Change is Hard

If people refuse to look at you in a new light and they can only see you for what you were, only see you for the mistakes you’ve made, if they don’t realize that you are not your mistakes, then they have to go.”

Steve Maraboli

Change is Hard

Of course, change is hard. It is always hard. That’s the one thing about change, is that, well, it never changes.

2020 has arrived, and I have the opportunity to choose a contrasting color, and create an innovative and fresh new picture. I’d let so much of my life be colored, scribbled on, or crumpled up and tossed on the ground by other people. It never became much of a picture at all.

Today I am designing an extraordinary piece of art. Do I know what it will look like when completed? No, of course not. But I have an idea. I have a conception, because this time, it is me who is holding the brush.

When I paint, I put the paint on my blank canvas, and I smudge it around a bit, not yet choosing what it is I’m to paint. If I analyze it too hard, or I try to recreate a Society 6 or a Deviantart form I’ve envied, I fail miserably. But if I wait a bit, relax, and keep shifting and stretching the colors in different techniques with varied strokes, invariably, a marvel occurs. An image appears and one I admittedly had not thought of consciously. As the art begins to express itself as it takes shape, and there is a quickening in my spirit, and so I begin.

I have shifted the course of this website, and what it still will ultimately become is not known yet. We’ll call it an intuitive creation and collaboration. Everything ultimately hinges on submissions by visitors, contributions of material and organic growth (word of mouth/likes and shares), as I lack the financial means to purchase advertising or market at this time.

The entries on this blog, that writing before 2020 came from a surely broken, and betrayed woman. Having felt utterly abandoned, and discarded, I was a woman who never intended to harm anyone. But I did hurt others and paid dearly. I still will continue to write as my addiction from drugs, alcohol, and self-injury has evolved into an addiction to every thesaurus, Grammarly, word hippo, and writing tools I can get my hands on. I have become a fearless idiot; I suppose, one might say.

So The Write Effect accomplished what it needed to for the time being, and that meant to clear away the previously immovable boulders blocking the life flow of ideas and energy. The injury and residual damage that combined and collected from decades of emotional control and psychological abuse is no longer mine to own. I am no longer the keeper of guilt and shame. Thus as I am evolving, so is this site. The Write Effect has taken a new course of direction; moreover, that is to create and affect positive change in the lives of others, as this was never about me. But about God’s will and so I begin wavingwhite.com, a new voyage, with a final foreign destination.

The trauma of narcissistic abuse required that I adopt many unhealthy coping mechanisms, which addiction and alcoholism were always the front runners. I know that at the time, these mechanisms saved my ass from further self-injury and suicide. There is room for zero debate on that with me. I also believe in the chemical “hook” of addiction, which I’ve written previously. But there is a way out. And this is why change needs to happen.

Change is messy, inconvenient, confusing, and frustrating as my writings will showcase from time to time. Until the submissions of recovery from addiction come rolling in, you’re stuck with me.

I am still working on email mapping for the domain but you are encouraged to continue to submit your stories of recovery and how it has changed your life. For the time being my personal email may be used as well. It is a secret menu item from Jamba Juice…not so secret anymore. 🙂 Pinkburst@outlook.com. Thank you for your continued patience as I have worried that I might have gotten in slightly over my head, but that’s what dreams do, right? They take you into the deep end, and it is only there that you learn how to swim.

God Bless

Kacie Brockman -Recovering Alcoholic/Addict.

Remember, you can always redefine yourself. That’s one beautiful aspect about change. You are never stuck in a box that you or someone else placed you in.

Catch Me If You Can

As the once majestic horses climbed and descended pitifully impaled upon their poles, we should have realized that we would soon become them. Piercing through our existence was the dark entity we knew only as our master. Mercilessly driving us to go up and down for eternity and round in circles for infinity. And all anyone could do was watch in horror…or turn away.

Catch Me If You Can

Euphoric Recall – One Addict’s Interpretation

Part 1 of 2

By Kacie Brockman

 Euphoric Recall during early recovery from substance abuse can be brutal and relentless. Triggers are the mosquito-like ghosts of just about anything your consciousness experienced during active addiction. Body and mind have been chemically and/or neurologically changed and a hyper-awareness of what might normally appear insignificant can “trigger” or awaken Euphoric Recall. This can be people, places, and things as we all are aware of, but it can detect even the bare minimum of a correlation and become a trigger. The smell from a neighbor’s barbeque, the tart iciness of a slushie, or maybe simply the sound of a cat purring. It’s crazy, right? So why exactly then is it that Euphoric Recall is the main culprit in so many relapses? This two-part article intends to redefine this discreet little homewrecker, many of us in recovery have at times considered harmless, or just a daydream. Alcoholics and Addicts alike, both in and out of recovery frequently like to meander way out to our mind’s backlot of memories, many of them fragmented, but nonetheless continue to linger around waiting to be picked up and polished off.

Considering that we might wait for days sometimes for the tiny ping of a returned text notifying us that the connect has come through. Driving 30 miles out of town, 30 miles back, only to then tweeze leg stubble until the sun rises too quickly as if to chastise us before the rest of society does. While we are pursuing bits of nothing that ever lasted, nothing that could be touched or tasted, or heard or seen, our very real, tangible, life sustaining reality is crumbling at our feet, yet we barely take notice.

Now once upon a time, those tiny specks supplied the perfect safety release. All the intrinsic and pervasive emotions, the shit emotions they could be called, would simply vanish into thin air. Emotional trauma, chaos, fear, anxiety, rage, confusion, humiliation, isolation, abandonment, not-good-enough, rejection, all of it, any of it was gone. POOF! Just like that. They were GONE. EVERY SINGLE BIT OF IT…. GONE. I’m really trying to make a point here guys. GONE.

I was 11 when I conceived of suicide for the first time. My son is 11. This continues to bewilder me. What on earth could possibly have occurred in that brief period of an 11-year-old’s lifespan to bring forth the need to escape reality that badly? I was 13 when I found my first safety release valve, and so I stayed alive. I truly believe these mechanisms evolve out of the need to sustain life. I cannot substantiate that with any empirical evidence, or any evidence at all for that matter, other than the fact that I am still here to write this article. How about you? How old were you if or when the thought of dying drifted across your mind and sounded better than living? So tragic that what we believed was saving us was taking us into a new dimension of fear, the kind that only nightmares are made of. So, let’s recap, shall we? Euphoric Recall will have us analyzing our first few times of riding the carousel of catastrophes. We blot or blur out most, if not all, of the miserably misguided events that soon followed. All that remained was unparalleled confidence, bliss. Still, most of all, we’d been extricated from some emotional wreckage, that which many of us were far too young even to identify, let alone articulate and navigate through. That which we were experiencing when we initially got loaded or high or buzzed or stopped eating, we would then spend a significant portion of our lives running after that which we will never catch. Does that appear to be a logical, rational being? Or does that sound sick? Sadly, many who’ve not experienced addiction themselves or up close and personal have decided that it is within the addict’s cognitive capacity to think about the behavior and the consequences. So it is determined that they possess a clear and deliberate attempt to manipulate, lie, cheat, steal, betray, harm, even in the worst of cases, kill?

As I am about to deviate off-topic, please stay with me. Weigh the possibility of a chemical or neurological “hook” that is fastened into the mind of a future addict. What if it was not only plausible but probable? What if, the first few times or so that experimentation occurred, a bond or attachment to specifically compatible receptors did, in fact, occur. So hypothetically, a particular genetic disposition or makeup combined with trauma (i.e., post-Vietnam addicted vets) determines why one is an addict, and one is not. Now take the word (hypothetical) out and replace it with the word “Scientifically.” How does it all look now? Are we still the dredge of society? The junkies, the addicts, the unsightly homeless population tarnishing your exceptional communities? Are we still the lepers that you read about in Church on Sundays? Because if we are, look beside you. Your son, your sister, your spouse…it can occur at any time to anyone. I was 42 when I tipped over and became an alcoholic, and I was 44 when I became addicted to crystal methamphetamine. Before that, I was a child care provider and worked in the legal field. It can strike anyone at any time. So don’t just look beside you, look in front of you, into a mirror. It might just as well be you. “There but for the grace of God goes John Bradford.” 

Scientific research is, in fact advancing in the field of addiction and recovery, that one person’s brain is far more susceptible to addiction than another’s might be.

Biology of Addiction, Drugs and Alcohol Can Hijack Your Brain


SAMHSA’s National Helpline – 1-800-662-HELP (4357)

SAMHSA’s National Helpline is a free, confidential, 24/7, 365-day-a-year treatment referral and information service (in English and Spanish) for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.


Carousel of Pain

Euphoric Recall – One Addicts Interpretation

Part 2 of 2

By Kacie Brockman

Trigger is the ever so slight nudge of awareness to Euphoric Recall. Euphoric Recall is the memory of the first ride, or the good times. And when these memories are held onto for too long, and polished just so….almost as if a genies lamp were to be polished, suddenly the harmless daydream erupts into a cloud of circus-like confetti blotting out years, perhaps even decades that we spent in chains, bound to a ruthless master. Some of us might stay just a bit too long, holding onto that memory. As we commence to look around, we see the last of the confetti floating to the ground softly, encompassing our feet, and we relive going to the amusement park for the very first time.

There was nothing like the first time as we climbed onto the carousel of what we believed would be the ride of our lives, the epitome of absolute unbridled freedom. Some of us chose the beautiful running horses while others picked the curious, exotic animals. And when it began, how exciting, and fun and free we felt for the first time, we were ungoverned adults now. While the whimsical melody played along, many of us believed we were free from control, we were adults now who should never have to answer to anyone ever again! But alas, the ride ended much to quickly and so we wanted to go back, and again. But suddenly the ride changed, we didn’t know exactly when but it stopped being fun. And then, it started to become scary actually. Before long were we thrown off our magic carousel and forced to walk, sometimes crawl, or run even as we were chained to the ride. After a minute, the brightly colored animals were now dark and gruesome, as if the electrical current surging through the machinery was far too hot, burning and charring the exotic zebras, giraffes, and gazelles black from the inside out. The once carefree experience of the ride had destroyed its very own. So it only seemed fitting that we became the animals which we once carelessly floated upon, and it was us forced to go round in circles, over and over. It was as if the lethal acidity was feasting upon our pain and despair. By absorbing all the energy produced from the misery of thousands and thousands of poor shackled souls, the show could go on. We became nothing but a sideshow of suffering, while the corrosive compounds and lethal toxins we proceeded to consume in vast quantities began to play havoc with our minds.

All of this to silence the consuming fear. I can recall the relentless and merciless vows of retribution that my sickened mind would convince me of should I ever break loose and run for freedom? The irony of this entire metaphor is that it is the ride, it is our addiction that will deliver these horrifying consequences, not surrender, recovery, and step-work. Looking back, most if not all of us realize that the sense of sheer dread created by this masquerade of some meridian was all an illusion. Smoke and mirrors. As the once majestic horses climbed and descended pitifully impaled upon their poles, we should have realized that we would soon become them. Piercing through our existence was the dark entity we knew only as our master. Mercilessly driving us…to go up and down for eternity and round in circles for infinity. And all anyone could do was watch in horror…or turn away.

You precious recovering soul who’s reading this right now, you might have the face, the voice, the experience that another one of us needs to connect with to stop the madness, the sheer insanity of such an imprisoned hellish ride. Your account of surrendering might hold the key for many to consider recovery by surrendering to freedom. Your unique experience might illuminate a different path, something they haven’t tried before. Fighting against the machine alone is futile, but if they can identify as us, like you, they might be able to resuscitate their fighting warrior within. Your voice in the rooms, your very presence and experience might jolt the newcomer to look up for that oh so precious 60-second window to leave behind the shadows and the shackles of the caustic carousel that’s spiraling towards an inescapable tomb.

Kacie Brockman

The Letter & The Lighthouse

His irrational and unpredictable rages which initially brought me to my knees subsequently became my morning cup of coffee.  My new normal if you will.

The Letter And The Lighthouse

By Kacie Brockman

Roughly 5 years ago I came to be captivated by lighthouses. There was nothing in my youth or past experiences that would explain my fascination with them. I began thinking about their absolute magnificence and significance. I also became highly aware of each time I would see one and how it eerily connected to some type of experience I was having at the time.

On occasion, I’m able to create a deep well of thought or emotion around what typically for others is a very simple concept which is what I did with lighthouses.  I began to visualize how many ships, how many sailors, captains or crewmen were petrified, frozen in fear during the darkness of night and trying to do everything they could just to survive as the violent waves of a ferocious storm relentlessly tossed their ship about. Perhaps it was during those panic-stricken moments when they thought all hope was lost, that they saw a light. They saw the light from the lighthouse, which would ultimately guide them safely back to shore.

In 2013 I desperately began searching for rescue. I didn’t know what to do as my ship was being tossed about in a violent and abusive relationship. His irrational and unpredictable rages which initially brought me to my knees subsequently became my morning cup of coffee.  My new normal if you will.

Interesting that I should still be able to recall that, as it was over 6 years ago and according to many a story I’d simply invented. Periodically I still recoil at the fact  that I was told, “We never saw anything that would indicate that you were ever abused.” His perpetual insistence that “No one would believe you anyway,” was right on point because he was always right. I can still hear the echoes of his voice asking me, “Dontcha think?” He repeated this personalized mantra again and again until it became embedded in my psyche not only for the next 5 years, but even now. Because according to him, I just never did…think.

Back to the lighthouse.  I would notice it in various elements of my life and then provide it with a meaning or relevance to parallel experiences. Thus last night’s realization having pierced me so deeply, I again remembered the lighthouse and it’s invariant association.

In 2014, I believed my family was my without question, my lighthouse. I certainly assumed, if  I got up out of that house and really left him for good that I would have their love and support.   I imagined that once they knew the entire truth, that I would be safe. Sadly, imaginations are precisely that, imaginations.

For various reasons, of which I can only speculate, the tables were turned against me at every crossroad. I somehow came to be at fault for everything. I was at fault for taking him back to the home. I was at fault for leaving him. I was at fault for not planning it out the exit out of the marriage better. I experienced a car accident and was clean and sober at the time.  I was not at fault according to CHP or 3 Witnesses. Nevertheless, when I arrived back home, I was indeed found to be at fault. I was at fault for not putting the washer lid down, the shower curtain back the way it was supposed to be, or for not closing the garage door.  I was at fault for stuttering and being confused and lost and afraid.  Though I had intermittently used drugs for a time right before the separation and right after, which I had independently come forward and confessed, that became the sole focus for nearly everyone.   For some, the fact that I acknowledged my role in the ensuing chaos made all the difference.  For others, the false accusations and storylines ensued and grew more elaborate by the hour. E-mails I still have provided such a distortion of events and theories kindled and brought ablaze to profoundly illusory statements. I suspect the reason for which was deep hostility harbored by both mother and my older sibling. Those grievances were indeed justified, as I had certainly brought with me enormous discontent and chaos into their already troubled lives. Yet the manner in which these resentments were expressed was vindictive and vengeful. Ultimately the culmination of everyone’s dysfunctional attempts to rationalize or repair resulted in a hellish nightmare from which not a single one of us could escape.

I made a difficult discovery last night.  As I was going through some of my belongings boxed away in my garage I found a letter unopened. A letter I had written to my family at a critical point of our family’s ultimate collapse. I had hand-delivered it to my mother. It had never been opened. It had never been read. It might have changed the course of everything had any one of my family been privy to that communication. Regardless, she held onto it only to be found after 6 more years of suffering endured by all. I imagine she must have felt reassured in knowing that no one would ever read those words.

The letter contains the desperate words of a  woman left with very few options. Each sentence a plea begging for someone to save her child. Every word was mine. And each one breathed my soul as I petitioned and implored my family for help.

By design or by default, these words will, in fact, be given attention to. They will be read. They will be known. If not by her, then by God, by everyone else. Too many instances she has been given, to do the right thing. Too many times she chose not to.  My love is no longer a harbor for her sins. My silence no longer provides a refuge for her secrets.

The truth comes out in the end people. Whether you like it or not. Mine sure did.  Most truths I came clean with independently, others, I got my hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. And when it did, my mother was sure to tell everyone, every time. So in effect, perhaps the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.

However hard you try to hide it… the truth always comes out. I guarantee you, it is best to not lie. If you have lied or have been deceptive in an area of your life,  come clean before it’s too late. And if you’re looking for a sign?

This is it.

By choosing to remain trapped in a lie, you just might want to be prepared to get caught and face consequences much steeper than had you provided the truth.  And trust me, time always, ALWAYS delivers the truth.

With the blink of an eye, they will put you in the ground. They will weep at your funeral to intercept any compassion and empathy for themselves. To describe the level of sheer disconnection the narcissist is able to achieve, allow me to provide an example. When I returned from a 72-hour hold in February  2014, just a week before I wrote this letter, my mother said to me, “I hope you enjoyed your nice little vacation.” Three weeks later I was arrested for attempted murder with a blood alcohol content of .397, a nearly fatal absorption level for which I was initially hospitalized. Roughly one week after my arrest she hosted a slumber party in her home and posted it on social media.

At this time an impossibility remains for me not to speculate on how circumstances might have been different if someone, if anyone had simply opened…

The letter or the lighthouse.

Kacie Brockman

Sprinkles of Encouragement

Sprinkles of

Encouragement

& Morsels of Hope

Samples and Shares are Encouraged & Most Appreciated! As this is a Community Support Driven Website designed to create a greater public knowledge of narcissism, its insidious nature, and the many implications of this among the general population is by far our best defense in curbing this very destructive, and ever-growing epidemic in our society.

By Sharing any of these “Sprinkles and Morsels” you are doing your part to spread awareness and truth. Thanks for visiting!