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Skinner House Books - Nathan Detering

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41 pages

English

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A propos
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Description

Online campaign featuring social media images with blurbs and reviews of the book as well as designed graphics of select excerpts.
Early reviewer promotion through advance copies to encourage reader reviews and generate buzz.
National review outreach to print publications (PW, Kirkus, Booklist, Library Journal, Foreword, New York Times) and online (Spirituality & Practice).
Outreach to organizations and professions that support friends and families of someone with addiction.
Advertising in print publications (Sojourners, PW) and online (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Sojo mail) as well as any relevant media about substance abuse and recovery.
Promotion on the publisher’s website (skinnerhouse.org), Twitter feed (@skinnerhouse), Instagram page (@skinnerhouse), Facebook page (/skinnerhouse), Tumblr page (@skinnerhousebooks), Pinterest (@skinnerhousebks) and publisher’s e-newsletter.
Promotion during National Recovery Month, Alcohol Awareness Month, and National Substance Abuse Prevention Month.

Author has personal and professional experience with addiction. Nathan Detering is a senior minister and his brother died from a drug overdose so he has experience helping families, including his own, with the immense challenges that come from loving someone with addiction.
Author grapples with acculturated responses to addiction from his own perspective as a white minister and shares the perspective of a Black church leader in the book.
Prevalent—40.3 million people in the US meet the criteria for a substance use disorder (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, 2020). And more than half of adult Americans have a close relative with a drinking problem or know someone who is in recovery, according to estimates provided by The World Health Organization.

“I must confess that researching, interviewing for, and writing this book has been harder than I was prepared for. The stories I have heard brought back memories and resurfaced feelings I thought I had reckoned with or didn’t even know I had. The perspectives I heard from people outside my community have revealed to me just how much my and my congregation’s response to addiction has been shaped by whiteness and privilege. Much like the journey of companioning our loved ones in addiction crisis, the creation of this book has been a raw process marked with fresh sadness and fresh hurt. But it has also brought fresh hope.

Not long after Nick died, a friend shared with me a line from Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms: ‘The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.’ Addiction has broken so many families within our congregations and communities. It certainly broke mine. This book is about reckoning with that breakage, and then leaning into the work of helping the families in our communities get stronger at our broken places. I am glad that my Unitarian Universalist theology and spiritual practices can help us. In our congregation we light our chalice, we share our prayers of sorrow and joy, we come together in community to help us hold hope, we practice being the people the world and families need, we seek to establish the kingdom of Heaven here in this life instead of pinning our hopes on some other life, and we affirm that no one is beyond the reach of God’s love. Whether you are a member of my faith, of another, or of none, I hope that you too will find healing and hope in these pages.”

Introduction

Why Is This Happening?
The Differences Racial Identity Makes
What Can You Do?
What Can’t You Do?
What about You?
What about the Rest of Your Family?
Come out of Hiding, Come into Community: A Family Testimony

Conclusion

Recovery and Support Programs

Acknowledgments

Sujets

Vie de famille

Soutien psychologique et conseils familiaux

Sociologie, société et politique

Psychopathology

Psychology

Addiction

Informations

Publié par	Skinner House Books
Date de parution	06 juin 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781558968998
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Copyright © 2022 by Nathan Detering. All rights reserved. Published by Skinner House Books, an imprint of the Unitarian Universalist Association, 24 Farnsworth St., Boston, MA 02210–1409.
www.skinnerhouse.org
Printed in the United States
Cover design by Book Buddy Media
Text design by Tim Holtz
Author photo by Karyn Knight Detering
print ISBN: 978-1-55896-898-1
eBook ISBN: 978-1-55896-899-8
6 5 4 3 2 1
28 27 26 25 24 23
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Detering, Nathan, author.
Title: Why can’t I fix it? : the questions we ask when we love someone with addiction / Nathan Detering.
Description: Boston : Skinner House Books, [2022] | Summary: “A resource for people who love someone who is dealing with addiction”– Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022032533 (print) | LCCN 2022032534 (ebook) | ISBN 9781558968981 (paperback) | ISBN 9781558968998 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Substance abuse–Social aspects. | Addicts–Family relationships.
Classification: LCC HV4998 .D48 2022 (print) | LCC HV4998 (ebook) | DDC 362.29–dc23/eng/20220811
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022032533
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022032534
“Anthem” by Leonard Cohen. Copyright © 1992 by Leonard Cohen, used by permission of The Wylie Agency LLC.
Table of Contents
Introduction
1. Why Is This Happening?
2. The Differences Racial Identity Makes
3. What Can You Do?
4. What Can’t You Do?
5. What about You?
6. What about the Rest of Your Family?
7. Come out of Hiding, Come into Community: A Family Testimony
Conclusion
Acknowledgments
Recovery and Support Programs
INTRODUCTION
Why Couldn’t I Save Him?
N ick called me just as I was pulling into the church parking lot, my work day just beginning. I let the phone ring longer than I did for anyone else, letting my worry about my younger brother battle against my desire not to know what was wrong this time. The phone rang and rang. But worry won, as it always did, and so did hope—hope that maybe today would be the day I could say some marvelous word or magic phrase that would help Nick be honest with me and himself about his addiction and then ask for help. But today wasn’t that day. All he wanted was to tell me how cool his new car was and how great the kids were at the school where he taught. His enthusiasm and upbeat mood almost lured me into pretending I didn’t hear the ever-so-slight slur around the edges of his words.
“Good, Nick, good—um, hey,” I said, hesitating, trying to figure out how to tell him what I was noticing without him shutting me out. I never quite learned how to walk that conversational tightrope, maybe because it isn’t possible. “Hey, um, it sounds like you’re slurring your words a bit. You take anything today?”
“No, no … I mean, the doctor gave me some new meds to help relax me a bit. You know I’m a worrier. You are too. All of us in our family are. Just trying to get the dose right. It’s fine! I’m fine!”
“But, Nick—” I interrupted, my voice calm.
“Dude, give me a break, OK? I was just calling to say I’m doing well.
You asked me to check in, OK, so that’s what I’m doing. But listen, I gotta go, class starting soon …”
Click, and then the dial tone.
I had fifteen minutes before my first pastoral appointment, which was maybe enough time to put the worrying about Nick, the wondering what to do, in a box to be opened later. Sometimes I could do it; sometimes I couldn’t. Mornings like this weren’t new. How many times did I sit in my car, outside the church where I have served as minister for the last sixteen years, having tightrope conversations like these with my brother? Too many, but never enough. How many times did I walk through the halls and rooms of the church and sit in the sanctuary, asking how I was supposed to love him, whether I was supposed to hold him tighter, or if I needed to let go? Too many, but never enough.
Because then, despite all my and my family’s efforts and all our love, Nick died from an opiate overdose. He left behind a brokenhearted four-year-old son, a wife, students at the school where he was an assistant principal and teacher, parents, friends, a full future, and an older brother—me—who had marveled at the easy way Nick gained friends, joined the crowd, and always seemed to effortlessly capture the essence of cool. I wanted to be like him so much. If I had told him that more often, would it have made a difference?
Because I am a parish minister, it’s easy for me to think I am supposed to have answers to my congregation’s problems. Many factors push this expectation on me. Social location is one. I am a Unitarian Universalist, and although Unitarian Universalism has a long history of commitment to social justice principles, our congregations tend to be predominantly white, relatively wealthy, and often located in suburbs. We don’t always do a good job of acknowledging the racial diversity that does exist among us, our members who are Black, Indigenous, and people of color, and we are often entangled in the elements of white supremacy culture that Tema Okun describes in her essay “White Supremacy Culture: Still Here.” In particular, we tend to see ourselves as problem-solvers and as qualified to help others rather than as being in need of help ourselves. We celebrate personal success. These tendencies are so entrenched that a person can feel shame for not knowing an exit route from their struggles.
Theology is another. Unitarian Universalists have long celebrated the individual’s ability to discern and decide for themselves their own theology. We choose our own names for the sacred, our own practices for spiritual growth, our own sources of religious authority. This liberty can be exhilarating, especially for people coming to us from traditions in which they did not feel able to be themselves or believe their own truths. But the Unitarian Universalist emphasis on self-reliance can be exhausting and leave us longing for mutual care and accountability. Our congregations can give us these, but sometimes we need to be reminded to focus more on covenanting together than on individual freedom.
And my role as minister often makes me hesitate to share my own doubts and worries. The robe and stole, the title of “Reverend” before my name, even the architecture of the church, with its rows of pews facing a high pulpit, set me apart from everyday congregants. I meet people who long for certainty in our uncertain world, who ask for help in discerning their life’s purpose, who call on me to explain the inexplicable on behalf of God. In the face of such aching need, I feel pressed to show assurance.
Should I have prayed more for Nick? Never mind that I don’t believe prayers can earn favors as a sort of quid pro quo. Why didn’t I know how bad things had gotten for him? Never mind that Nick was a master at hiding his addiction from everyone, including himself. Why couldn’t I save him? Never mind that I wasn’t awarded the power of salvation along with my divinity school degree. I whisper at night: Why did God let this happen? Never mind that in our tradition we don’t preach that God inscrutably decrees who lives and who dies.
I sometimes think it would be easier if I kept these midnight questions private. After all, it’s pretty easy to hide grief and worry in my suburban white-majority culture, which emphasizes optimism and the ability to “get going” and “move on.” But, since Nick died, something surprising has happened. Thanks to a generous congregation that hasn’t asked me to pretend, and to our UU faith that teaches me that suffering is part of life, not punishment for a way of living, I’m learning to be present to the pain. I’m learning how communities, such as my congregation, can help one another respond to this pain together.
One outcome of my staying present to the pain is this book you hold in your hand. Preachers sometimes give sermons that we ourselves need to hear, and this book is one I have needed to read. It takes its shape from the tender, honest conversations I have had with people both in and outside my congregation who have shared with me their own stories of loving a family member with addiction. We asked each other the questions we had asked ourselves; we helped each other find answers to them. When I began speaking publicly about my experiences with addiction, I was surprised by how many people came to speak with me about their and their families’ own experiences—but I should not have been. It was as if we just needed that first nudge of permission and encouragement to free ourselves from our culture’s expectations, stop pretending, and start telling our truth.
Our need for a nudge to tell our addiction stories reflects the predominantly white suburban culture my congregation belongs to, which not only allows but expects us to hide our struggle with our loved ones. This is true even for people of color who are coping with addiction in their families; they are living in white supremacy culture, facing a double burden of addiction and racism. Still, my conversations with both people of color and white people illuminate important differences in their experiences, including in the ways addiction is responded to by law enforcement and talked about in faith communities. While I hope the wisdom gleaned from the interviews shared here will be helpful to all those struggling with addiction and its effects, it’s true that its effects on me, my family, and members of my congregation reflect the particular culture we belong to. Does this mean this book is limited in scope? Absolutely. I recognize that a whole other book needs to be written that examines the intersectional impacts addiction has across people’s spiritual and emotional lives. That being said, I am grateful for the conversations shared here because they have helped me unpack some of my assumptions about how addiction impacts us as family members.
I must confess that researching, i