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The author at home with her husband, Colin Hubley; her nine-month old daughter; Nolah; and her dog, Jean-Jacques Rousseau

I was always an anxious kid. My earliest memories involve hopping over cracks on the sidewalk, counting out steps, tapping my foot quietly so that no one could hear and pulling the corners of my pillowcase several times before I could go to bed. Eventually I'd fall asleep and dream of death, destruction, kidnappings and roving gangs of thugs trying to hurt my family. I often awoke drenched in sweat.

There was no obvious reason for my perpetual unease. I grew up in a beautiful Forest Hill home, the second youngest of four siblings. My dad was a financial whiz who published a book on quantitative marketing when he was 26 (I can barely understand a word of it) and then ran his own marketing firm. My mum stayed at home; she later got a PhD in sociology and worked as a consultant. For most of my childhood I attended private school at TFS and Branksome Hall. When I was 12, I switched to Deer Park Public School. I remember telling a friend that the rules of private school were suffocating me. Really, I was just sad. I always felt uncomfortable in my own skin.

At Deer Park, my academic performance slid but my confidence grew. To my classmates, I was exotic: a private school refugee. My parents had recently divorced, and I started acting out. I began drinking and smoking pot every weekend, getting blitzed and messing around with random guys. When I started high school at North Toronto Collegiate the next year, it quickly devolved into something else entirely. My friends and I would drop acid all weekend. Soon I was cutting weeks of school and committing petty crimes-I'd shoplift, steal subway signs, and pocket CDs, clothes and books from house parties. My parents were stressed and exhausted. They would have done anything to help, although it didn't feel that way to me. I told them I hated them on a regular basis. When they sent me to therapists, I told them I hated them, too.

I was having the time of my life. I was cool. I was outrageous. Every time I'd drink, I'd lose chunks of time: two hours here, an hour there. Booze and drugs did something to me that I couldn't do for myself. They changed me, if only for a moment, and the promise of that moment was too alluring to resist.

I started dating my friend Adam in the summer before Grade 12. He gave me all the love, attention, kindness and understanding I'd been craving. After high school I started at McGill. We rented a place together in Montreal, on Avenue des Pins. I introduced him to Woody Allen movies. He taught me about jazz, literature and how to wear a black baseball hat with every outfit. My parents thought Adam was a stabilizing influence. They were grateful.

But they didn't know we were doing drugs every weekend: coke, E and most of all speed. I don't know what was in it, but the dealers called it "peaches." We partied at Sona, one of Montreal's first mega-dance clubs. The dealers were always sporty-looking dudes in Tommy Hilfiger, leaning casually against the walls. They'd throw me a pill for $30, and then I'd dance for the next 14 hours straight, drenched in sweat, biting my lips and chewing the inside of my cheek. After each peaches binge, I'd spend three days huddled in withdrawal-but I'd still go back for more. My weight dropped from 125 pounds to a gamine 110, and everyone told me I looked great. I never went to class, just crammed for exams, and somehow I secured a B+ average. (I've always had a strange talent for bullshitting my way through school.) To everyone else, my life looked manageable.

A year and a half later, Adam and I broke up. I wanted to go clubbing all the time. I wanted to wear skimpy clothes and do lines off toilets in black-lit washrooms. I wanted powerful men to want me. I wanted to feel alive. Adam wanted something I couldn't give him: purpose and direction. He wanted to settle down. It didn't work-six months later, he killed himself. I had spoken to him a few days before, and we were planning to get together for my birthday on October 5 in Toronto. I arrived at my mum's to see all the lights on, despite the fact that it was 10 p.m. I thought, selfishly, They're throwing me a surprise party. It turns out my friends had gathered at my house to tell me about Adam.

After his death, I stayed in Toronto and transferred to U of T. My dad rented me a ground-floor apartment in a house in the Annex. I would sit by candlelight reading and rereading the torn, tear-stained letters Adam had written me over the years. I started using coke more frequently. I didn't have a regular dealer yet-my friends always had a connection, so I'd throw them some cash and take whatever I needed. I was kicked out of every bar on College Street for harassing patrons. Once, at the Midtown, I tried to request a song and the bartender told me to step back or else. Provoked, I pivoted my foot into his space, tapping it in and out again, taunting him. "Out!" he screamed. Two bouncers had to toss me on my backside. I shook it off and bounced on to another bar down the street.

My last functional period came in my early 20s, when I got a job as an assistant editor at a fashion magazine. By this time I had access to a trust fund my dad had set up. I'd used some of it to buy myself a Yorkville condo, and my dad invested the rest for me. I wasn't supposed to touch it, but of course I did: I liquidated shares like other people take out 20s from an ATM. I was bingeing on cocaine every few nights, yet somehow I was able to get to work on time and focus. I'd cap the night at 1 a.m. and sink myself to sleep with a couple of shots of Jack and a tab or two of Ativan. In the morning, I'd drink a few Red Bulls and I was good to go.

As my drug use skyrocketed, I began to get paranoid. Every night at the bar, I'd wonder if people were talking about me. Did my colleagues at the magazine know what was going on? Did the police know about the drugs I had on me? As the sweat crept up my neck, I'd drown it with more shots.

I began to think about leaving the magazine and going back to school. In retrospect, I was probably worried, if only subconsciously, that my bingeing would catch up to me at a 9-to-5 job. I became convinced I belonged in academia, and, in September 2005, I began a master's degree in political theory at U of T. In the academic world I was on terra firma-I was writing papers, reading Rousseau and even attending half my classes, which was a big improvement from my undergrad days. The rest of the time, I was partying.

It was during this period that I first met Javier. (I've changed his name and a few others, to protect their identities.) He was my age and portly, with a sibilant Spanish accent. We would see each other at parties and I'd buy a gram of coke from him, sometimes two. Most users make two grams last a couple of days. I went through it in a few hours. I started buying two eight balls at a time, or seven grams of powder, for around $400, which I would snort in a 24-hour period. I used compulsively and immoderately, and I wore it on my face like a clown mask. My skin was pale grey, my pupils perpetually dilated. I was jittery, my mannerisms were spastic, my dialogue was jumpy and curse-laden. I was calling Javier all the time. And finally, after a month, he told me I was too high maintenance and never to bother him again. I had been fired by my drug dealer.

But he'd introduced me to a number of other dealers-and, because addicts always find a way, I soon had a regular roster, so that there was a steady supply and no one dealer would ever know how much I was using. I don't know exactly what that amount was. I just know I never bought less than an eight ball, and often I would re-up several times over the course of a binge. I was snorting so much coke that I burned holes in my nose.

A typical day went like this: I'd wake up from a binge, sometimes in the morning and sometimes at night, and call one of my dealers-D'Angelo, for example. In the hour it took him to get to my place, I'd go to the LCBO and buy a couple of 26ers of vodka, a few bottles of prosecco, maybe some Jack Daniel's. D'Angelo would arrive, we'd slam back some drinks, do some coke, play some music, joke around and have a few other people over. He nicknamed me Hollywood because of my appetite for massive lines. Eventually, D'Angelo would leave to go sell to other customers, and, if I ran out (which I always did), I'd call the next guy on my list. And so, for a while, everything was great-a shallow and reckless parade of party people. I thought I was Holly Golightly and that my life was Breakfast at Tiffany's. Some days I wanted to stop, but I didn't think I could.

I finished my degree, just barely. And that's when the partying ceased. My paranoia got so bad that I was convinced the police were coming for me. I shut everyone out of my life and refused to speak to my parents for months at a time. The only people I talked to were my dealers, and even they were desperate to get away from me right after selling me the blow. I was alone most of the time, except for the pigeons that used to fly into my apartment when I left the balcony door open. And so I just used-all day and all night. It was all I could think about.

My body started to deteriorate. My skin bruised easily from lack of sleep and I had deep circles under my eyes. My hands and feet swelled to the size of balloons. Once, I mistakenly applied pink nail polish under my eyes thinking it was concealer. I chopped my hair off into a white-blonde pixie faux-hawk, and wore tank tops with men's ties, booty shorts and Vans. I'd stay awake for days at a time, sometimes for a full week. I never ate when I was using, and I drank only alcohol-water, juice and pop made me sick. I guzzled olive oil for calories, and sometimes, to clear my clogged sinuses, I would drink Frank's RedHot straight out of the bottle. It burned my mouth and eyes, but the shock would do the trick: I could stop blowing my nose and blow lines instead. By this time I weighed 102 pounds. I kept thinking that I would spontaneously return to my previous self-when I was using less, when I felt validated and happy, when my life seemed exciting and glamorous.

My paranoia descended into full-fledged psychosis. I suspected that everyone was on drugs-my neighbours, the concierge in my building, the barista at Starbucks. I saw men pointing machine guns at me from the shadows in the corner of my living room. When I watched TV, I thought the shows were trying to tell me something: characters on a kids' cartoon would say "Jump!" and I would jump; they would say "Touch your nose," and I'd touch my nose. One day, a dealer I was seeing told me to go out on the balcony of my condo, that a plane was coming to save me from this hell I was living. I gingerly made my way to the balcony and slid open the door, wanting to make him happy. I stepped into the cool night air and tried to climb over the railing. As I started my descent, he screamed, and rushed outside and grabbed me: he'd told me no such thing. I had hallucinated the conversation.

Seasons floated by. Over the winter of 2006, I only emerged from my condo a few times. When I left one day in the spring, I was shocked to discover the steel skeleton of the Michael Lee-Chin Crystal at the ROM. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. My parents were hysterical-they were constantly calling me and dropping by, but I ignored them. I still had some of the money my father had given me, and as long as I did, who needed them?

When I was 26, I met a guy I'll call Jesse at the Comfort Zone, a thumping after-hours club at College and Spadina. After one night, we were inseparable. Whatever I thought I knew about drug use, it was nothing compared to him. He introduced me to GHB and taught me how to do coke in ways I would never have imagined, like dissolving the powder in shots of Jack Daniel's and drinking until we went into convulsions. Or snorting an entire gram in a single line. Or swallowing so much GHB that we were crawling around the club, salivating like animals.

Jesse moved into my condo just a few weeks after we met. When we'd fight, he'd smash mirrors and throw vases at my head, then scream at me to clean up the mess. We travelled to Costa Rica, Mexico, Israel, Italy, Hungary, desperately trying to escape ourselves. At the end of 2006, we spent a sombre Christmas night at the Comfort Zone. It was my first real moment of clarity. The whole time I was sullen and depressed, thinking about my family. I loved them, but it was buried so far beneath piles of lies and years of equivocation that sometimes I hardly remembered they existed.

Two weeks later, Jesse and I went over to his parents' house for his birthday dinner. As soon as the door opened, I knew something was up. His dad was standing in front of us, and beyond him I saw his family waiting; my family was there too. It was a double intervention. Jesse was willing to stay, but I was furious. I gave my family members 15 minutes to read letters, then freaked out: I wasn't going to be judged by them or anyone. I demanded that they stay out of my life and bolted out the front door. When I got outside, I took out my phone and called one of my dealers.

I knew then that I was really alone. My dealers wouldn't go near my place, which looked more like a crack den than a luxury Yorkville condo. They made me come to them, and I had to mentally prepare for hours before I could get up the courage to go outside. It was like training for the Olympics. I once got lost walking around the old Four Seasons, trying to find the room my dealer had said he was in. A guest called security, and two thick guards had to toss me out of the hotel. Apparently guests were disturbed that this emaciated waif-like creature was walking around unsupervised, either completely high or completely mad.

My family still called every week; they tried to find out what was going on with me by asking the concierge or people in my building. Once, after holing up for days in my apartment, I found my way to my dad's and banged on his door, wailing that I needed help. But when he tried to get me to talk, I brushed him off. I said it wasn't serious.

I finally agreed to go to rehab in the summer of 2007. I flew to L.A. and checked into Promises, a high-end treatment centre that cost my dad $90,000 for a month-long stay. He was thrilled that I was seeking help. I hoped I might find a career as an actress-who knows who I would meet at a treatment centre in California? My capacity for self-deception would have been funny if it weren't so tragic. There I was in Malibu, wearing a bloodstained Ralph Lauren sweater, my bleached blonde hair in an overgrown faux-hawk, hoping to be "discovered." I had no idea how delusional I was.

The treatment centre was a sprawling set of lodges overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It housed roughly two dozen patients at a time. The first thing I did was collapse on my bed and sleep for three days straight. When I finally woke up, I saw two sets of eyes peering at me. "I'm Lydia," one girl said. "And I'm Jen," said the other. "And you're in Lindsay Lohan's old bed. She just left." At Promises, I went to every meeting, talked earnestly to my counsellor, exercised, learned to meditate, and took part in group therapy and psychodrama, a technique where addicts use role-play to work through their issues. Still, I wasn't getting better. All I could think about was getting home and getting high. Which I promptly did, the moment I landed.

The next few years were a dizzying sea of hallucinations, loneliness and desperate attempts at detox. I sold my condo to pay for drugs and went through the proceeds in nine months. My dad, ever supportive, rented me an apartment. Anytime I asked for help, my parents would intervene and send me to another treatment centre, hoping something would stick. I was at Women's Own in Toronto, on Dundas, where I slept on a cot. Then came Bellwood, in Scarborough, where I lasted three days before they kicked me out for fooling around with another patient. I went to treatment in Minnesota, where I dismissed the notion of addiction to such a point that I was asked to leave after 10 days because I was undermining the recovery of other people. They told me they had never seen someone so deep in denial. One time, I was so high that I sat cross-legged in the middle of the intersection at Bay and Bloor, stopping traffic. The police took me to Mount Sinai, and later I was sent to CAMH. I checked myself out after a few days.

By the time I was 30, in 2010, I was on my fourth stint in rehab, this time on an island off the coast of Vancouver. It was beautiful and forlorn, with winding streets that climbed up long hills dotted with little cabins. The treatment didn't take. With each passing day, I was getting noticeably worse-edgier, angrier, agitated and frustrated. After 30 days, I willingly and optimistically moved into "extended" care, which was the midway point between primary care and sober living in society. My family came and we went to group therapy together, but I could tell that whatever was supposed to be happening wasn't.

I had always assumed that drugs and alcohol were my problem, and that everything would be okay as soon as I got sober. By then, I'd realized that the crux of my addiction was bigger than bad behaviour. It was my thinking: the way I made the world completely about me and my sadness and my hate and my anger, to the point that anything good was completely obscured by my narcissism. Instead of realizing I was hurting my family, I could only complain that if it weren't for their interventions, we would have a good relationship-that they should let me do what I wanted. It didn't matter that half the time I begged them to intervene. I couldn't see it.

I was even more miserable sober than I was when I used. I couldn't sit still. I was feverish all the time. Without drugs, I became addicted to controlling my weight, and developed a form of exercise bulimia, where I'd eat entire boxes of cookies and run for hours to burn off the calories. I told the counsellors I was getting worse. They encouraged me to stop focusing on the negative-that I was giving new patients the impression that their program didn't work.

A few days before my treatment was over, I relapsed. I went to a bar in Vancouver, downed a few shots of JD and found a coke dealer within minutes. I snorted a ton that night. I missed curfew, and bought clean urine from the dealer's mom so I could pass the drug test at rehab. The counsellors busted me the next morning, and, three days later, my dad put me on a plane home to Toronto. I thought there was no saving me.

The turning point came in January 2011. On New Year's Eve, I got so high on booze and coke that I ran into oncoming traffic on Eglinton. A taxi slammed the brakes but still hit me, and when the driver rushed out to check on me, I punched him and blacked out. Apparently, he called the police. I woke up hours later in a hospital room, handcuffed to a gurney, my legs in iron cuffs, surrounded by my father and a few police officers. I had no idea what had happened, but they filled me in. I passed out again after a few minutes and woke up in my apartment. The police had released me from custody, and my dad had driven me home. The next day he came to my place and gave me two options: I could either live sober in the apartment he paid for, or I could sleep on the streets.

A couple of weeks later, I was lying on the floor of my apartment, staring at the popcorn ceiling. My experience in that last treatment centre in Vancouver had made me realize that I was as sick sober as I was when using. I didn't move for hours. I knew there might be enough change in my couch to buy a mickey, but I'd just down it in one go. At that moment, something strange happened to me. I'd never been a religious person, but I was flooded with a sense of serenity. I had no idea who I was or who I'd been, but suddenly I was convinced that God was there with me. I knew that no substance on earth could change me permanently. At some point I would always come back to being myself. It felt like the choice was simple. I called someone I knew was sober, who had tried to help me before. Her name was Margot. "I'm ready to quit," I told her. My sober life began on that day.

Margot and I met three to four times a week to work on the 12 steps. I followed every direction she gave me. I prayed, I meditated, and if she had told me to stand naked on the 401, I would have done it. I joined her recovery group, arriving before each meeting to set up chairs and make coffee. I greeted people at the door and gave out my number to those women who were coming into recovery with even less clean time than me. I would call them and listen-if selfishness was my problem, compassion would be my solution.

I felt like I was 13 again, the person I was before I started using. I had to relearn everything-how to eat, how to sit at a table, how to have conversations without interrupting, how to speak without swearing. I slowly started to come back to life. I walked the city, often going out for two-, sometimes three-hour jaunts. My feet felt lighter. I was excited to go to sleep at night because it brought me eight hours closer to waking up again. Gone were the crippling paranoia, the self-loathing, the destructive impulses that had plagued me all my life. The LCBO seemed like a foggy memory, a distant place I used to go to for stuff I no longer wanted. I worked with other addicts and alcoholics, taking them through the steps. It wasn't easy. They'd yell at me and sometimes steal money from me; they'd beg me to help them get sober so that they wouldn't kill themselves. I took them to detoxes, and talked to their desperate mothers and friends in an effort to shed light on this debilitating illness.

Along the way I made amends to my family. It was a brutal experience-I can't imagine the sleepless nights I caused my parents and siblings during my teens and 20s. To them, it was as though an alien had abducted me when I was 14 and never brought me back. Most of my relatives accepted my apologies, and were relieved and excited to see how much I'd changed. Now I have a great relationship with my parents. But to some of my family members, I'll always be a drug addict.

A year and a half after getting sober, I applied to the Schulich School of Law at Dalhousie University. For my entrance essay, I wrote about my addiction-and I was accepted in September 2012. One of the professors even came to my yearly celebration of sobriety. During law school, I was open about my addiction, and people were curious but kind and encouraging. I was able to demonstrate to myself and others that someone can live in recovery and still have a gratifying professional and personal life.

While in Halifax, I met a hilarious, thoughtful man at a recovery meeting named Colin Hubley. We quickly fell in love. We married on August 20, 2014, and, nine months ago, I gave birth to our daughter, Nolah. She is the happiest baby I've ever seen. Colin and I spend our free time walking our dog, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, having dinner with our families and seeing our close friends, all of whom are in recovery.

I've lost a lot of friends in the past few years, people who weren't able to overcome their addiction. Jamie, a good friend I'd met at CAMH, overdosed and died in the summer of 2014. My friends Danny and Jenn also passed away last year from drug and alcohol overdoses; both of them left small children and grieving families. And this fall I was buying a coffee at Queen and Jarvis when I ran into an ex-boyfriend who was panhandling at the corner for his next high. Most people think addiction is a series of progressively bad choices. That's a myth: it's an illness. In our society, we value people who can march forward and self-correct. Addiction is a stain on our ability to improve.

Last year, I finished law school and secured an articling position at a firm that specializes in social justice and advocacy work. My employer is not just accepting of my past but supportive of my decision to write about it. I want to go into criminal law. It won't be easy or particularly lucrative, but everybody deserves a second chance. And a third, and a fourth. I believe that with a lot of work, anyone can turn their life around. Even me.

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My decade-long coke addiction, and how I got sober

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The author at home with her husband, Colin Hubley; her nine-month old daughter; Nolah; and her dog, Jean-Jacques Rousseau I was always an anxious kid. My earliest memories involve hopping over cracks on the sidewalk, counting out steps, tapping my foot quietly so that no one could hear and pulling the corners of my pillowcase several times before I could go to bed.

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Tim Watson-Munro criminal psychologist cocaine addiction.pdf

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1. Theme

2. Characterization

3. Plot structure

4. Setting

5. Point of view

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Jack's Story - A short animation about weed

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Directed by Alison Klayman. With Eben Britton, Dr. Wendy Brown, Anjan Chatterjee. Every era gets the drug it deserves. In America today, where competition is ceaseless from school to the workforce and everyone wants a performance edge, Adderall and other prescription stimulants are the defining drugs of this generation.

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In these short stories, characters will be dealing with drug or alcohol addiction. Often, we will see the effect of this on the user and those around them.

These stories will show the consequences of the user's behavior, and sometimes chronicle their struggle to quit.
Sonny's Blues | James Baldwin
The narrator is a teacher in Harlem; he has managed to keep away from the bad influences around him. His brother, Sonny, is a jazz musician with a heroin problem. They haven't stayed close over the years.
Surprise! | Robert Phillips
Fallick is in his bathrobe on Saturday afternoon, still feeling the effects of his hangover, when the doorbell rings. It's Nat and Jane Bellow, friends who made a two-hour drive because they say they were invited. Fallick and his wife start scrambling to host their guests.
Big Blonde | Dorothy Parker
Hazel Morse was a beautiful blonde, an ex model who was fun and popular with men. When she starts showing signs of her age, she wants to marry a man, Herbie, but he isn't interested. She starts drinking and hanging out with a new group of people.
Read "Big Blonde" Customs of the Country | Madison Smartt Bell
A young mother tries to get her life back in order. Her husband is in prison on a drug charge, and she was addicted to Dilaudid (an opioid), which led to her injuring her son.
Where I'm Calling From | Raymond Carver
The narrator goes to a rehab facility. He was sent there by his girlfriend, also a drinker. While he's there over the Christmas season, he thinks about what led him to this point and he describes the relationships he forms there.
Murphy's Xmas | Mark Costello
Murphy wakes up with an injured fist and no memory of the previous night. He's going to his parents' home along with his estranged, pregnant wife and their son. Before leaving he asks his girlfriend, Annie, for forgiveness.
Babylon Revisited | F. Scott Fitzgerald
Charlie Wales returns to Paris to get back his daughter, Honoria. She has been living with his sister, Marion. Charlie is financially secure and has abandoned the partying and drinking that contributed to the death of his wife and loss of his daughter.
To Hell with Dying | Alice Walker
Mr. Sweet, an old man, is a diabetic, alcoholic, and a guitar player. When Mr. Sweet was on the brink of dying - which was often - the narrator's family would "revive" him with love and attention.
A Conversation with My Father | Grace Paley
The narrator's eighty-six-year-old father is dying with a heart problem. He asks her to craft a story for him before his death. She writes one about a mother and son who become addicts.
Read "A Conversation with My Father" Skipper | Alden Nowlan
Ethel and Rupert have five sons. Skipper is the youngest son, and Ethel wants to keep him from his father's world, the world that claimed her other four sons - working at the mill, getting drunk, and abusing his family.
Escapes | Joy Williams
The narrator, Lizzie, thinks about her life as a young girl with her mother, an alcoholic. After her father left, Lizzie and her mother spent a lot of time together.
In the Zoo | Jean Stafford
A visit to a zoo reminds two sisters of a childhood friend, an alcoholic with a lot of animals, who gave them a puppy. Their foster mother had a bad effect on the dog.
A Spinster's Tale | Peter Taylor
The narrator, Elizabeth, grew up in an all male household. Looking back, she relates some interactions with her father, her brother, and Mr. Speed. Her brother drank too much, and Mr. Speed was a repulsive drunk.
Diary of a Quitter | Ralph Reppert
The narrator decides to quit smoking. He relies on willpower, changes his diet, and takes frequent warm baths to help him stay away from cigarettes.
The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows | Rudyard Kipling
The narrator relates the story told him by Gabral Misquitta, a half-caste opium addict, six weeks before his death. It is of his life at Fung-Tching's opium den, including the experiences of others there.
Read "The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows" A Sale | Guy de Maupassant
Brument and Cornu are in court, accused of the attempted murder by drowning of Brument's wife. They were both intoxicated during the time in question. They explain their intentions to the judge.

The plot doesn't indicate it, but this is a lighthearted story.
Read "A Sale" An Alcoholic Case | F. Scott Fitzgerald
A nurse is staying with an alcoholic, trying to keep him from drinking and tending to his medical needs.
Read "An Alcoholic Case" A Beautiful Death | Adam Fout
A college student lives with her addiction.
Read "A Beautiful Death" The Lost Decade | F. Scott Fitzgerald
A visitor, Louis Trimble, enters an editor's office. Orrison Brown is instructed to take Trimble to lunch because Trimble feels he has been away a long time.
Read "The Lost Decade"
I will try to add more stories that deal with drugs and addiction for avid readers and possibly students.

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Short Stories About Drugs, Alcohol and Addiction

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In these short stories, characters will be dealing with drug or alcohol addiction. Often, we will see the effect of this on the user and those around them. These stories will show the consequences of the user's behavior, and sometimes chronicle their struggle to quit.

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In his Oscar-winning film, an American cyclist plunges into a vast doping scandal involving a Russian scientist -- Putin's most-wanted whistleblower. Watch trailers & learn more.

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Eating-disorder recovery is not easily definable. Recovery and survival from any trauma, mental illness, addiction, or disembodiment of self looks and feels different to and for everyone.

One thing is certain: Eating disorders do not discriminate. And all too often, they are neither obvious nor visible in presentation. All too often, they are stigmatized, or silenced altogether.

As a writer, performer, and body empowerment advocate, I have spent much of my life sharing my eating-disorder survival story. And still, it feels impossible to perfectly articulate the deadly mental illness that is an eating disorder, as the journey of survival is uniquely personal.

We heard from a diverse array of individuals worldwide who have experienced various eating disorders and experiences with body image, who describe their survival in myriad ways. Here are some of the many stories we received.

-Caroline Rothstein

As a 12-year-old with full-blown anorexia, I was involuntarily institutionalized after having an eating disorder-induced seizure. The institution was not equipped to deal with eating disorders, and their only plan of action was to watch me eat, shower, and sleep to ensure I didn't throw up, exercise, or throw my food away. I was treated less as a medical patient and more like a criminal, unable to privately mourn the loss of my innocence and adolescence.

This was my first insight into how our health care system is unprepared to treat eating disorder survivors, a travesty compounded by society's rigid physical ideals for women. Survivors could best be served by the development of new treatment options targeted at modifying harmful behaviors and by eroding patriarchal visions of the female body. Instead, we are treated like social outliers who are shamed and told we have taken things too far. Denying the existence of sexism is a historically convenient method of the ignorant, and to tell an eating disorder survivor that our plight is of self-creation is to validate the disproportionate and unrealistic physical expectations for women that have permeated every aspect of society.

I will never forget the first time I saw my own reflection without wanting to see less of it. It took years for me to regain control of my life and body, both of which deserved respect and love after having spent years as a battleground. Sharing my story was the first step toward total recovery and remains my personal form of resistance. By speaking out, we can reduce the shame and stigma associated with eating disorders and give courage to millions of survivors.

- Jaclyn Munson

My story begins at age 4. I was extremely underweight for my height and age; however, my grandmother told I had "arms like ham" and was "getting chubby." I spent my entire childhood surrounded by weight stigma - whether it was from my grandmother constantly telling me to "go on a diet" or comparing my own body to my friends'.

At 12, I went on what I described as a "very strict diet." I had no clue what anorexia was. I thought it was when someone literally never ate anything due to some underlying emotional problem, when, in reality, accordingly to my personal understanding and experience, it's a disease that manifests in the mind; an utter fear of weight gain. It does not have a specific physical appearance. It does not pick particular races or genders. It just is.

My "diet" left me with a failing liver, a problematic heart, hair loss, and osteopenia. I went into treatment for anorexia and fully came to terms with my disease, and began to believe that I did not choose this. Anorexia was like a light switch that lived inside my brain, turned off for most of my life. The stigma surrounding my weight is what turned it on.

For me, I will never turn my anorexia off. It's always going to be a struggle. I can, however, dim the lights. Now, at 16, I remain recovered without relapse. Although every day I see girls in magazines and in person with tiny waists, I am fighting. I am alive. I almost lost my life, and my life is much more important than my weight. Someday, I think I will 100% believe I am beautiful, and I will do that on my own terms, without the help of a boy or Instagram likes. Until then, I remain a 16-year-old girl still surrounded by weight stigma and slowly, but surely, learning to be comfortable with myself.

-Meg Masseron

My eating disorder was a unicorn in shape. I was never terrified of certain foods. I never truly thought I was fat. While I didn't use my mathematically inclined mind to count calories, I used it to balance an equation in my head: an equation of worth. Growing up, food was taken away when I was bad. In my mind, I equated it to not being worth food at all. I took that mind-set to college, with a bit of freedom, resulting in a streak of bingeing. Each episode left me with this feeling of worthlessness. One might say it contributed to my leaving college after a violent sexual assault campus police refused to do anything about left me feeling even more worthless.

But I was worth the physical demands of the military. I was worth the possibility of dying. During my time in the Air Force, I was told repeatedly that I was nothing. Things I recited to myself for years were now coming out of the lips of those in charge of me. If there was any doubt I didn't deserve to be alive, let alone eat, it was eradicated. Ultimately, I was kicked out for having an eating disorder, deemed unable to deploy and unfit for service. As a parting gift, the military paid for my first treatment stint.

A couple of years passed before I needed treatment again, this time due to a severe heart problem from malnourishment. I have never been so humbled and humiliated as those days I had to go into work with a feeding tube. I think I needed that. I couldn't hide the fact I had an eating disorder by lying or saying I had a fast metabolism. I had something sticking out of my nose that couldn't be ignored. After six months in treatment and the best psychiatrist I have ever had, I have been weight restored and behavior-free for two years. I have found balance. I have found that you assign your own worth. By assigning your own worth, you afford and deny yourself opportunities. So set that worth high. Happiness is not a destination, it's moments. You won't get moments of happiness if you feel worthless, because you won't believe you deserve them. I want you to know: You deserve them.

-K.F.

When I was in college, I developed a binge-eating disorder. As a transgender man, my body already caused me a great deal of discomfort and emotional pain, and it seemed almost natural to take my stress and anxiety out on my physical self. The summer after freshman year of college, I was living at home, binge-eating most nights. In my mind, I was weak; I didn't have the discipline to restrict eating, and I was running to try to counteract the eating. Almost a year later, back at college, I woke up and couldn't make myself eat. I just sat staring at my kitchen, crying.

The Emily Program in St. Paul, Minnesota, might be the greatest place in the world to learn how to save your own life. My therapist and nutritionist were patient, constantly morphing a treatment plan to fit where I was at. They helped me understand binge eating, and gave me the strength to identify my bingeing as a disorder, not a weakness, and work to relearn healthy habits.

While in recovery, a teacher/mentor suggested I take steps to look into hormone therapy, that maybe making such positive changes might help me have a healthier relationship with my body. I've been on testosterone injections for two years and can honestly say testosterone is the reason I'll never have an eating disorder again. Putting such positive and affirming energy into my body and into making slow and steady changes to how I see myself pushes me to take care of myself in every aspect of life. I no longer see my body as something to fight against. I no longer see food as a weapon or as a punishment. Sometimes, when I am anxious or sad or stressed, I find myself getting a small urge to binge, but now I know I can trust myself to take care of myself.

When I look at myself now, I notice how I finally have a beard growing in, or how my face is sharpening and my hips are narrowing to a more masculine shape. I don't see a weak binger or someone who is nothing but an eating disorder they'll never crawl out of. For the first time in my life, without any second thought, I see someone strong who has survived and thrived. I see someone who has taken control of themselves and their body in a healthy, positive way. I see me.

- Miles Walser

There was no real moment when my recovery began. Where I said, "I've decided to get better" or could magically shut off the voice in my head. Simply facing the possibility of recovery was a long process in itself, like a flower sitting in the cold of winter and painfully turning toward the sun. Done so carefully, in fact, it doesn't even register the movement.

But there was a moment when I felt things shift; I was sprawled out in my college dorm room, workout clothes on, reprimanding myself with the typical shoulds and shouldn'ts, when a part of my mind or body or soul that I didn't know still existed burst bright and asked, "Why?"

I didn't have an answer, but my eating disorder had plenty. All the answers I knew so well. The ones that haunted me in my sleep and stole me from the day. The answers that had driven me to destroy myself for years. Somehow, though, while my mind continued relentlessly, I realized my answer didn't matter just yet because the question itself was strong enough. The place from where it came inside me was strong enough.

When I started my recovery, I had lost so much of who I was that, in order to find myself again, I had to start with what I knew: I love the sound of rain through an open window, I love my dog's sweet kisses, I love how the sun looks in winter.

In the beginning, that I was all I could recall, but the more I recovered, the more I remembered. What was even more exciting were the things I started to learn about myself for the first time. And even though they might look minuscule - like why I dance while making dinner, why I laugh so loud, why I asked "Why?" that day - I'm pretty sure they're the only things that really add up in the end.

-S.E. Carson

It was the mid-'60s, the Sexual Revolution was gaining traction, freedom was all around, and Twiggy hit the world stage, revered for her gaunt, skinny look. Suddenly, "thin was in," and I was an anomaly in a family of tall and rail-thin or short and petite; I was just an ordinary child in an ordinary body.

I am a survivor. I have more early memories of my eating disorder than I do of my siblings and family and school. At no point during the more than four decades following my initial hospitalization at age 6 was I able to get properly diagnosed and treated for my eating disorder, despite numerous attempts and cries for help on my part. This was my survivorship, to continue to excel until a major occupational fall from grace in my late forties found me in the treatment system - a system designed for teens and young women that did not want to hear how my older adult struggles and needs were different.

Now I am a survivor of the "treatment" system, a graduate of inpatient admissions where I learned new methods of self-destruction and hatred, where I was never skinny enough, sick enough, needy enough. I have become an "untouchable," whose needs exceed the capacity of treatment services, so they offer next to nothing. I am back in a race to the bottom, wondering, perhaps if I get sick enough, will they try to help me again?

-Sally Chaster

Growing up in a Jamaican-American household, food was an integral part of my childhood. I remember my grandmother preparing fried dumplings and plantains, church hymns playing in the background. Food was our greatest treasure. Food brought the family together. Food celebrated new beginnings and eased the wounds of life's untimely endings.

When I was 8, I was diagnosed with dermatomyositis, a muscle disease that caused me to spend most of my childhood in hospital rooms and wheelchairs, slowly gaining weight whilst swallowing prednisone hidden inside mint chocolate chip ice cream. My mom made it her duty to help me lose the weight through fad dieting. I've tried every single one. In fairness, my mother did the best she could. As a single mom, she felt the camaraderie of these shared diets brought us closer. However, as an adult, I began to experience a paralyzing fear of food. My "I'll start a new diet on Monday" mind-set lasted for 16 years as I compulsively ate and deprived my body. I was worried that I was not attractive enough. So obsessed and afraid no one would hire me as an actor if I didn't win the battle with the numbers on the scale, in February 2011 I attempted suicide and landed in the hospital for multiple days.

We do extreme things to our bodies because of those numbers. Numbers that cannot talk with us or love us. On March 20, 2014, I threw my scale in the trash, and to ensure I wouldn't rescue it, I threw chicken stock on it. I have had to practice looking in the mirror and telling myself I am beautiful. I have had to stop judging my belly, stop starving myself, stop getting on the scale and staring at those numbers. It took me years to find the courage to stop pressuring my body. Food is still an integral part of my life, and I still struggle to this day after living a life of "quick fixes." But, I have come to the realization that my life is more important than those numbers on the scale and that the quality of the life I live is more important than how I look in the mirror.

- Danielle Pinnock

If the hardest part is recognizing you have a problem, exercise addiction is the hardest problem to recognize. Only when mine descended into an eating disorder did I become fully aware of the power and control this condition had over my life and me. We are bombarded with health and fitness in the media to such an extent that even the most intense, devoted training programs seem acceptable and normal. Even whilst running and weight lifting far more than any man ever should, it wasn't until my weight started to dip alarmingly that anyone around me recognized I had a dual battle on my hands: exercise addiction and anorexia.

My story with this battle began with a lifelong fight against anxiety and depression. As someone who, excuse the pun, tends to run away from his problems, jogging and the gym became a sanctuary away from the intrusive thoughts, anxieties, and low moods. It was my buffer against the world. As the world became a scarier place, I felt the need to continually strengthen that buffer. No doctor or psychologist would explicitly tell me to stop exercising so much; they were conditioned to believe in the ample mental health benefits of it, even at my extreme end. By the time I decided I needed to take time off, my body was broken. I cried as I ran, hating myself for putting my body through hell. Unfortunately, that's when the eating disorder took over. If I wasn't exercising, I wasn't allowed to eat. I'd never experienced such a strong force in my life, and I gave in to it, allowing it to control everything I did, thought, and said.

My life turned around when I was threatened multiple times with inpatient treatment. However, my recovery has been hard-fought. I never lost that eating disorder voice, and it still screams to this day. What has helped most is recognizing life is made up of an infinite number of choices, whether we make them consciously or subconsciously. Eating is one such choice. By recognizing I had control over these choices, I was able to modify my eating and behaviors around exercise so I regained control of my body and life. Every meal, I choose to eat and eat well. If I have to do this for the rest of my life, so be it. Recovery is not an easy path, but it is the right one, and the one that takes the most strength to walk down.

-Ben Carter

My eating disorder was an evil, manipulative "friend." One of those mean-girl characters you see from afar kicking others when they're down. You think, Oh man, thank god that chick's not in my life - and then all of a sudden you're holding her bag and buying her lunch and chasing her to hang out. She makes fun of you, tells you you're worthless. Makes you cry and gets everyone to hate you. But you keep going back. Again and again. You know she's toxic and ruining your life, but you've given her the reins.

The first time I binged I was 7, and for a brief moment nothing else mattered. It made me numb and full and empty and outside of myself all at the same time. I had just been through multiple traumas, and that feeling was all I wanted. For the next 14 years, I chased the dragon. Into pre-diabetes and sleep apnea. Into being unable to fasten the seatbelt in my car. Into two suicide attempts and five hospitals. I chased it until I built my guard up so much I never had to worry about relationships, responsibility, or sex. I chased it until my friends left and my parents sought therapy. I chased it until it became my chosen identity, until the real me was so hidden I had no idea who she was.

One of the many things people don't get about an eating disorder is that it takes on a life of its own. It's bigger than anything you've ever seen. Bigger than you, your family, and the things you love. It has nothing to do with food. It is an illness, a disease, an addiction. A way to gain and lose control. To fill a void, mask a pain, punish, self-harm.

Despite all of the darkness, it also gave me a gift. It gave me recovery and the ability to be forced into learning how to love myself. It was survival for me to learn that I'm worthy. That I deserve to see how beautiful I am. That I deserve to let other people see it as well. My recovery allowed me to see how strong and amazing I am, and I'm forever grateful for my disorder. She was a mean bitch who kicked me around, but I stood up to her and gave her a hug and let her know everything was going to be OK. Like all mean girls, she just needed to know she was loved.

-Sara Romeo-White

For decades I kept my eating disorder a secret. I felt ashamed of the anorexia I developed at 11. The secret was like a bully in my mind. I envied anyone who could eat lunch and not feel guilty about it. I will never forget the awfulness of wanting to be like others, to be carefree, instead of caught in a vicious cycle with the eating disorder, not knowing which way is out.

I waited many years, until I was 55 and feeling recovered and strong within my sense of self, before publicly sharing my story. Throughout my journalism career of more than three decades, I did not disclose my illness to employers, because I wanted to be considered "normal," even though I was functioning on 5% of my brain at times. I also feared discrimination for disclosing a mental illness.

Unlike other serious illnesses that are considered acceptable, an eating disorder continues to face stigmatizing put-downs. Secrecy can seem the easier option. But the cost of trying to keep the illness hidden is that the illness is not dealt with fully and has permanent residence in the brain. To remove the stigma that causes much silent suffering, we need more people who have recovered to stand up and show this illness and the community at large that we are perfectly able to recover and live full and rewarding lives.

Recovery from an eating disorder requires a lot of courage; and for best results, to maintain recovery, it requires openness and acceptance in a village of people who understand and who care. We hear a lot of stories about people who are suffering, anorexia in particular. To counter this we need more people who have recovered, not only from anorexia but from all eating disorders, to share stories of life beyond the illness. By showing they are celebrating life deeply and meaningfully, people who have recovered can inspire and offer empathy and support in a way that those without experience of the illness may never know. Eating disorders need to be acknowledged openly. This is the best way to reduce their impact, the stigma, fear, loneliness, and isolation.

- June Alexander

The hardest part about having had an eating disorder was not knowing I had one. As a man and a person of color, I never had the space to be vulnerable and acknowledge my problem. The first thing you think with eating disorders is "white woman with body-image issues." As a late teen, all I saw were Cosmo covers outside of my community and friends experiencing this issue. I struggled with eating, thinking, I 'm not bad... I'm just skipping breakfast and maybe lunch. Plus, minority communities weren't pushing kale chips, affordable vitamins, and chia-seed drinks. I grew up with quarter-water juices, microwaveable chicken nuggets, and mom's "clean your plate" mantra with her heavy-handed servings and large decorative plates.

I was chubby in childhood - the side effects of asthma medicines that lasted well after I grew out of severe asthma. My mom called me "husky," just so I wouldn't think I was fat. I wanted to be normal, but nothing about looking in the mirror and suffering from depression is normal. I only now realize I was in denial, as I started taking it out on my body from 17 to 22. College didn't help, but somehow I took control. I did that alone and I'm lucky.

I wish we privileged the safety in masculinity to speak about this stuff, especially in communities of color and neighborhoods where healthy diets are a Catch-22. It's in no way a privilege to have gone through this as a man. My masculinity is and was constantly challenged by other men to have more bravado or by what women want or expect a man to be. If anything, being a black man makes the isolation worse. It creates a silence that many men haven't been able to emotionally maneuver. Manhood is often toted as something you need to prove. So men who have felt denied emotional vulnerability try to prove that they are actually hurting, perhaps masked by projecting, drugs or drinking, and being miserably violent to themselves and others. People think it's failing to achieve "beach body" that affects men in this way. But many roads to depression are brushed off: Be a man; be silent.

I still suffer from being through all that in silence. Being intentional on not eating alone or rewarding myself with particular types of food is how I started to challenge feeling alone in the mental fight. I realized the disorder went hand in hand with other issues. Ultimately, feeling comfortable with giving my all to fight the habits and healthily respond to obstacles - even something as simple as meditating prayer - is what brought me through.

-D.K. Wright

I've always felt like a fraudulent bulimic. Like I wasn't sick enough on some imaginary eating disorder scale. Like it never happened. The reason I felt this way was because I never sought any help. There is nothing in my medical records to say how many years bulimia took hold of my life. Nothing to show how unhappy I was for so long and how it affected me almost every day throughout my adolescence and twenties. No medication or rehab. No family intervention. Bulimia didn't even change my body shape. Nobody knew but me.

So I played it down in my head. Like it wasn't a big deal. In my twenties, being bulimic was just this thing that I did. I knew it was something I needed to deal with, but I still didn't like or love myself enough to take care of my own body. It was my way of punishing myself.

I often think of all the years I wasted and wish I'd spoke to someone earlier. It's only now I can acknowledge what I was doing to myself. You don't have to be on your deathbed to be experiencing those awful thoughts that flood your mind and the dangerous behaviors that go with them. I wonder how many other people are out there like me, who haven't spoken up.

There is no clear route out of an eating disorder or for pulling yourself out of that dark place. Recovery itself is a process. I am not bingeing and purging anymore, but have to work hard at it some days. Focusing on eating well and choosing good foods to fuel me. Having a support system. Speaking up when I need help. Not leaving it until it's too late.

-Nikki Wilson

My treatment, along with a degree in sociology, has taught me I starve, binge, purge - all in an attempt to gain control of something elusive but with the power to defeat me. Like any long-term relationship, negotiating my eating disorder with my body over the past 15 years - or even not having an eating disorder - has ebbed and flowed. There have been times I've soothed myself to sleep rubbing my fingers against a protruding hip bone, as if it were an analgesic pumice. At other times, I've pinched the excess fat above my hips between those same fingers in self-repulsion.

Then there are times I'm free from all that; I'm in this world, making sense of it, living in it, my body navigating like a trusty companion to the thoughts, feelings, and desires it houses. I've been a runner throughout my disease and recovery, and some of my happiest moments are when I'm running uphill in the park smelling honeysuckle and priding myself on feeling strong for pushing through the wind, the incline, and feeling my muscles at work under my skin. Then I'm like, Hey, body, we're in sync, and I feel present in the world. But what happens when that world is nonsensical? No matter how many sociology courses I've taken, or years in treatment I've spent, our culture rewards the discipline of dieting/juicing/detoxing and triangulates a relationship between thinness, success, and power. As much as my brain tells me not to read those headlines - to stay away from the Bermuda Triangle, sometimes, it sucks me in.

But then I tell myself that I'm in recovery, and as long as I'm living, I'm recovering. To me, recovery is about being present and feeling powerful because of what my body can do, not what it looks like. Eating disorders are distractions from being present. Everyone manages recovery differently, and I'm making my way, trying my hardest not to damage my body. If I slip up today, I'll try again tomorrow until I find balance, and I'm not thinking about the size of my body, but rather the scope of the world.

-Jill Di Donato

I always thought my eating disorder started in college. I now see how my thinking was distorted growing up; the behaviors just didn't manifest until college. I became a binge drinker and used alcohol to feel comfortable around people. When I went home during summer and was no longer drinking, the beginning of my eating-disorder behaviors began. I hid my eating disorder for years, while loved ones only saw my drinking as out of control.

Flipping between eating-disorder behaviors and drinking became my entire existence. I am lucky to be alive. In my late twenties, my parents threatened to drop me off at the county hospital or rehab; I chose rehab. When I went to rehab eight years ago, I left sober, yet incapable of eating without crying. I had no idea how to recover. I had a therapist, but felt alone in my journey, not yet knowing the evidenced-based treatment for eating disorders: It takes a village of therapists, psychiatrists, dietitians/nutritionists, coaches, and mentors. I scrambled alone for a year, relapsing over and over, until one day I had an aha moment driving by the beach: I had everything to lose and everything to gain by fighting for recovery.

What ultimately saved me was finding a voice for myself and being loud with it; by becoming an activist I had to stop hiding and worrying about how I was perceived. I told my parents what support I needed and we learned together. Since I felt alone in my dual diagnosis, I became a "voice in recovery" on social media, documenting my journey to educate myself about eating disorders, addictions, mental illness, mood disorders, and more.

Today, I am seven years booze-free - happy, healthy, and definitely far from perfect. I have days where I may struggle with body image, but I no longer seek to control my feelings through alcohol or food; I utilize healthy coping skills that work for me, and seek to be vulnerable with my activism and voice. It is OK to not be OK, OK to ask for help, OK to fall, fail, crash and burn, and relapse; recovery isn't a straight line, and it can be a long journey, but I wouldn't change it for the world. I am who I am due to all I had to work through. I love and know myself. My life is a gift, and I am forever grateful to live it fully, with love and kindness toward not only myself but in giving toward others who may struggle as well.

- Kendra Sebelius

I first had what I call "energy" around food after my mother died when I was 13. Undergoing puberty, all of a sudden I lost my original shape, the one that resembled childhood and being with my mom. Bitter breast cancer took my mother's life, I was sick of uncontrollable things happening, and I craved a sense of control. Food, exercise, and my body were things I could control. I was held captive by my disorder in college and even through culinary school.

By then I had developed osteoporosis, and I honestly was fed up (pun intended) with over-exercising and eating huge meals that left me bloated and tired. I checked myself into inpatient rehab and began recovery. I got my period and boobs back and started to feel somewhat at peace. I gained more than just weight - I felt like I gained back my identity. Although I looked healthy physically, I still had "energy" around food. I'd eat cookies and take days off from exercising, but I still felt guilty. Recovery to me meant I would be free of that guilt.

When my father died a few months after being diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, I re-evaluated that "energy" I had around food and weight. I was 24 and essentially an orphan. I saw my parents have their lives cut short and realized I was living - for nearly a decade - in a slow suicidal state. More than ever, I want to live. I wanted to be alive. Not just for me, but for my parents. I needed to be alive because they didn't get the chance to.

Last year, I had a preventative double mastectomy because I carried a high-risk hereditary breast cancer gene. I didn't exercise for weeks and didn't feel guilty about it. Being free of the disease that haunted my mother was more important. I finally got a taste (pun sort of intended, again) of real recovery and empowerment. It was a big F-you to cancer, my eating disorder, and my fears. I can't believe I spent so much of my life wanting there to be less of me. I don't regret my eating disorder because it shaped who I am today. I'm proud of the woman I am. I plan on being here for a while, and I still have so much more to gain.

-Eden Dranger

I struggled with anorexia as an adolescent and for many years as an adult, after already being well. Many people trying to help me didn't believe I would have lasting recovery. I am now fully recovered and live free of eating-disorder thoughts, behaviors, and feelings. Now, as a counselor, coach, advocate, and storyteller, I draw on my experiences and struggles to be an ally to others.

While people struggling with food, weight, and body issues and their families appreciate my "insider" knowledge and example of recovery, clinical professionals are more reserved, acknowledging my experiences but remaining cautious of my helping others as a "peer." They forget that I am a peer to them, offering a unique ability to bridge the gap between both worlds.

I speak up in places and with people that are receptive while still pushing the envelope. Current ways of understanding and treating people affected by eating disorders need to be challenged and expanded. It is important they hear stories based in strength. That they see a path to recovery focused on all aspects of life and experience, where bodies are not only restored but where lives are reclaimed. Where people are not seen only in light of their struggle but as whole beings able to live the life they choose.

- Ellie Hodges

Rainer Maria Rilke says, "Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer." I have recently gathered enough courage to ask: What would be possible if I truly loved every single part of myself unconditionally? Who would I be hurting if I stopped apologizing for the amount of time and space I fill? How explosively liberating could it feel if I stopped believing that my beauty and worth are created only by a man's desire to see me naked? What would be possible if I allowed myself to deeply, honestly, radically, vulnerably, and unconditionally live these questions?

Every so often, I pause to listen to the way I speak or observe the way my hands move. Every time, I am overwhelmed that my body, exactly how it exists at this moment, is the converging point of all the interactions I have ever had with every person I have ever met. My sense of humor has my sister's laughter seeping out of it. I peel Fuji apples with the same technique I watched my mother use during her elementary school lunch-packing years.

My story, as I tell it these days, is a moment of gratitude for all of the women throughout my life who have helped to build the spaces in which we can begin to love ourselves. I carry all of them, and all of our sacred spaces, in the deep core of my being. To my mother, grandmother, and sister: You remind me that the skin on my bones was made possible by a long lineage of women who believe that the act of feeding others and sharing food is an intimate act of love and communion. To honor my body is the best way I know how to say thank you.

-Melanie Hsu

RESOURCES:
Here are several resources for seeking help if you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder. For clinical definitions of eating disorders, mental illnesses, and addictions, you can visit the DSM-V website.

These organizations have trained support available by phone:

National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders Helpline: 1-630-577-1330

Binge Eating Disorder Association Helpline: 1-855-855-BEDA

National Eating Disorder Association Helpline: 1-800-931-2237

The Trevor Project Lifeline: 1-866-488-7386

And these organizations are some of the countless others worldwide providing eating disorder prevention and support, and body-positivity resources and education:
Mental Fitness, Inc. Trans Folx Fighting Eating Disorders Men Get Eating Disorders Too The Body Is Not An Apology Nalgona Positivity Pride

Caroline Rothstein is a New York City-based writer, performer, body empowerment advocate, and educator. She tours nationwide performing spoken word poetry and facilitating workshops, and is also a journalist, documentary film producer, and activist.

Contact Caroline Rothstein at caroline.rothstein@gmail.com.

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Eating-disorder recovery is not easily definable. Recovery and survival from any trauma, mental illness, addiction, or disembodiment of self looks and feels different to and for everyone. One thing is certain: Eating disorders do not discriminate. And all too often, they are neither obvious nor visible in presentation.

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Directed by Darren Aronofsky. With Ellen Burstyn, Jared Leto, Jennifer Connelly, Marlon Wayans. The drug-induced utopias of four Coney Island people are shattered when their addictions run deep.

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Directed by Erik Skjoldbjærg. With Christina Ricci, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Jessica Lange, Anne Heche. A young woman struggles with depression during her first year at Harvard.

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In the ethereal world of glitz and glamour that is Hollywood, not everything is as it seems. Most of the TV and film plots that come out of the Hollywood hills these days are either severely exaggerated or just completely outlandish. Characters are over the top, and situations depicted never seem quite believable. While this seems to be a pattern that reigns true over much of Hollywood, there are still those films released that truly remain culpable to their audience and the validity of their films' subject matter. This feeling of authenticity is important for audiences, but even more so when it comes to films about addiction. With the disease of addiction having such a poor reputation of being completely misunderstood and even reviled by the ignorant, accurate representation on the subject matter is vital. In order to stop perpetuating outdated stigmas and even just flat out false information surrounding addiction, we need accurate portrayals of what addiction is really like. After wading through the good and the bad, here is a list of ten accurate films about addiction.

Released in1995, The Basketball Diaries is not your typical, run of the mill, coming of age story. It's the story of a young boy with a talent and passion for basketball growing up in the streets of New York City, navigating through school and home life. The protagonist seems like your average everyday kid, much like all addicts are before they begin using, until he gets hooked on heroin. The reason this is such a great film about addiction is because the natural progression of the disease is clearly depicted. It touches on a variety of different aspects of addiction so often left out of film and TV. As his habit grows, so do his consequences. It's an interesting narrative in the sense that no matter how talented or gifted someone may be, the disease of addiction knows no bounds. It can happen to anyone. The film follows the protagonist through his rise, fall, and ultimate rebirth in such an honest and raw fashion that the audience can't help but find empathy for him.

Originally released in 2001, Blow is a film that follows the life of George Jung, an infamous cocaine kingpin who came to power in the 1970's and reigned until the mid 1980's. Though classified as a crime drama, this movie definitely feels more like a film about addiction. It's biopic nature gives you real insight into the struggles George Jung faced not only judicially, but physically and emotionally with addiction. Despite having so much money and unlimited power, even the possibility of losing everything could not keep George Jung off cocaine. The descent into madness he experiences as a result of the drugs quickly takes over as the main focus of the film, which artfully and truthfully represented the ugly side of a drug that was so popular at that time.

The Wolf of Wall Street is one of those rare films that maintain such a high re-watch value, and there's a very good reason why. The story centers on stockbroker Jordan Belfort, and his subsequent rags-to-riches story featuring numerous debaucheries along the incline. This is such an accurate film about addiction because not only is the actual drug displayed in both a graphic and consistent manner throughout the film, but also the side effects and comedowns from the drugs were masterfully replicated by the actors themselves. Most films tend to possess merely subtle suggested drug use or simply depict the actual high. The Wall of Wall Street goes much deeper. It once again drives home that no one is immune to becoming enslaved by addiction. The desperation in Jordan's voice for the drugs even as his life is in serious danger is haunting, and any addict instantly recognizes that tone as one they've used themselves.

Another coming of age film circa 2003, yet this time from the female perspective. Thirteen touches on sensitive subject matter our society likes to shy away from, such as drug use, discovering one's female sexuality, and real life traumas- the combination of the two may harbinger. This is an accurate film about addiction because it really hones in on the power of peer pressure; how so many addicts start out using. All it took for a seemingly well-rounded girl to descend down the dark road of addiction and other risk-taking behaviors was the encouragement of one bad influence. It's an accurately frightening look at the vulnerability of pre-teens and just how important the company they keep is.

An Australian indie film released in 2005, Candy is an accurate film about addiction to both drugs and love. The film is divided into three main acts: Heaven, Earth, and Hell, which describe the young lovers at the center of the movie's journey through addiction. Even the titles of the acts alone vehemently reinforce that same experience with drugs every addict goes through from the first time they use until the last time. The film also examines closely the relationship between drug abuse and romance, which many times unfortunately, go hand in hand.

This particular film is extremely graphic in nature in both the depiction of the drug use as well as the various repercussions the characters experience. While some of the physiological reactions to the drugs are a little bit off base, this is an accurate film about addiction in the sense that it portrays very successfully just how dark the path down the road of addiction is. It also shows the different characters experience different consequences as a result of their using, exploring all the different avenues that addiction leads to. The film leaves the viewer with a solemn feeling after witnessing the very graphic final scenes of the movie, driving home the point that using is not glamorous.

Trainspotting is a 1996 film that follows a group of friends who are members of the London underbelly that try to navigate through life with skewed morals. The main protagonist within the first few moments of the film explains and displays the desperation many addicts are faced with. The depravity and humiliation the characters experience are testaments to the true nature of addiction. The movie is an accurate film about addiction, because the subject matter that's touched upon (disintegration of relationship, HIV, and even death) is not skated over and very truthfully depicted, as well as the main character's struggle to find long-term sobriety despite being so desperate for it.

The 2012 drama is an accurate film about addiction because it gives a very interesting perspective into drug and alcohol abuse. The main character is a seemingly successful commercial pilot, who's secret struggles with drugs and alcohol are violently brought to the surface after an accident in the sky. Despite him pulling off a miraculous landing, with the loss of life paling in comparison to what should've been, it still isn't enough to take scathing eyes and harsh judgements from the general public off of him. While very sad, this unfortunate judgement and blame is often placed upon addicts by people who don't want to understand addiction. The movie also shows the realities of living a life as a reasonably functioning drug addict, as there are so many among us who don't even recognize they have an issue.

Released in 1998, this film centers around two men who embark on a psychedelic drug binge and tear their way through the city of Las Vegas. It is an accurate film about addiction because despite their situation going from bad to worse as more and more mayhem ensues as a result of their drug use; the duo opts to instead ingest more and more psychedelic drugs as a solution to their problems. It very accurately depicts the insanity of addiction, as well as the types of chaotic situations addicts often find themselves in.

The final movie on this list is none other than the critically acclaimed 1994 drama Forrest Gump. While many would not immediately identify this as an accurate film about addiction, or a film about addiction at all, one of the key story lines in the complex plot of the film is that of none other than Forrest's love interest Jenny. Jenny is originally depicted as a sweet little girl, how all addicts start out. After a series of unfortunate events befall Jenny, such as abuse and death of her family members, Jenny begins to use drugs as a method to cope with the emotional turmoil. This film accurately shows how some addicts begin using simply because of the external trauma they encounter, and it documents Jenny's descent into depression and even suicidal ideations. Not even the kindness shown to her by Forrest was enough to pull Jenny back from oblivion, demonstrating the destructive and powerful hold addiction has on addicts.

With so much misinformation continually circulating regarding addiction, it is important to take note and appreciate the films that accurately depict addiction in its true raw, ugly, destructive form in lieu of the fun and glamorous way so much more popular amongst viewers. It's imperative we see addiction and drug abuse for what it really is in order to better understand what we're really dealing with. Once we can perpetuate facts, and help people understand it more completely as a whole, we can truly begin fighting back.

Your First Step Is Your First Call

If you or someone you love is struggling with addiction, call Your First Step. Our experienced team of addiction professionals will work with you to find the treatment facility that perfectly suits your needs. We are available around the clock to answer any and all of your questions. As recovering addicts ourselves, treating you with the compassion and respect your deserve is our top priority. Make your recovery a reality right now and call Your First Step.

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10 Films About Addiction That Actually Get it Right

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In the ethereal world of glitz and glamour that is Hollywood, not everything is as it seems. Most of the TV and film plots that come out of the Hollywood hills these days are either severely exaggerated or just completely outlandish. Characters are over the top, and situations depicted never seem quite believable.

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With Netflix making a conscious effort to up its documentary options, it's a fine time to comb through its vast and varied library to see what's already available with respect to nonfiction films about some of today's most pressing problems. Amid works exploring gay rights, women's sexual and reproductive health, and international child welfare, there is a small but strong assortment of documentaries on the wide range of issues surrounding drugs of both the legal and illegal variety.

An antidote to the one-sided cautionary fare we were served in high school health class, the 11 films below help in understanding illicit and prescription drugs as substances that are both helpful and harmful, in ways you might not expect. With legalization and decriminalization bound to play a recurring and divisive role in upcoming elections, it's helpful to know what's what. While by no means a comprehensive voter's education, this modest selection isn't a bad place to start.

1. 'The House I Live In'

If you thought America's longest war is the one still creeping along in Afghanistan, think again. The Afghan war will have lasted for 15 years by the time it ends, but the war on drugs is already 40 and not without extreme casualties: $1 trillion in government spending, 45 million arrests and the incarceration of 2.3 million men and women. Filmmaker Eugene Jarecki brings these statistics to life through a mix of interviews, street footage and prison footage that won him a Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival in 2012. The takeaway: Rather than a problem to be fixed by law enforcement, drug abuse must be reframed as a matter of public health. Watch it, because, as the Boston Globe , it's your civic duty.

2. 'American Addict'

We're all more or less aware of the destructive powers of cocaine, meth, heroin and LSD, but it's easy to forget that drugs of the prescription variety can prove just as perilous. This controversial documentary shines an unforgiving light on the forces - doctors, the Food and Drug Administration, Big Pharma and the media - colluding to keep it that way. Their goal: to ensure that America's vast landscape of medical problems continues to be treated with pills, whether or not they're the most effective course of action.

3. 'Lynching Charlie Lynch'

When Morro Bay, Calif., resident Charles C. Lynch opened a city-sanctioned medical marijuana dispensary in 2006, he was the image of good business practice: He obtained all necessary licenses and permits and was welcomed as a member of the local Chamber of Commerce. Lynching Charlie Lynch explores how the clash between state and federal marijuana laws allowed for this law-abiding citizen who'd never so much as been given a parking ticket to be prosecuted, convicted and jailed for drug trafficking.

4. 'National Geographic: World's Most Dangerous Drug'

In case you can't tell from the title, this documentary serves as a cautionary tale and then some. It exposes, for example, the premature aging meth causes, making use of some harshly unsettling photo comparisons to make the consequences abundantly clear. But in true National Geographic style, it also takes a global perspective, relying heavily on field reporting and firsthand video footage to map the drug's devastating effects on communities worldwide.

5. 'Drugs, Inc.'

This series, also from the National Geographic crew, charts the full supply chain of the illicit drug trade from production, export and sale to consumption. While only two of its five seasons are available on Netflix, they're enough to paint the million-dollar industry as the two-sided coin that it is: a major source of international violence and crime that also provides a livelihood for thousands of impoverished workers across the globe.

6. 'Orgasm, Inc.'

"Is a drug going to help them? Maybe if it has a map of the clitoris on the box," Carol Queen of the Good Vibrations Antique Vibrator Museum quips partway through this film, dubbed "as entertaining as it is revelatory" by the New York Times. As human rights documentarian Liz Canner follows the medical companies race to create the first FDA-approved cure for female sexual dysfunction, it becomes increasingly clear that the disease is more a moneymaking tactic than a reality. Like Roy Moynihan of the British Medical Journal says about the pharmaceutical industry, "There's a lot of money to be made telling healthy people they're sick."

7. 'Cash Crop'

It's surely no coincidence that this pro-pot flick was released just in time for the 2010 election, when the Regulate, Control and Tax Cannabis Act ( Proposition 19) made its way onto the California ballot. Though the timing didn't have the desired effect and the documentary failed to garner much critical attention, it's well worth a watch for its colorful portrait of Northern California's Emerald Triangle, a region where landmark medical marijuana laws have led cannabis farming to replace logging and fishing as a main source of income.

8. 'Coca Lives'

The coca plant contains the psychoactive alkaloid cocaine, but that's only the beginning of this story. It's also been used for both medicinal and ritual purposes for thousands of years in Andean communities. Furthermore, the ancestral farming of its leaves was the livelihood of 70,000 families at the time this sobering documentary explored the consequences of coca illegalization by the Bolivian government. Director Roberto Lanza is particularly interested in the economic and military pressure the United States used to enforce the coca ban, suggesting that rather than simply wanting to reduce cocaine smuggling across borders, there's a more complex international dynamic at play.

9. 'Weed Wars'

"Patients come first at Harborside" is the motto espoused by Steve DeAngelo. But DeAngelo isn't a doctor and Harborside isn't a medical clinic. DeAngelo is a renowned cannabis activist and the site in question is the nation's largest medical marijuana dispensary. The four-episode series focuses on some of the 95,000 patients the Oakland business serves, portraying Harborside's business struggles in a way that make it seem like any other family-run enterprise. Though critics of Weed Wars have questioned the legitimacy of certain patients' medical needs, it's impossible to ignore how deliberately and effectively the show challenges the lazy stoner stereotype.

10. 'Cocaine Cowboys'

Thanks to an overabundance of dead-body closeups, this documentary might make you think you're back in high school health class. But these shots aren't so much a scare tactic as a dramatic ploy in what is at times an overdramatic take on the cocaine-trafficking boom in 1970s and '80s Miami. Cocaine Cowboys does manage to introduce an impressive cast of characters on all sides of the issue - smugglers, cops, reporters, importers, coroners and snitches. And it gives an interesting account of the city's transformation from drowsy retirement destination to teeming cosmopolitan center, a transformation that would have never happened without the economics of the drug trade.

11. 'Following Sean'

One way to garner instant attention as a young filmmaker is to capture a 4-year-old giddily boasting about smoking grass. Such was the case for Ralph Arlyck, whose 1969 Sean offered a 15-minute portrait of the son of a rather open-minded pair of San Francisco drug addicts. In the Emmy-nominated sequel, Arlyck explores the legacy of the '60s while searching for the little boy who's grown up into a devoted husband and father pursuing a law degree while working full-time as an electrician. Of course, we'd never condone his parents' irresponsible behavior, but the film kind of makes you wonder: If the kid turned out so normal, can it really be all that bad?

Correction: Aug. 20, 2014
An earlier version of this article misspelled researcher Ray Moynihan's name.

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11 Netflix Documentaries That Will Change the Way You Think About Drugs

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With Netflix making a conscious effort to up its documentary options, it's a fine time to comb through its vast and varied library to see what's already available with respect to nonfiction films about some of today's most pressing problems. Amid works exploring gay rights, women's sexual and reproductive health, and international child welfare, there is a small but strong assortment of documentaries on the wide range of issues surrounding drugs of both the legal and illegal variety.