“Recovery’s A Bitch”

Customer Reviews

This review is from: Recovery’s A Bitch …as if menopause alone wasn’t bad enough! (Kindle Edition)
How would you react if your daughter was recovering from drug addiction while you were sweating with the oldies every night – and during the day too? Only the oft-hilarious Ms. Brown can find humour in life’s darkest moments. This true story will bring you to tears – both kinds – joy and pain. Which is truly the story of life, isn’t it? In Recovery’s A Bitch this madcap author captures it all with honesty, poignancy and that twisted wit exclusive to stand-up comics. What a ride!
This review is from: Recovery’s A Bitch …as if menopause alone wasn’t bad enough! (Kindle Edition)
Jacqui Brown shares a very personal journey as she combats a painful subject – drug dependency. She sets out to conquer her demons, plays the leading role as “Super Mom” and holds everything together in this poignant, cathartic tale. Those seeking guidance and solace will immediately connect with the author’s wit and ten year roller coaster ride towards inner peace. “Recovery’s A Bitch” is a moving, highly charged book, rapt with gut-splitting humor. You cannot put this priceless book down. Bravo Jacqui Brown!!
This review is from: Recovery’s A Bitch …as if menopause alone wasn’t bad enough! (Kindle Edition)

Get your day off to a laugh, a most keen sense of humor and craziness. I love this girl, this author, she’s, THE REAL DEAL. You can bet on that.. take it to the bank. And buy it!

Here’s a little taste. Enjoy!


What It Is

[Otherwise known as my psychotic introduction to this plethora of wisdom on change, menopause, and recovering from recovery]

Every day we face challenges that test our:

Character, tenacity, stamina, and our faith…

…especially when our children get involved in things that could, and often times does, lead to a lifestyle they never dreamed could become their reality, and I don’t mean that in a good way. I mean that in a very stinking rotten sucking way.

[Remind self that eating your young is only a saying. Please, please, please God,  let me remember that! I know I  wake up fucking hungry sometimes so please make sure there’s something in the fridge that will sate this desire.]

What I’m talking about is ADDICTION (to anything) and the effects it has on the addict, as well as those, [me in particular]  who must bear witness to the devastation it wreaks.

Sometimes, as parents of these children, we freak ourselves out and rightly so because anything can happen, any time, any where.

Sometimes we feel we’re so alone in the world with nowhere to turn, we ponder the thought of not doing our life, of ending it so the problem will go away taking the pain with it, but the answer‘s not there. It never has been and it never will be.

So okay, I’ve thought about ending it but never really had the guts to ever try. THIS kind of insanity falls under…




…caused undeniably by the onset of possible ulcers or the glorious side effects of menopause.

So what’s a girl to do?

We take a deep breath is what we do. We suck up. We put on our happy face, the one we keep in a jar by the door, and keep moving through the bog hoping no one on the outside will notice that we’re falling apart at the seams.

Parents, no matter who they are, where they live, or what their standing is in life, all feel the same pain and fear when it comes to raising a child who’s stepped in the world of addiction. We tend to keep this information hidden like a big dirty secret so everyone will think we have ‘THAT’ life, the one we take out in public—


Thank you, thank you God for at least that small favor. The face in a jar that is. The one I purchase at the local drugstore. The one that at times makes me look somewhat presentable.

Sometimes we’re rendered helpless in fixing them, but our maternal instincts, yes those tedious little mother fuckers that constantly haunt us, continuously force us to search far and wide for something to hold on to. Something to get us through the next day, and the one after that. We search for a ray of hope in any form to keep us on the right road so our choices will help heal them. Our hope being if we can do that, we can also heal ourself in the process.

God, grant me a few moments of your time to talk. I know you’ve been busy for the last decade, but maybe now you’re willing to hear me out. Are you still there?

PS: do you have an e-mail address. This computer link could expidite things exponentialy in the future as I am very computer friendly.

This road, journey, trek, bog, mountainous terrain, unpredictable path/route I speak about is long and arduous, and filled with uber-disappointments and frustration.  But that’s the job we signed on for.

Remember this: Once you spread your legs to plant the seed of life—your life is no longer your own!

I hope in reading about my journey towards healing you will be touched by something that will enable you to see that hope, in whatever form it takes, is there—waiting for you—hoping you will see it, use it, and begin your own journey towards getting your life back and living it fearlessly.

[Besides that, the economy sucks and I need the money. My shrink is demanding his bill be paid]

If all you get out of this book is a laugh here and there—well—I won’t complain either. Hell, if you can’t laugh the game is over anyway.

Life is full of the good, the bad, and the UGLY! Your job is simply to navigate it in such a way that you can find joy even on days when you think you’re goose is cooked. You’ve got to tie a knot at the end of the rope and hold on with all your might!

Note to self: get oven checked in case I need a place to hide my head!

Bon Apetite!



LET’S GET ONE THING STRAIGHT right from the beginning—recovery really is a bitch! It’s full of ups and downs, zigzags, barriers, and plenty of self-induced roadblocks.

It can make or break you in so many ways, the list is endless. It can drive your senses beyond anything you thought possible.

But, when things stop working the way you hoped they would, the way you assumed they would play out, then you have no other choice but to forge ahead into the great unknown and hang on by the seat of your pants cause you’re in for the ride of your life.

It’s literally, in every possible way—that shit or get off the pot moment—because it’s the only way you’ll be able to get on with anything that resembles a life.

What I’ve found in my pursuit to recover from the things that changed me, is that it isn’t always necessarily about giving something up. Sometimes it’s just about learning how to live a life that’s fulfilling—one that’s able to sustain you from moment to moment allowing you to feel whatever joy that one moment can bring.  [even if it’s only a momentary bout with gas, you learn to adjust and settle for even the smallest of things that bring you joy]

It’s about finding a way to live a life that makes you able to look in the mirror without gasping in horror and appreciate what’s reflected there warts and all.

I have to warn you though, some warts are bigger than others, so I wouldn’t get too close to the mirror when you first start this healing process. Remember that old saying ‘looks can kill’? Well that goes twofold here.

Recovery is about learning to find something, anything that might bring peace into your life. It’s about looking at the smallest wonders surrounding us at every turn.

I know sometimes it’s hard to see these things, these little well hidden wonders, when all you feel is depleted, exhausted, or overwhelmed, but they’re there just waiting to be discovered. All you have to do is take the blinders off, get out of the tunnel vision mode you’ve been living in, and look at what’s been going on and what needs to be changed. It’s only then you’ll discover that these little tasty tidbits of joy have been there all along.

It might seem impossible at first, and you might not feel up to the task all at once, but if you can muster up a little patience, okay, that’s bullshit, you need a hell of a lot of patience, but if you can manage that, it‘ll go a long way in helping you understand why you didn’t see them before. Suddenly you’ll be able to look at them like tiny holiday presents you forgot to open.

Note to self: NEVER pre-wrap anything unless you are sure the contents are not under pressure.

Recovery’s definitly a journey, and no matter how daunting it may become, you’ll eventually realize there’s a light beaming down on you, guiding you towards a future where facing each day becomes something to look forward to. All you have to do is look for the light.

It can be the mother of all beacons, or just a tiny little sliver coming through an open window, reminding you that you have to pay attention.

The hardest thing about a process like this is that you have to be open to it, willing to see it, and more than anything, be willing to act on it.

I guess the thing  I had to look at in my recovery is not only why I had to drink to sleep at night, [or any other time for that matter], I had to figure out why I stopped giving a damn about anything, and why nothing seemed to bring me joy. In my former life, I used to laugh at the drop of a hat, but things changed and it seemed the last laugh was on me.

I knew I was done trying to figure out why my daughter chose drugs to get through her life because that’s something you can ponder till the day you die. It’s pointless to give it energy of any sort because even if you do figure it out, who cares? It is what it is, or in my case now—it was what it was.

Thank you God!

What I needed was to find me again, the girl, the woman, the crazy, funny, maniacly un-self-destructing person I used to be before all this crap arrived.



Like millions of women throughout  the world  I blamed everything on menopause.

Why —because  I could. Because it let me off the hook in that it wasn’t my fault for feeling so crappy, so out of control, so annoyed, frustrated, sweaty, pissed off, unhappy. It was—yes come on—everyone say it together—hormonal.  I never understood why they never called it what it really is—horror-monal.

Menopause as defined in my own personal dictionary:

When women get fucked for a period of years where orgasm is not involved!

That would far better describe the hot flashes, the mood swings, the night sweats, the insomnia, and that what-the-fuck feeling that comes and goes randomly throughout each day.

Here’s a perfect example of one of those WTF situations.

I’ve been know to snore on occasion. Okay, maybe more than on occasion, and this causes my husband to poke at me all through the night in hopes I’ll roll over.

[no wonder I don’t get any sleep]

Well, that’s all fine and dandy when you’re young and full of hormones, but when those body altering suckers are gone, the simple act of rolling over becomes a freak show act.

It took me years to convince my husband that I was not in fact letting some monsterous fart rip. I was merely trying to separate my now leaking body from the sheets to which I’d gotten stuck to. Even my poor sweet dog has had to suffer through this. He has very sensitive ears you see and when that sound, that thunderous gas-like noise caused by me trying to disengage myself from the bedding echo’s down the stairs to wherever he’s sleeping he goes crazy and barks his ass off until the threat is no longer heard.

Quite often the sound wakes me up too, and I have to laugh because sometimes when I open my eyes, I see my dog standing next to the bed, right next to my face, staring me down. I guess he’s waiting to see if I’m the source of what’s sent him into this middle of the night frenzy. For him it seems to signal it’s game on, time to play. Sometimes he’s absolutely right because I can’t fall back to sleep. I can NEVER fall back to sleep. I get up, we play, he fall’s back to sleep and I eventually end up in front of my computer sucking down coffee while trying to write through half closed eyes.

Let’s not kid ourselves, menopause s-u-c-k-s any way you look at it!

Right of passage my Ass!

The good news however, is that I hadn‘t ‘chosen’ to feel this way. Instead I was being punished by God for being born a woman and living to see my middle ages. Hell, if it’s this good now I can hardly wait to see what the golden years have in store for me. Why they call them the golden years—I have no idea. I’ve already caught a glimpse of some of what’s to come and it ain’t pretty!

Oh yeah, I made the big mistake of grocery shopping at my local market on a Friday. Now, I don’t know if this is universal, but at my grocery store it seems as though this is seniors shopping day.

They take every advantage of this special day and they show up by the vanfull. So, that’s all fine by me except when they start tooling around on those motorized shopping carts. I know there must be some kind of speed limit on these things but I’ve seen a few of these fiesty seniors top out at about 4 miles per hour.

If you’ve never been hit by one of these unruly drivers consider yourself lucky! Need I say more?

You’d think by their age common sense would rule but that’s not always the case. What often times happens is they don’t obey the one way rule. I’ve seen the occasional argument when two opposing drivers meet up in the middle of an aisle and can’t get around each other. They raise their canes and cuss each other out, they butt their carts up against one another trying to show each other who’s boss without actually having to have any physical contact until finally one of them backs down. Then you’re stuck there waiting until they complete their four hundred point turn, and really, you don’t mind so much because watching them go in reverse is heart attack inducing not only to them but to you as well. It’s best just to wait it out.

The way I figure it—If they’ve managed to manuver through life this long, they’ve earned the right to do whatever the hell they fucking want!

Okay, so the cart thing is bad enough, but what’s even more disturbing is when the first fart rolls out like thunder. It’s like one person sends out a signal and then it’s  anybodies game. I can only describe this as some kind of very odd gas symphony—kind of like an e-toote at a sh-Opera‘.

You’ve got your high’s, your lows, your rumblers, and your sqeakers. Some are measly little pops, hardly noticable, and then you’ve got the mother of all farters.

[Worst part is…they never seem to fire off warning shots. Instead they go for the gold—the mother load—pay dirt! They shoot to kill!]

You can almost feel the floor vibrate when that one blows. If you’re lucky enough to be standing on the next aisle over—out of the direct line of fire—you can actually decipher whether or not they’re  standing still or on the move, because the sound travels right along with them, just like an obiediant puppy. There are no excuse me’s or oops. It just becomes this communal stink-fest-free-for-all. No one ever acknowledges what’s going on, or maybe it’s simply a case of hearing loss because of their AGE, I don’t know. They just stay on task like nothing ever happened.

The worst however, is when there’s no warning!

That’s right! The silent killer. You’ll be walking down the aisle minding your own freakin business and then bam.

Bam, bam, bam.

You walk straight into it! You’re  assaulted with an odor strong enough to curl your hair. I swear I’ve been there when it was so bad, you could see the air moving, rippling the same way ashphalt does under the heat of the hot afternoon sun. There’s so much gas floating around in there some days, I’m pretty sure that, if you struck a match, the whole place would blow.

Oh yeah, I am ardently looking forward to those years, you betcha!

Anyway, menopause or not, I didn’t give one crap about how I looked because I was pretty sure no one was really looking at me anyway. And guess what, if you feel like crap, you probably look like crap—duh!

It had been so long since anyone really hit on me, flirted with me, paid me a compliment, or gave me the attention I needed. I guess I inadvertently installed one of those invisible fuck off and die tattoos on my forehead to keep everyone away.

As far as I was concerned that was all fine by me because it seems that everyone has baggage. The last thing I needed was to have to carry one more persons bags. I have two kids, a husband, and a dog—that’s enough bags for anyone. [Although I must admit, I do have a penchant for good looking luggage]

So I proudly brushed my bangs back every time I went out so everyone would see the tattoo.

Fuck off and die.

Fuck off and die.

I wanted the message to be loud and clear. They could all go to hell. My new motto had become:

‘leave me alone, let me just get through another day’!

I let my body fall to the ravages of time so much so that it became increasingly impossible to look at myself in the mirror without that disgusted  who are youlook on my face.

The sagging somewhat dehydrated skin, the bags under my eyes, the wrinkles earned through pain, frustration, disappointment, and mostly lack of sleep were all there, all mascarading around like innocent little smile lines. And of course, my expanding midsection all served to make me loath that morning stop in front of the mirror to brush my teeth.

I had simply stopped thinking of myself as a woman on the edge of beauty.

Self-loathing proliferates when you feel down and out.

The mind is a bitch too!

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