Dysfunctional Families (Wisdom of the 12-Steps)

Bottom line: Don’t give up. We’re all capable of healing and recovery, but we have to reach out for the support that awaits.

We’ve heard the term, but what does dysfunctional mean, anyway? Merriam-Webster dictionary defines dysfunctional as “not functioning properly: marked by impaired or abnormal functioning.” It may be difficult to pinpoint, or put into words, what’s dysfunctional in a family or individual, but generally we know something’s amiss on a gut level.

Growing up with a father who frequently binged alcohol after cashing his Friday paychecks, then arguing and physically abusing my mother when she confronted him, I knew things were out of kilter. Their fighting scared and saddened me. I felt torn during those years between wanting to escape and avoid my confusion, hurt, sadness and my helplessness over their turmoil. I worked to steer clear of the intensity of Dad’s rages. At the same time, I wanted to prevent harm to Mom, as I was terrified of losing her altogether by Dad’s hand. In spite of, or because of, my feelings—doesn’t matter which—I searched for clues as to how I could intervene and stop the periodic madness.

As a young boy, I couldn’t explain normal . . . not to myself, and not to anyone else. Nor did I know how other fathers acted towards their children, except from glimpses I could get here and there. But my feelings told me that my nuclear family situation was wrong, wasn’t healthy, and desperately so. Like when I burned a finger after touching a hot stove, or scrapped a knee from a fall, I knew if something caused pain, then that something wasn’t good. And I knew to avoid repeating behavior which caused pain. I didn’t know what I could do to change my dad’s drinking, my parents’ arguments over it, or Dad’s abuse of Mom. I didn’t have the tools to communicate my feelings with others. Some invisible wall of silence had been erected, which trapped my mom, my brother and me, and prevented us from seeking effective assistance to change the equation. I couldn’t intervene physically. The best I could do? I hunkered down, observed, and empathized with Mom when I could. I calculated how, and moreover when, I might intervene . . . while at the same time pursuing my boyhood interests at school and during visits to my grandparents.

Visits to my grandparents, particularly my maternal grandparents’ farm, became my saving grace. The unconditional love I received there from extended family members uplifted me. Dad didn’t drink around my grandparents, that I knew of anyway. Moreover, my parents didn’t argue or fight while there. And so, those visits provided me a safe harbor, a place to anchor myself, lower my vigil, absorb healthier life lessons, and experience the closer-to-nature lifestyle of subsistence farming.

It’s been said that all families are dysfunctional in their own way. And at best, it’s probably a rare few who would claim they didn’t grow up dealing with chaos or experiencing trauma. Who among us can claim they grew up unscathed? Beyond that, none of us can claim we’ve never suffered a loss. Loss is an inevitable part of life.

Some individuals and families, without doubt, are more toxic and dysfunctional than others. And some individuals are harmed more than others. Children in particular are more likely to suffer to a greater degree as they have fewer resources to cope and escape. But we all have opportunity to reach out for support, even in small ways, to avoid further damage and begin our healing journey.

If you don’t have friends or family to whom you can reach out, Twelve-Step meetings are a safe place to start, particularly if counseling/therapy isn’t an option.

Years ago, my healing journey involved reaching out while in undergraduate school when suicidal thoughts threatened to consume me. So, reach out and connect with others. If nothing else, start with a phone call or a remote meeting. There are others out there who can relate and are willing to listen. Unburden yourself of your secrets. You’re only as sick as they are. Drop the public mask you hide behind and let down your walls. Learn to trust others. Learn to love, and accept yourself in spite of your warts and imperfections.

You can read more about my journey by visiting my website (my name .com) and reading my memoir, Once Upon a Kentucky Farm: Hope and Healing from Family Abuse, Alcoholism and Dysfunction (released early 2022).

I leave you with this quote from an unknown source: “You don’t have to save me, you only need to hold my hand while I save myself.”

Photo Credit: Quang Nguyen vinh (Quangpraha) - Pixabay

Mr. New Boots (PCT)

Bottom line: Blisters are a tenderfoot hiker’s reward.

Prim8's new Hoka hiking boots. Blister preventers?

11.10.21

Mr. New Boots, that is Prim8 equipped with new hiking boots, and I had arrived at our rendezvous point at the terminus of state road 173 in advance of "Wrong-way" Mark. There, we discovered 173, now blocked off, had been a through road leading from the relative flat terrain nearer Hesperia into the mountains to Lake Arrowhead.

Wide open terrain. We’ve made progress, Prim8.

Out of the mountains? Prim8 replied.

Not entirely.

I’d grown tired of the elevation gains and losses over the miles we’d hiked around Big Bear, but I knew full well, implied by the name, the Pacific Crest Trail had many more hills and mountains to ascend and descend before our journey’s goal will be reached.

Since our last jaunt, Prim8 and I purchased a pair of Hoka Stinson One hiking boots in hopes of warding off pesky foot blisters, the bane of many hikers. Prim8 had had enough of dealing with blisters and I wasn’t too happy about them, either. We hoped we’d solved the blister conundrum and our feet would hike in bliss, having achieved footwear nirvana.

"Add another mile or so to our hiking distance tomorrow," Mark said.

What? "Another mile?"I pictured our 24.5-mile hike down hill towards the Whitewater Preserve some months ago.

We left my car at road end, turned parking lot, in anticipation of our arrival on foot the next day. Then, Mark drove us into Big Bear where Prim8 and I stuffed ourselves with Mexican barbacoa, aka slow cooked meat, washed down with beer, before retiring to our motel room.

11.11.21 Crab Flats to PCT/173 Junction

Up at 4:45AM, we brewed coffee in our rooms, snacked on dried fruit, and consumed bacon prepared by Mark, both pork and turkey, before we set off for our trailhead destination at Crab Flats.

The chilled air and starry sky portended a good weather day.

I sucked down additional coffee as best I could as we bounced around over the rutted gravel/dirt road, generally unfit for most vehicles and designed OHV, aka off-highway vehicle. In the meantime, both Mark and I drank water from disposable plastic bottles, in order to maximize our levels of hydration. I discovered long ago that water is not weightless, so I’ve developed the practice of drinking my fill before the day’s hike, though I carry a prudent supply, as well. Nothing good comes from dehydration.

Last minute gear checks completed and packs donned, we walked away from Mark’s vehicle.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"7AM," Mark replied.

A tad later than we’d hoped.

"And what’s the temperature?"

"I’ve got 43 degrees," Mark said.

"Good temperature," I said. "It’s easier to get warmer, than cooler." I knew we’d warm up within a few minutes from hiking exertion.

All the while, I consoled Prim8 with the delusion that we’d lose elevation, 2301 feet, over the course of our day’s hike. But, you have to know, that the PCT meanders up, around and down mountainsides! So, the accumulated elevation gain would be 240 feet and the elevation loss would be 2414 feet, which amounts to a 2654-foot differential. Doesn’t sound like much, but everything adds up.

And the trail led us up, around and down.

Rest a minute.

After a brief pause, I continued onward.

Grab a snack.

My leg muscles and feet aching with fatigue, I'd found another excuse to rest a minute.

I hiked some more. The trail wound along, overlooking Deep Creek drainage.

Nice view of fall colors. Pause for a scenic photo.

Though the area remains in drought, fall colors show in Deep Creek Canyon.

The ache of my leg muscles had deepened.

What’s with this?

With clear sky above, temperatures climbed into the low-mid 70s. An occasional light breeze lifted my spirit.

And we’ve got shade now and then.

The trail continued up, down, and around. Up, down, and around.

How are you doing, feet?

Aside from the ache and fatigue, I detected no blisters.

"Wrong-way" Mark pauses for a rest on the opposite side of

the rainbow painted arch bridge which crosses Deep Creek.

When I caught up with Mark, who's been leading the way, on the opposite side of the arch bridge which crosses Deep Creek, he said, “You’re eight minutes behind me. Not bad.”

"Could’ve fooled me," I said. "We must be getting close." I meant to my car.

"Another 4 miles from here," Mark said.

Ugh, Prim8 said.

Slog it out, fella.

Having crossed Deep Creek and with the trail direction shifted westward, we came into full sun. The sun, on its late afternoon downward leg and lower in the sky, however, didn’t scorch us.

Though seemingly forever to come into sight, the trail winding this way, then that, we approached the Mojave River Dam.

Nearly there. Then, another mile to go.

My legs and feet continued their ache.

What’s the damage done this time?

We followed a gravel road about half a mile on gentle rising terrain to the tunnel where Deep Creek flows. Here, we faced foot-deep water about twenty-feet across. After removing my boots and socks in preparing to fjord the Deep Creek, my iPhone took a bath.

Plop! A short, tiny little dink. What could that be?

I spotted my iPhone resting in a few inches of water. "Crap, I dropped my phone in the water," I said, as I retrieved it. I gave it a good shaking and hoped for the best.

"You probably shouldn’t carry it on your belt," Mark said.

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I wanted it handy to take photos, but I guess the belt holder wasn’t designed for hiking." Should’ve learned that lesson when your phone fell off earlier in the day, twice.

I trudged the remaining distance to my car, dreading learning of my phone’s fate.

Seated in my car, "Where’s our motel?" I asked Mark. By that I meant, what was our drive route to get there.

"Let me check," Mark said as he searched on his phone.

"I guess I’ll bite the bullet and check mine," I said. Come on, baby.

Seconds passed.

"It came on! I can’t believe it," I said. Next time, carry it in your pocket, fool.

In Crestline we enjoyed another Mexican meal, washed down with beer.

"I’m knackered," I told Mark. "My muscles and feet ache."

"I’d like to start a little later tomorrow morning," he said. "Maybe, we can shorten our hike a little."

"That’s okay by me. I’m gonna be soar and stiff the next couple of days."

"I may just schedule a massage for when I get home," Mark said. "And I’d like to beat the rush hour traffic on the way home."

"Wrong-way" got no quarrel from me.

Our cars with us at the motel, we decided on a later start and shorter hike of 9.3 miles.

Done deal.

We’d hiked 21.5 miles and my body knew it.

Settled into the motel room, I wondered whether a shower, followed by a decent night’s rest, would prepare me for the achy breaky pains of body stiffness I'd face in a few hours.

Feet checked, I discovered a small blister on one foot. Crap, can’t seem to avoid them. At least, it had appeared solo.

Mile marker achieved: 314.3

11.12.21 PCT/173 Junction to Silverwood Lake

My alarm sounded at 6:30AM, as I’d set it.

Yep, stiff as cardboard. I hobbled around the room as I collected my wits and gear, and made ready to leave.

Mark and I consumed a hardy breakfast in Crestline before we set off to leave my car at Pilot Rock Staging Area parking lot, which overlooks Silverwood Lake dam.

Then, in Mark’s SUV, we headed to the PCT junction with 173.

Been here, Prim8 said.

Yep, déjà vu, all over again.

At 9AM, day pack readied, I tanked up on water. "Got any ibuprofen, Mark?"

"Yeah," he said and offered me two tabs.

I should carry my own.

I took tentative down the trail, wondering, Why do I do this to myself?

Just gut it out.

Within a few minutes, however, with help from Mark’s hiker’s medical cabinet, I’d achieved a steady pace.

A cloudless sky and scarcity of trees left us exposed to full sun, though temperatures remained civil, hovering in the mid-70s in the brief spots of shade. Periodic slight breezes helped.

I reminded myself that today's hike would be shorter. We hiked on flatter terrain, with considerably less elevation gain and loss than the previous day, and we enjoyed open views of the small valley to our north, bounded by an escarpment beyond.

Looking westward from PCT between Mojave River Forks Reservoir and Silverwood Lake.

As the hours progressed, we speculated about our time of completion.

"We may be done by one," Mark said.

We continued our steady pace.

When we arrived at the trail junction, my car parked another a hundred yards up the paved road, "It’s 1:30PM," Mark said. "We’ve come 9.3 miles. That’s 2.2 miles an hour."

“Pretty good, considering,” I said. Considering my stiffness from yesterday.

"Wrong-way" got no quarrel from me.

For me, three mph, sustained only over short distances, is the best I can expect. One mph would be a snail's pace, and two mph I deem reasonable. "Anything over two mph is icing on the cake," I added.

After retrieving Mark’s vehicle, I changed into my tennies for my drive home. Not only had my foot-condition not worsened, though my feet were sore, I felt relieved that no additional blisters appeared, in spite of the one that I’d cultivated yesterday, which had burst.

Could’ve been worse!

I made it home, lickety-split, ahead of the most of stop-and-go traffic.

(Prim8’s accumulated PCT progress: mile marker 323.2.)

Spirituality (Wisdom of the 12-Steps)

Bottom line: There are many paths to spirituality.

Aristotle said man is a social animal. I say, in addition, man is a spiritual animal. As such, each of us has an inherent desire to answer the bigger questions of our existence.

Ever ask yourself how so many religions came to be? My answer, culture and man as spiritual animal. Each culture or society (group of people) grapples with the fundamental existential questions to which every human seeks an answer. It all boils down to where and how we, individually and collectively, fit in to the bigger scheme. I’m including many and varied questions here, such as, What happens when we die, Do we have self-determination, and How did life begin?

The need/desire to answer some or all of those questions has driven the development of religions, which then serves the spiritual needs of its followers, though each reflects the values, practices and beliefs of the culture from which it sprang (springs). And as every individual has fallibility and blind spots, so do cultures, and thus religions. As a result, no one religion has the corner on spirituality. By that I mean every religion potentially can lead an individual to the same place, if only. . . . If only the cultural blind spots don’t inhibit that person. If only the individual can work their way through the weeds, the labyrinth of rituals and practices that create that religion’s blind spots.

If you're still with me here, I’m saying no religion has the perfect formula, nor a formula for everyone. As well, every religion changes over time as a reflection of its followers/cultural underpinning. No religion is the sole proprietor of spirituality. Moreover, no one religion is necessary to attain enlightenment/spirituality, nor any in that sense. Rather, finding and piecing together the commonality helps alleviate contradictions in any particular culture/religion and gets closer to the essence of spirituality.

Having lived a few years now, and been exposed to the 12-Steps, I consider those steps a good guideline, not only for those seeking relief from their struggles with destructive behavior, but a path to their spiritual development. I don’t see the 12-Steps as part of a cult nor a religion, though they can act as an adjunct to religion.

Though the 12-Steps originally incorporated the use of the term God, though higher power has supplanted that more recently. I’ve heard encouragement to newer members/attendees of meetings to consider a chair as their higher power, if that works for them. There is no dogma attached to anyone’s definition or determination of higher power, in whatever form.

The purpose of developing a personal higher power is to surrender one’s self in Step 2. That is, give up the idea that one controls and can deal with their problem(s) alone through their thinking and willpower. In psychological terms, I see that as putting the ego aside. The entire point of surrendering willpower is to give up on the notion of controlling that behavior which has been and is out of control for that individual. Imagine resisting drinking water when your dying of thirst! Most everyone attempting to overcome an addiction to a substance or destructive behavior can testify that they’ve quit many times, though never remained abstinent. Obviously, a significant focus of discussion in 12-Steps meetings centers around relapse, and the phrases, One day at a time, and, Easy does it, which are heard frequently.

Case in point: my father smoked like a chimney and stopped many times. Problem was he couldn’t stay stopped and succumbed to lung cancer.

Recently, someone claimed the 12-Steps and meetings were a cult. Here’s what I say about that. The Merriam-Webster dictionary includes several definitions of cult. To apply any of those to the 12-Steps or 12-Step meetings in any serious way becomes a considerable stretch, at least in any negative sense. The 12-Steps don’t extol a deity, nor the program have a leader. Instead, the steps point the way on a path that has worked and is working for others to avoid their destructive behavior. Absolute adherence to dogma isn’t required. Instead, recommendations are made and some best practices are followed, such as maintaining anonymity and utilizing a sponsor (a more experienced support buddy). The 12-Steps are voluntary, take ‘em or leave ‘em. Meeting attendance doesn’t require special clothing or tithing. There’s no hierarchical establishment, though there are fellow recovering members who have secured a meeting location, lead the meeting, purchase coffee and so on. Meetings can occur anywhere, wherever an organizer can arrange. Some meetings occur in a house of worship, though that isn’t a necessity and many don’t. The meetings are intended to provide safe places for attendees to share what they are doing that is working for them, unload emotional baggage, gain insight, and provide encouragement and support to others. The latter brings the steps full circle at Step 12: "Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs." (Substitute other destructive behaviors for the term alcoholics.) The meetings become a mutual self-help process utilizing the guidelines of the 12-Steps. I see this as a similar process to that of therapy/counseling, the final goals being the same or nearly so.

I believe answers to our existential questions are all around us. We are of them. We are infused with them. We are not, and have never been, separated from our spirituality, though we blind ourselves by creating walls within ourselves. And that if each of us listens and looks, maybe we can come to understand the above, arrive at an inner peace of grace and serenity, and live in the question without self-righteous judgment of others. Moreover, perhaps, we can abandon intolerance and the expectation that others follow our path.

Photo Credit: pexels - Adam Kontor