay activists over its negative portrayal of the leather scene and a potential incitement to murder. At 2 a.m., I headed to the set location in the meatpacking district to observe a protest. A yelling crowd of about 500 blocked the area, but their most creative disruption was the glitter a group threw on the street. The sparkling glare prohibited filming. Many of the movies I’ve mentioned are from the olden days, so for my cinematic education, I relied on television’s Saturday Night at the Movies or The Midnight Late Show. Later, Blockbuster became a VHS goldmine. Also, I basked in the dark of revival theaters watching fuzzy, grainy, and scratched prints of classics like Fellini’s La Dolce Vita (1960), mesmerized and enthralled.

What counted as porn 40 years ago—full-frontal, male nudity—is now common in mainstream movies, and one reason I’m looking forward to God’s Own Country (2017). The gay love story with a positive ending (so I’ve read), stars lovely Josh O’Connor, recent recipient of a Golden Globe for The Crown. The mystery underneath Tarzan’s loin cloth shall be revealed again. And I’m OK with that.