kristin-casey

Another fun interview about Casey Dancer

Wed, 16 Jul 2025 00:38:25 GMT

Laura Smith does a weekly podcast and radio show designed to inspire and uplift its audience. Discussing Casey Dancer: A Memoir About Dating, Stripping, and a Little Hot Yoga, with her, while being mindful of her churchgoing listeners, was a bit of a minefield! But one we artfully navigated, I think. Hope you enjoy!

https://podcasts.federatedmedia.com/podcast/071325-kristen-casey/

My New Show "Sex & Dating in Sobriety"

Thu, 26 Jun 2025 18:13:43 GMT

Life has been crazy since the release of my new book back in April, and not just due to the book launch and multiple promo interviews, but also because somehow, in the midst of all that, I actually found time to plan and execute a three day Vegas wedding!

Aside from all that romantic wonderfulness, I've also started a new YouTube series called "Sex & Dating in Sobriety" in which I query a bunch of other authors, musicians, comics, and podcasters about how they overcame fear of intimacy in early sobriety.

It's been a delightful experience, as all six guests thus far have been incredibly open, candid, and generous in sharing their most personal anecdotes and insights in this vein... all the good, bad, ugly, funny, and embarrassing-as-hell events (my own personal stories included) that take a person from utterly, painfully disconnected and emotionally isolated while active in our addictions, to someone who can be vulnerable, authentic, self-aware, and intentional about forging true romantic connection in sobriety.

Check it out on my Youtube channel and leave a comment under your favorite episode telling me what you think!

https://www.youtube.com/@KristinCasey/videos

Fun Interview on the Outlaw Dave Show

Tue, 29 Apr 2025 20:57:17 GMT

Here's another recent interview I did for Casey Dancer, this one with Houston's incomparable Outlaw Dave!

https://open.spotify.com/episode/46RWIubCCjv9OYBDudcR2n

Two Short Radio Interviews About Casey Dancer

Tue, 29 Apr 2025 14:19:14 GMT

Here are a couple short (10-12 minute) radio interviews I did last week about my new book, Casey Dancer. One is with Amanda Bacon from Seattle's KONP, and the other with iHeart Radio's amazing Arroe Collins.

https://www.myclallamcounty.com/episode/ms-kristin-casey-author-recovering-addict-intimacy-expert/

https://www.iheart.com/podcast/53-arroe-collins-like-its-live-52808613/episode/self-discovery-through-stripping-the-book-273283931/

Book Launch Event Tonight in Baltimore!

Tue, 29 Apr 2025 14:03:08 GMT

Come see me read from, discuss, and answer questions about my new book Casey Dancer: A Memoir About Dating, Stripping, and a Little Hot Yoga, tonight at Greedy Reads Remington location (on 29th St.), 7pm, in Baltimore Maryland!

I'll be "in conversation" with the amazing Charlotte Shane, former elite companion and author of An Honest Woman: A Memoir of Love and Sex Work.

I'll be signing books after the reading and would love to see you there!

The Pink and The Green

Mon, 21 Apr 2025 15:30:58 GMT

In my new book Casey Dancer I write about my year long relationship in 2007 with a man named Lalo, a recently reformed drug dealer, drug user, problem drinker, and big time player. He was both a guy's guy and a big time ladies man. All the ladies loved my Lalo! And with good reason, as he was very cool, sexy, funny, charming (in an authentic way) and incredible in bed.

What he wasn't was much of a philosopher or particularly psychologically astute. His emotional IQ was average at best, but one time he said something that really resonated...a sociological observation that to this day I find as profoundly true as anything I've ever heard:

"Honey," he said. "The entire fucking world runs on two things: the pink and the green. They are all anyone really cares about or will lift a finger to obtain."

He was referring to pussy and cash, of course. Sex and money, or in broader terms, love and power (since money and power pretty much go hand in hand). Lalo never had much of the latter, though, hot as he was, he rarely had to work hard for the former. And if you read my book you'll see I not only busted my ass for as much "green" as I could earn for us both, I rarely hesitated to provide him with as much "pink" as I had to give on a daily basis. (Spoiler alert: that ridiculous imbalance of effort was wholly unsustainable and ensured that Lalo and I were never going to last.) All that being said, I only bring it up now because, last week, the fantastic marketing team I hired to build my new website suggested a pink and green color scheme and I couldn't be more delighted by the coincidence.

Hope you enjoy the site! Be sure to click "LEARN MORE" on the Homepage to purchase either of my books online today.

Casual Sex Can Be Meaningful

Wed, 31 Mar 2021 17:20:20 GMT

Full Stop.

To elaborate, casual sex can be a thrilling and fulfilling experience, one of fleeting yet genuine intimacy with a level of authenticity, vulnerability, self-expression, and disclosure not found in plenty of long-term relationships. While it can be as empty or rote as married sex often is, it can be equally profound, revelatory, and life-changing at times too, yet with much more freedom, spontaneity, and variety (if that's what you're into ;)).

What's more, consistently great casual sex all but requires a strong sense of self. And for those just starting out, dabbling in casual encounters, it's not a bad way to develop that aspect of themselves. Every new partner is a fresh opportunity to present your most evolved self and explore new territory, whether in bed or in your own psyche.

So, I don't care what your mama, friends, peers, or society told you. It's time to stop privileging "relationship sex" and presuming it exists on a higher level than casual flings and hookups. There are a great many ways to engage in casual sex and intimately is one of them. Just because some people fail at getting casual sex to work for them doesn't mean the rest of us can't live it up on a weekly (or more ;)) basis.

Drew Carey

Sun, 13 Dec 2020 17:20:19 GMT

In the mid/late 90s I lived in Las Vegas and worked as a stripper at the Crazy Horse Too,

one of the city’s top three gentlemen’s clubs. Stripping had always been my happy place and the only arena I’d ever felt supremely confident in. Especially in early sobriety, it was the sole place I had any confidence at all, though what I had there I had in spades , for sure.

I’d been stripping for almost ten years at the time and was one of the best hustlers in the club (meaning I had a strong work ethic, not that I manipulated my customers in any way). Plus, I loved the work...or did until the customers started getting out of hand, thanks to the club’s (and industry’s) lazy, greedy management. Eventually every interaction became a physical negotiation between my body and the customer’s mouth, hands, and crotch. I certainly didn’t mind a little touching, but by 1998 when nipple sucking and digital penetration (fingering) became commonplace, and therefore expected, I knew my stripping days were numbered. I decided to work as much as I could for the rest of the year, before moving back to Austin and quitting the business for good.

As part of that plan, I gave myself a new nightly quota. Usually, I’d hit it by shift’s end, though some nights only after staying into the next shift by an hour or two. Even if I’d earned $999 at the end of my shift I wouldn’t leave—no matter how grueling those eight hours had been—until I’d scored that last one-dollar bill. One night I hit my quota around 8:30pm, all set to leave half an hour early when a waitress entered the dressing room and told me Drew Carey had just walked in.

I re-buckled my Lucite platforms, applied a fresh coat of lip-gloss, and strode back out to the main floor. I found Drew Carey alone in an out of the way spot near the back wall, ordering his first drink. Normally I hate to rush a guy, but competition could be fierce during shift change. I knew if I didn’t pounce I could lose him to a more aggressive nightshift girl, so I approached and leaned forward to ask in his ear if he’d like a little company. Drew replied sweetly that maybe later would be better, after he’d had time to settle in a bit.

I forget what witty sexy comeback I used to convince him otherwise—I had dozens of them—but whatever I said did the trick and he offered me a seat. Five minutes later I was on my feet again, positioned between his knees at the start of my first of several lap dances. With one swivel of my hips, before I’d removed my red bikini top or sheer hip scarf, his gaze locked on my body, his posture shifting accordingly. His entire countenance changed, just like every customer before him when I began lap dancing. It was my favorite thing about stripping—that delicious initial moment of utter surety that I had him right where I wanted him. And that he’d stay there until his wallet was empty. Not to be cocky (so to speak) but there’s a rather small handful of things I’m truly gifted at in this world and lap dancing tops the list. I knew it and for the next six songs so did comedian/actor/game show host Drew Carey.

At that point I took a break and sat back down to talk, finding him to be delightfully unassuming, thoughtful, and doting—not to mention generous. He’d already showered me with double what he owed for the first six dances, yet while we talked he continued passing twenties and then hundreds to me, tucking them gently into the side of my t-back, bikini, and shoe straps. That’s where the biggest bills went, in fact—all around my feet. And like any experienced stripper I took that cue from him and ran with it. During my next set of dances, I made a point of positioning one foot up on his seat as often as I could, next to his leg where Drew could discreetly caress and fondle it to his heart’s content. By the fourth or fifth song my feet had become the primary focus of his attention to the exclusion of my breasts, legs, ass, etc.

Yep, Drew Carey has a foot fetish. One I was delighted to indulge. Not just because the cash kept coming but because (a) being the object of someone’s sexual desire and pleasure is one of the greatest joys I know, and (b) Drew Carey was simply the sweetest, coolest, least entitled by far customer I’d come across in ages. After my second set of dances, I again took a rest, giving Drew a chance to sweep his gaze across the room and spy another dancer—a beautiful, graceful nightshift girl I’d never seen before, and a former ballerina, we discovered, after I called her over at his request.

Next thing I knew we were doing a few “double trouble” dances, but by the third one I could see his attentions had mostly shifted her way. I was fine with that, having worked nine hours straight by then. I bid them goodnight and headed back to the dressing room counting my new wad of twenties and hundreds, well past my self-imposed $1,000 nightly quota.

[As an aside, at the time I was fully aware that Drew Carey was friends with my ex-fiancé, Joe Walsh. And while I briefly considered dropping his name into the conversation between dances while we talked, in the end I decided not to. Because what happens between strippers and their customers sometimes is more fun, sexy, and glamorous than anything even rock stars like Joe get up to.]

On Artists, Muses, and Destiny

Wed, 23 Sep 2020 17:20:18 GMT

Shortly after my book came out in 2018, I was approached by a fellow writer who asked if he could interview me as research for his next book (on a somewhat similar topic to ROCK MONSTER). Today I stumbled across our Q & A and this exchange in particular stood out to me.

The strong intuition you had of a fate connection with Joe from just hearing his voice on the radio is very compelling. From the long perspective, do you think artists and muses are drawn together by destiny? Do you believe fate maps a person’s life. Do you follow astrology or numerology? Do you believe in the Eastern notion of spirit destiny and reincarnation?

I tend to think that some events are fated, meaning unchangeable from birth. But also, that we manifest much of our own destiny. Maybe I was fated to meet and fall in love with Joe (I don’t really know), but if so, our toxic relationship was a manifestation of our own doing.

I think muses and artists are generally more attuned to subtle energetic frequencies (it’s been studied in musicians, actually), so maybe they feel a sense of kismet more readily…? The average civilian living a conventional milquetoast life maybe doesn’t recognize romantic destiny the way a poet and his muse might.

The muses I’ve known had an abiding longing to find their counterpart. I think longing is powerful and that it facilitates manifesting. Of course, artists experience longing too, since an inspirational muse is crucial to keep from being mired in performance anxiety or fan expectations. Self-identity is a powerful thing. When it’s on the line your antenna is always attuned to finding what it needs. When these two halves finally meet, they’re like magnets. It feels like becoming whole, right? Like “destiny.”

I’ve had my numerology chart done twice, both by women who had numerology in their lineage (their mothers and grandmothers, etc., were numerologists). Both insisted on doing it free and were bizarrely spot on (I still have one; it’s 11 pages long.) I read Rob Brezsny’s weekly horoscope and am a fan of the Secret Language research. (I don’t necessarily think a person’s birthdate determines who they are, but maybe who you are [going to be] determines your birthdate.)

I believe karma is less “you get what you give” than you get what you think, feel, believe (yet again with the manifesting).

Now, reincarnation…hmmm. Well, if time doesn’t really exist and all things are happening at once, then all possibilities exist and what we focus on is what we experience. So maybe reincarnation is just a manifestation of quantum physics. As for my car radio experience, maybe I time traveled into my future for a millisecond and came back with a taste of the heartache I was destined to later experience.

Elite baseball players swing at fastballs before they’re actually thrown. There is more to life than meets the eye… I believe this to my soul.

Porn Reliant Erections

Wed, 17 Jun 2020 17:20:17 GMT

I want to make clear that by "porn reliant" I'm not referring to "porn addiction."

For one thing, I'm not a clinician, scientist, or sex therapist, and not here to debate whether "porn addiction" is a real thing in the first place. (For the record, I don't believe it is and so I don't ever use the term, which as it's generally applied is beyond the scope of my coaching practice anyway.) That said, I do work with a lot of what could be loosely called porn dependency , by which I mean that specific associations can become so mentally ingrained that a man feels dependent, or at least heavily reliant, on pornographic imagery to maintain his erection.

This phenomenon is also distinct from that of compulsive porn viewing, which is usually something done to the detriment of one's job, relationships, marriage, etc. The clients I hear from are dealing with something different. I get a few calls every year from men complaining of porn-related ED, most of them in their 20s—the generation that grew up with porn literally in their pockets, available all day every day, on their cell phones, every time they masturbate.

For most of them, from their first orgasm onward, porn was involved, wiring their neural pathways to associate sexual response to a specific type of sexual imagery. So much so that when they finally start dating and having (or attempting to have) partnered sex, they're unable to maintain their erections—unless, in some cases, they can pull out a cell phone to watch porn while having sex, which for obvious reasons they (and their partners) consider less than ideal.

Most people are unaware of this burgeoning issue. I've read articles by well-meaning journalists so fearing a "ban all porn" moral panic that they outright dismiss this very real phenomenon of porn dependent erections, insisting these young men's ED is just nerves or first date jitters. But this isn't a "first date" phenomenon; it's an ongoing issue for every one of these men and causes them significant distress. It's not that porn has set their expectations too high causing disappointment with their partners' flawed bodies and natural breasts. Neither are they intimidated or confused by the prospect of genuine emotional intimacy. They like that stuff. They want that stuff!

And eventually they're able to have it, along with a functioning sex life and reliable erections, minus the crutch of porn in bed with them and their partners. In my years as an intimacy coach and surrogate partner, I've helped numerous clients overcome this issue through a specific process of desensitization, with targeted mindfulness and embodiment practice (which is much more fun than it sounds).

Porn dependent erections are treatable, and in some cases can be turned around without professional help, though of course more serious cases will improve faster with an experienced guide, such as a sex therapist, intimacy coach, surrogate partner, or other qualified professional.

The Ox, a John Entwistle Bio

Tue, 14 Apr 2020 17:20:16 GMT

The following is my review of the recently released John Entwistle biography, THE OX.

Fair warning, as a recovered addict, current memoirist, and former partner of a similar alcoholic/coke-addicted rock star, I have a few issues with it.

As someone who knew and partied with John Entwistle and Lisa Pritchett-Johnson (his girlfriend through the late 80s, 90s, and until his death in 2002), my first thought upon reading THE OX was yikes, someone’s really got an ax to grind with Lisa . My next instinct was to re-read the book jacket, remember it was an authorized biography and then surmise the author wrote the exact type of hit piece its subject’s son wanted (Christopher Entwistle) in order to secure the necessary access that would score the author a book deal in the first place. Reading on, it became exceedingly apparent Christopher was desperate to blame anyone but John himself for the self-destructive life his father chose to live.

I find it appalling that Hachette would publish so many unsourced accounts, opinions, anecdotes, and second and thirdhand accusations, most of them straight from John’s very clearly bitter & resentful son (who also inexplicably and laughably blames Lisa for his own marital troubles and eventual divorce). In one unwitnessed incident, he claims he “was told” that Lisa smeared feces around a hotel room, which again, as someone who knew her and partied with her in those very same years, is not only beyond absurd but relayed in a way that can only be called unethical journalism. The only three accounts about Lisa & John’s relationship that rang true to me were from Pete Townsend [page 300-301], Joe Walsh [page 310], and especially Bill Curbishley [page 296], and thank God for them.

Lisa was an out-of-control addict. She was also a delight to be around and genuinely nice person, an assessment that literally everyone I knew back then who spent time with her agreed upon. As she is dead and unable to defend herself, not only are these blatant smears unfair they’re bad for the genre of biography & memoir. Another example: Christopher’s claim that “without a doubt” Lisa was having an affair with the town vicar, for which he has zero proof or witnesses. While it’s certainly believable, it’s also just as believable they grew close when she leaned on him after John’s death, as Lisa claimed (yet was not mentioned in the book). Regardless, the vicar’s own account (easily found online) is nowhere in the book either, and since the affair can't be proven it should have been presented as such by the author.

Few claims against Lisa are investigated at all, as the author seems to take at face value every disparaging remark Christopher can dish out, who states very clearly (and absurdly) he doesn’t think his father was responsible for his own addictive behaviors but that Lisa, an addict herself, was wholly responsible for hers AND John’s. Here’s the truth: Lisa knew without a doubt she would lose John if she got sober and he didn’t. Here’s another: John didn’t want to get sober, but he DID know that if he got sober she would to. And if they both got sober he WOULDN'T lose her but in fact probably save her life . And as a man with unlimited resources and every reason and opportunity to get sober John chose not to. He never once investigated recovery seriously, not once. And yet Lisa is to blame for his death?!

I was there. Lisa and I were friendly but not “friends” per se. I’m not writing this out of some misguided compulsion to protect her reputation, merely to right a wrong made by unscrupulous people in advantageous positions. Also, I liked John a lot, but he made his choices. Lisa was a lovely woman with a terrible crack addiction that John enabled with his lifestyle and money. If anyone is to blame for the other’s addiction and eventual death, perhaps it’s worth considering that that shoe is on the other foot.

Lastly, among the many other inaccuracies I found in THE OX, I’ll point out just a few glaring ones: Lisa’s affair with John began in the late-80s, not 1990. “The Best” tour in Japan went on for well more than 2 dates (I recall 5, I think, with a 6 ^th gig in Hawaii, on our way home). And it takes :03 seconds to Google the spelling of Eagles’ producer Bill Szymczyk’s name, so both the author and his editor should be straight-up ashamed for failing such a simple, respectful (and professionally required) task.

George Foreman

Wed, 12 Jun 2019 17:20:15 GMT

In the years we were together Joe made a few appearances on Late Night With David Letterman.

I’d usually wait out the show in his dressing room or the green room, but one time, a few minutes before the show started, I stepped into the hall to watch Letterman’s staff hustling about in preparation for taping. Joe wasn’t around—probably in makeup or already on stage as he was sitting in with the band that night—so I hung back, close to the wall where I’d be out of the host’s way if he passed by. (They instruct you to do that when you arrive—adamantly, every time .) Dave didn’t pass by, but the dressing room door to my left opened and out walked George Foreman.

The renowned heavyweight boxing champion stood inches away, adjusting and smoothing his checkered shirt over and over, as if it were new and he hadn’t quite made up his mind about it yet. That must’ve been the case because moments later he stepped into my line of sight and asked with complete sincerity, “Does this shirt makes me look fat?”

I was a little taken aback. George Foreman was not a slender or even squarely built man, but he was one of the greatest boxers of all time, fit and fierce in his forties, actively competing and winning most of his fights.

“Not at all,” I assured him. “It’s flattering! Doesn’t make you look fat at all.”

“You sure?” he pressed, and I nodded emphatically. “Okay, then. Good, good…thank you for that.” George smiled and turned away, shoulders relaxed as he strode down the hall, hands at his sides, not fidgeting at all.

Chrissie Hynde

Tue, 21 May 2019 17:20:15 GMT

Once, in the early 90s, Joe called his old friend Chrissie Hynde. I was in the room and heard him ask What’s up, whatcha doin’? before pausing, and then laughing loudly at her answer. After they hung up I asked what she’d said that was so funny. He replied in his best ‘ultra cool / super chill’ Chrissie Hynde voice: Smokin’ a doob.

I’m not sure why we both found that so funny, but we did and I kinda still do.

IPSA-Trained (no longer affiliated) Surrogate Parter

Wed, 13 Mar 2019 17:20:14 GMT

In February 2019, I was offered full certification by the International Professional Surrogates Association (IPSA), the organization under which I trained and successfully completed a two-year internship in July 2018. I declined the offer for several reasons, none based on the quality of training or effectiveness of their niche form of sex therapy.

I met every certification requirement, including the following,

the successful completion of their 100-hour didactic and experiential training course
a two-year supervised internship (with a 20-year IPSA veteran mentor)
100% positive reviews and across the board recommendations from every licensed therapist I worked with

In the end I decided to part ways with IPSA altogether. Having worked independently as a sacred intimate since 1985 (the year I turned 18) I didn’t and don’t feel the need to align my practice with their entity. Our differing perspectives on administrative style and parameters of professionalism made the break necessary.

Due to the nature of this work, IPSA certification is ultimately a formality at best. Their surrogate partners work as independently and unsupervised as nonaffiliated SPs, and the designation itself is neither state sanctioned nor recognized by any legal, medical, or accredited academic body. My personal standards of ethics, education, knowledge, experience, ability, and integrity are at least as high as those of the organization that trained and mentored me. I’m grateful for their two years of guidance and support on my 30+ year journey of sexual healing through sacred intimacy.

Anonymity at The Level of Press, Radio, Film

Sat, 23 Jun 2018 17:20:13 GMT

I take no issue with AA’s 11th tradition, other than with the way it’s interpreted and applied. The literature is clear. When the founders wrote the 11th Tradition—AA’s policy of “attraction rather than promotion”—they were referring to self -promotion. As for promoting AA , Bill, Bob, and the gang were all for it.

Bill Wilson was AA’s cofounder and primary author of the Big Book. From the beginning, AA was his career—writing on, speaking about, and promoting the organization from its inception onward until he died (at which time his Big Book royalties transferred to his wife and one of his mistresses). While he usually went by Bill W. in the press, his full name occasionally appeared in magazines, newspapers, and medical journals (as did, it’s worth noting, not infrequent mentions of an honorary Yale degree Bill was reportedly too humble to accept). If AA had a figurehead, Bill W. was it. What he feared was anyone else acting as spokesperson—and rightfully so. Newly sober drunks are a self-loathing lot (some long-term sober folk, too) always with one eye open for means to inflate a battered image or restore a reputation. Their propensity for grandstanding was real, risking infighting and the muddying of AA’s message. Bill Wilson knew this. He may’ve been an egotistical, chain-smoking, serial-cheater and chronically depressed ex-drunk, but the man was no fool.

Page 48 of AA’s original Charter emphasizes the vigilance and skill he and the other founders deemed necessary in the “pursuit of positive publicity.” AA’s main concern was of individual members “trying to use the AA name for their own personal purposes.” The founders predicted (correctly) “temptation to misuse the growing recognition of AA” by its members for ego-driven self-promotion. We know from Bill’s writings that he fought this demon too.

The implication of Tradition 11 is obvious: that anyone associated with AA would automatically be seen in a positive light , gazed upon with reverence even. What did not seem to occur to the founders was that members might someday have other valid reasons to attach their full names to their AA experience. Blogs didn’t exist back then, and if addiction memoirs did they weren’t included in Tradition 11’s prohibited media. It doesn’t seem as if Bill and the boys considered that AA’s image and reputation would itself need boosting someday. (All due respect to the founders, whose ego is really at play here ?)

But that was then and this is now. And while I won’t go so far as to say the tradition should be revised, I will say that in many cases, it simply doesn’t apply—at least not in its original context. Back then AA was new, shiny, and effective in a way nothing else was and therefore exceedingly precious. Back then, anyone associated with AA was regarded highly. That is simply not the case anymore. Those waters are muddy as hell now.

As an organization, AA is controversial. More unfortunate is that it’s taken down the reputation of the program along with it, and the organization of AA and The Program of AA are entirely separate things.

The organization of AA is a worldwide movement, started eighty years ago when two regular human men molded a handful of timeless principals (willingness, honesty, accountability, restitution, mindfulness, service, etc.) into a simplified numbered list. In doing so, they invented a highly effective type of behavioral therapy targeted specifically to hardcore alcoholics. They then offered to teach this “simple program” to anyone who needed it— the vast majority of whom experienced full recovery. As a community these “members” made up the fellowship of AA. As years went by membership was granted to anyone who attempted the 12 steps, and then eventually to anyone who bothered to attend semi-regular meetings.

Before going further, I should point out that membership in the fellowship is automatic . There is no form to sign, no pledge to take. (In fact, to avoid it one must essentially “opt out” and yet there is no form, pledge, or formal process for delisting oneself from AA either.) Nothing more is required to become a member than to show up with a desire to stop drinking. You don’t even have to stop drinking. Millions have, of course, but to call each of them an AA “member” is largely academic. In other words, it’s just plain inaccurate.

In the 40s, 50s, and 60s, if you turned to AA for help, you’d be started on the steps immediately and expected to finish them four weeks later, often before you attended a single meeting. Attending meetings made you a full-fledged member, at which time you’d be informed of the organization's obligatory 12 traditions. You’d be expected to adhere to these pre-made decisions about your anonymity and personal experience with AA’s unique tutelage of a set of timeless spiritual principals . I don’t know how anyone back then felt about it, but as a writer and memoirist I’m certain I would’ve laughed in their faces.

How is AA entitled to limit what I’m “allowed” to share about my experience? AA may’ve developed a fresh format and punchy 12-bullet list, but they have no copyright on basic coping skills (nor on the nearly identical behavioral method they copied directly from the Oxford Group, AA’s predecessor). Most galling of all is their attempt to force this policy upon newly sober drunks—mentally ill individuals—as some kind of twisted payback for returning them to sanity. Like an invoice AA hands out after the fact versus upon the desperate drunkard’s entry.

Yes, yes…I know the Traditions are suggested policies. And, for the record, I respect the spirit in which the eleventh was (supposedly) written. But times have changed, and short of demanding a signed confidentiality agreement before allowing us through the door, AA has simply no right to blur the byline on anyone’s personal sobriety story. If AA wants to claim that right, they need to collect those signatures at the door before allowing newbies inside at all.

Get those forms ready, AA. I’ll wait out here on the sidewalk with millions of mentally ill devastated souls God has supposedly entrusted you with saving.

Let’s get real. It’s highly unlikely anyone read my addiction memoir as some self-aggrandizing enterprise. My book is 24 chapters of wretched failure after wretched failure, followed by a single chapter in which I describe my early recovery, and exactly one page describing, in vague terms, my 12-step work.

What it comes down to is intent. My intent in identifying AA as where I got sober, was to highlight the fact that in the 1990’s there were no other options for hardcore alcoholics. There was much greater stigma around the disease then, and a dearth of information on the program—two very important factors in what was, for me, a life-threatening situation. What I write has fuck-all to do with promoting AA or myself as a sober person. I’m not in the business of recovery. I don’t work in the field of addiction treatment or addiction therapy. I don’t promote myself as an addiction expert (because I’m not), nor do I write with the intention of espousing AA or their famous format beyond the (again, timeless ) life principles in them. (In fact, I have real issues with AA, both as a fellowship and organization, if none with the actual Twelve Step Program.)

What’s more, violating the tradition of an organization you never officially joined may result in a form letter admonishment* from the General Service Office (GSO), which is almost funny considering any mention of my many years of AA meeting attendance—which again, by default , made me a “member”—elicits as many jeers as cheers these days.

AA has brought that on themselves in many ways, not least being their ridiculous overreach that also extends to non-members. You see, another purpose of the 11th Tradition is to (attempt to) manage the general public’s perception of the program and organization (an absurdly misguided exercise if I ever heard one).

What the public thinks about any one member’s “success” or “failure” with AA’s brand of therapy (because that is what The Program quite obviously is—behavioral therapy with a lot of spiritual stuff mixed in), is none of AA’s business. (Funny enough, we have a 12-Step program for codependent over-functioning. It’s called Alanon. Perhaps someone from the GSO should check it out…? I’m just saying.)

AA members are human beings, which means they’re flawed, self-serving, and imperfect. Some do the program well, while others (the majority) half-heartedly or not at all. It’s not the quality of the therapy , but the effort of the patient. If the public can’t figure that out … oh well ? In the meantime, forcing individual anonymity upon millions of automatic “members” (who never technically agreed to remain anonymous) in exchange for a practical system of timeless universal principles (that even AA’s Charter states “belong to all mankind”)—makes AA looks petty, cagey, and cultish. It’s arrogant and gives AA a bad rep. Not to mention, it’s antithetical to their stated mission.

What AA is best at, and should stick to, is providing space and format for discussing the steps its members take to get and stay sober. And they’re not doing that . It’s their sole mission and they’ve dropped the ball. There’s a lack of structure in the meeting rooms. Newcomers aren’t hearing about the steps, not for weeks or months on end. The longer this travesty goes on, the lower the success rate drops, until—as we’ve witnessed for years—AA’s fiercely protected image has gone straight down the toilet.

Get it together GSO. Get your priorities in order. Tell individual groups that open discussion meetings don’t save lives or help real alcoholics get sober. Make a loud, strong “suggestion” that all meetings become Big Book studies and Step Studies. Explain that the fellowship is not the program .

The Twelve Steps are the program, nothing more nothing less.

If AA was more concerned with spreading the message of their program inside the rooms, AA wouldn’t have a PR problem outside the rooms. Instead, it would have a 75-80% success rate like it did in the beginning. I’m not saying writers (journalists, bloggers, celebrities, filmmakers, etc.) should try to improve it, or that by using our full names in the press we would have that effect. I’m saying anyone using their full name with the intent of self-promotion has got their work cut out for them. (What I mean is, they’re an idiot .)

Since the cofounders’ concern was egotistical self-promotion, why not rewrite the 11th Tradition to state that simple fact? That no member should attempt to act as spokesperson. “Don’t cash in on AA’s cool rep.” How hard is that?

—

*This is from a form letter sent by the GSO to a journalist who wrote negatively about her experience in AA, using her full name:

Second, we respectfully request that you continue to cooperate with us in maintaining the anonymity of A.A. members. The principle of anonymity is a basic tenet of our fellowship. Those who are reluctant to seek our help may overcome their fear if they are confident that their anonymity will be respected. In addition, and perhaps less understood, our tradition of anonymity acts as a restraint on A.A. members, reminding us that we are a program of principles, not personalities, and that no individual A.A. member may presume to act as a spokesman or leader of our fellowship.

Catlike

Sat, 02 Jun 2018 17:20:12 GMT

CATLIKE (personal essay, 2006, written about my cat but really about trauma and fear of intimacy)

My cat is my best friend, and I know that sounds weird. But she doesn’t borrow money; she’s never too busy to hang out; and when I ask her if I need to lose weight she really and truly does not know what I’m talking about. She does disapprove of my dates sometimes. I pretend not to notice. She usually has a point.

I like to think we’re a lot alike, although in terms of intellect I don’t kid myself—Tippy is light years ahead. She doesn’t rub it in and pretends not to notice. She has a certain dignity.

She used to live with my parents in a big spotless house. At night she slept in the drafty garage, all alone, on a second-hand pet cushion. During the day she could be indoors, though not on the sofas, and to nap on the floor she had to lay on an old, folded towel. She spent a lot of time roaming the streets and back alleys. I did the same when I lived in that house. Dad works a lot and Mom’s not a big animal person.

One Christmas, five years ago, Mom asked if I would bring Tippy home with me to Austin, to live. At that time, my experience caring for living things was one short-lived relationship with a house plant that may’ve needed more water than I gave it, but just as likely died of boredom in the corner of a living room I never used. I then got a small cactus for the windowsill in my home office, where I spent most of my time—an ugly, prickly thing that managed to survive despite me. (Come to think of it, I had a lot in common with that plant too, but that’s another story entirely.) As for adopting Tippy I couldn’t say no, and Mom thanked me for the favor. Truth is, Tippy was the best favor anyone ever did me.

For starters she’s the perfect roommate, tidy and quiet yet always ready for affection. It took days of encouragement to get her to join me on the bed, but once she grasped her new freedoms she adjusted quickly to the indoor life, and her role as head of the household. Never one to dwell, Tippy knows how to be present. It’s the first thing she tried to teach me, the last thing I thought I needed.

She trained me to brush her, which provided a relaxing, active meditation for me and a silky coat of fur for her. I buy gentle round brushes for six dollars (plus tax) at a beauty supply store. I read her signals carefully for the best technique, pulling her skin taut and incorporating a lot of wrist action (vital for optimizing the brush bristle to cat coat ratio). It’s not something you can rush.

I’m sure, if she could, she’d do the same for me. I once had a boyfriend who gave me amazing massages. Tippy walks on my back sometimes, but only to reach my pillow where she sleeps next to my head. Her purring soothes me, and I wonder if she’s adjusting my spiritual vibration. They say purring is the vibration of healing. Sometimes I marvel that she seems to know what I need before I do. Sometimes I marvel at her happiness just being with me.

We’re both somewhat ornery in nature. My parents knew this, and I think it amuses them. But Tippy has always gotten her way with me, as I’m her entire social circle and I’m whipped. She never gloats; she’s dainty, adorable and sophisticated. I try to emulate. She wakes me by tickling my face with her whiskers. If I pretend to be asleep she meows in my ears, one at a time as I repeatedly turn my head away. I think she thinks this is funny.

When I give her little kisses on the bald spots in front of her ears she holds very still, so I know she likes it. She likes it when I sing to her. At least I think she does. At first I did a Bee Gees tune but quit because I can never recall all the words. Then for a while she seemed to like Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Bruce Springsteen and Cat Stevens are always a hit, and The Band’s The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down is one of her favorites. Americana goes over well in general.

When I sing Amazing Grace she looks like she’s trying to figure it out. Possibly Tippy doesn’t know what a “wretch” is or why I’d call myself one. Possibly she wonders why my pitch is so bad after two years of singing the same five or six songs, but to her credit she keeps those critiques to herself.

Tippy communicates wordlessly in a hundred ways. Once, I had a terrifying nightmare that ended on a peaceful note when an invisible friend appeared to stroke my hand and tell me everything would be alright. I woke to find Tippy gazing at me from our shared pillow, petting the back of my hand.

One night she tried to curl up in my eye socket. All nine pounds of her sprawled across my face. It was so cute I let her, until I practically suffocated on her tail. She gets her own pillow now—four actually—and I take up the rest of our king size bed. I don’t see how anyone else will ever fit with us. This is worrisome I think more to me than her. Then I think she worries too and just doesn’t show it. Sometimes I think she’s waiting for me to meet someone special, so I won’t be all alone when she allows herself to pass on. It would be just like her to watch out for me like that.

She is the sole reason I stopped working so late in my home office after dinner. Unlike me, she seemed to know it was unnecessary and unhealthy. At first, I thought her sharp cries from the doorway were selfish demands for attention but after months of ignoring them (which didn’t work) or giving in grudgingly (which failed to make her happy) or trying to appease her with fresh food and a quick brushing (ineffective and embarrassingly transparent), I would lay with her. That’s the only response that made her happy—for me to relax—and the one thing I’m worse at than singing.

Sometimes she lets me obsess on work, hunched over my desk all night, only to suddenly traipse across my computer keyboard. This results in either locking up the keys or sending emails to my most important clients, reading, “mmpthalallumpssthwappuh—puh.” Other times she sits on it with her back to me, tail swishing crazily across the space bar, daring me to touch it. Once she curled up there to sleep, which was adorable at first until it stumped me. Without Tippy’s attention or my computer to occupy me, I was at a loss. It’s like Mom’s frustration with Dad’s long hours and delayed retirement, but I’m not sure Tippy “gets” that neither she nor I have a 401K or retirement portfolio lying about.

We’re not getting any younger. In “people years” Tippy is older than my grandparents lived to be, although she’s been diagnosed with hypertension and severe arthritis. I give her a morphine derivative pain medication which helps, but the pain always returns. Actually, we both hurt a lot, but with careful grooming I think outwardly we’re aging well. She seems fine living with just me. I love her but I’m not fine with what’s missing, really. I try to not let it show. I can’t imagine being without her for a single night. I don’t travel anymore. Tippy and I both have separation anxiety.

We’re not social creatures either. Not unfriendly, per se, just aloof, which, as a cat, she gets away with. I do too because, well…practice. We were playful when we were younger, she with her catnip and me with whatever I could get my hands on. Some of it looked like catnip, but that’s beside the point and another story entirely. Regardless, we got into some scrapes.

These days we like rest and privacy. I work hard and she’s got those long treks from the bedroom to the kitchen all day. I’ll occasionally grab an afternoon nap with her, wrapping my arm around her back for security, which brings on the big purrs. She usually rests a paw on my face for her own mysterious reasons. If I had to guess I’d say she’s afraid I’ll disappear while she’s asleep. I used to do the same thing to my ex-fiancé. We have abandonment issues, Tippy and I.

I work from home. It’s an arrangement she likes except for the work part, but someone must pay the bills, and I have the luxury of opposable thumbs. She stays busy researching and testing various methods of slumber. When she’s awake she wants me right next to her, something I didn’t understand at first. I’m often unsure if anyone wants me around, always have been. I’m not as cute as a cat and I talk more.

I’m often misunderstood. I don’t know how to state my needs, and my folks weren’t big listeners. They did their best but Tippy has it better. She’s self-confident. I try to understand how it is she commands respect without testing my love or damaging our relationship. I need to know this. I think most of my girlfriends need to know it. This is big. This wisdom of Tippy’s—I think it could get us on Oprah.

I had another cat, fifteen years before Tippy. I was young, insecure, partying too much, and neglecting my real needs. The kitten I fell in love with was the runt of the litter. Rocky didn’t look weaker, but at three weeks old he obviously had issues. He didn’t play well with others and isolated himself for no apparent reason. He seemed mad sometimes, but mostly scared, so I gave him the kind of attention I’d always craved for myself. Through Rocky I found a way to be nurturing, for the first time. It didn’t last. Incapable of honoring myself, I inevitably failed him. I like to think that through Tippy I have a shot at redemption.

Getting the call that Rocky died made me more hysterical than I have ever been, before or since. Tippy doesn’t let me neglect her, or myself (much). Left to my own devices I will work too late and forget to eat, relax, go for walks, or sing for no reason, off-key. She reminds me to trust my instincts and care for myself, like the furry feline Yoda she is to me.

My sister says that “all cats are girls and all dogs are boys” which is true in a way, except for the cat’s independent spirit and the dog’s emotional vulnerability. I know that cats are vulnerable too, but they hide their pain and weakness as a survival instinct. I try to do the same, but being domesticated and all, I’m not sure what purpose this serves. Neither of us is in immediate danger of a wolf attack. And though I was recently wounded by a heartless local musician, even Tippy’s shrewdest instincts crumble in the jungles of modern dating.

We were reckless in our youth. She got in fights and killed a few birds. I got drunk once for twelve straight years. Tippy was hit by a car and left for dead, then saved by the kindness of strangers. My parents gave her a place to recover and prayed for the best. My story’s pretty much the same but instead of a car I was flattened by addiction, saved by strangers, and prayed for by well-meaning parents.

We’re survivors Tippy and I. We look out for each other in a dangerous world of intrusive creatures. Trust issues aside, we’re more intuitive for our past traumas. Our hearts are not as open as other companion animals, but theirs is not a way of life we can allow. I don’t know how to be open and playful while also safe from harm. Domesticity notwithstanding, it’s a wild world out there. Without Tippy I’d be in it alone.

Ted Nugent's Laundry

Wed, 10 Jan 2018 17:43:29 GMT

Shortly after I moved in with Joe, we went for a stroll to explore the shops, bars, and antique stores on nearby Ventura Boulevard. Joe loved antiquing, though I was more of a window shopper, myself (which is one reason his recently vacated penthouse resembled more of a hoarder’s paradise than my miniscule-yet-immaculate apartment back in Austin). While I perused one small store’s art deco figurines, ashtrays, and brooches, Joe discovered three lion skin rugs in a corner, piled on top of each other. They were dusty and neglected, yet he practically danced with excitement as I looked on with a twinge of sorrow and distinct wariness. I felt bad for the current state of those once magnificent beasts, as well as for myself, considering where they were surely headed.

I wasn’t too keen on decorating our new home with some misguided animal hunter’s morbid “trophy” remnants. Yet leaving them behind felt just plain wrong, so I gave Joe the go-ahead and he bought all three, then sent them out to be lovingly restored. Once finished—cleaned, brushed, and lined with felt—one went in our study, where my cat, Rocky, took to curling up against its head, for hours on end, every day. Another went to a children’s museum, and the third to Joe’s acquaintance Ted Nugent.

Why Ted? He’s into all that stuff , Joe explained…bowhunting and outdoor survivalist shit. “He’ll love it!” I had to agree the package seemed a good fit for its recipient (as much as I disagreed with what it represented). We sent the rug off and forgot all about it.

Months later, a huge box was delivered to our house. Joe inspected the return address and immediately bounced with excitement. “I wonder what Ted sent us!” he exclaimed, as I held my breath. Tearing the box open, he discovered an odd assortment of men’s clothing. T-shirts, undershorts, ratty pants, etc.—approximately two full loads of The Nuge’s unwashed laundry. No note was included, no explanation whatsoever.

“Maybe it’s in code,” I said with a shrug. “Like…store-bought pelts are totally uncool if we don’t kill the lion ourselves…or something.” I had no idea; I was grasping at straws. Joe’s sweet gesture had been reciprocated with rudeness. It made me want to shoot a flaming arrow at the guy who’d done it.

I can still recall Joe’s expression, bouncing ceased, grin slipping away. He studied the odd contents with a furrowed brow, swaying side to side, the way he did oftentimes. Eventually I closed the box up and shoved it into a corner of our increasingly cluttered house.

The Program

Wed, 03 Jan 2018 17:46:53 GMT

An oft-cited statistic regarding AA’s success rate is 5-8%. This "study" is based on imaginary figures and nebulous data, and I’ve yet to read one of the many articles in which it’s quoted—always as evidence of the program’s “ineffectiveness”—by someone who even knows what the program is .

I know what the program is. I’ve been to thousands of meetings over 20 years and my guess is that less than half the people seated around me are aware of how the program works (much less are actually working it). The other half are willfully ignorant.

Working the program correctly is painful and challenging, especially in the beginning. It’s like a fitness regimen. You can hit the gym regularly to socialize, take a lazy stroll on a flat treadmill, and fling around some light weights with no attention to form, or you can throw yourself into heavy lifting with a discipline and tenacity. What you can’t do is take the lazy way out and then proclaim your program doesn’t work.

We get the results we earn.

If 100 people join a gym and two years later eight are in shape, does that mean gyms don’t work? What percentage went regularly, worked out properly, and then applied some basic fitness principles to their daily lives? It doesn’t take a genius to see that if 8% get results, it’s because a mere eight out of 100 earned them.

If 1,000 freshmen register for college, and only 80 earn a degree, does it follow that college is useless? How many took good notes, did the homework, and studied for exams? Look, hanging out at a gym won’t chisel your abs, class attendance won’t guarantee an education, and going to meetings isn’t “doing the program.”

Meetings don’t ensure sobriety. The twelve steps are the heavy lifting. Done consistently, they are the program.

The aforementioned statistic is based on AA attendance and self-reporting—as if counting asses-in-seats qualifies as research, or asking reformed drunks to self-report is remotely scientific. I’ve met thousands of recovering addicts at meetings and conferences around the country. I worked intently with my sponsor and then sponsored many women myself. I taught the steps—which is all that sponsorship is—as practical tools to get and stay sober, as long as they’re used continuously in sobriety. I’ve spoken at rehab centers, taken meetings to inmates, and started a popular women’s step study. I lived and breathed the twelve steps daily for years, and when I quit going to meetings regularly, I brought the principles behind the steps with me into the world. They’ve been the foundation my life for two decades, and to this day, when I hear a fellow AA share, I can tell immediately if they’ve done the steps and are truly working the program. And in my opinion, far less than half the people sharing in meetings are doing it.

If I had to guess, I’d say 15% of AA’s have completed the twelve steps. The percentage who continues practicing the principles in all their affairs is probably a third less than that. By that math, if 8% of AA members stay sober, but only 10% of AA’s are truly working the program right, AA’s success rate is 80%, not eight .

A gym is a building. A university is an institution. AA is an organization, not a program. The program isn’t platitudes, fellowship, or inspirational slogans. The program is the steps and the steps save lives. Disgruntled former members, bloggers, and “journalists” would do well to check their motivations for spreading false evidence (perhaps through a searching and fearless inventory, if only they could find someone to teach them… hmmm ).

I had no coping skills when I got sober at 29. My bag of tricks consisted of booze, drugs, and an abusive codependent relationship. The steps taught me how to live! The program worked for me because I worked the program . It may not be the sole path to recovery, and it’s certainly not perfect (would it kill us to take the “God” thing down a notch?), but for many it’s highly effective. Disparaging AA with specious statistics is unprincipled and does a disservice to the many untreated alcoholics and addicts suffering and dying all around us.

Resting Bitch Face

Tue, 02 Jan 2018 17:48:22 GMT

The featured picture on this post was taken two months ago (by the phenomenal Amanda Elmore). I like it for many reasons, not least being that it looks like me and is also pretty. Not all my pics come out that way.

I think sometimes I look pretty and sometimes I don’t, which doesn’t bother me much. What is upsetting is lingering damage from botched surgeries invariably caught on camera. Whether I’m smiling for a still shot or talking expressively on video, certain flaws become apparent—surgical flaws versus my own natural imperfections. Due to this I tend to default to expressionless on camera. This has led to the discovery of my awesomely classic “resting bitch face.”

I’ve probably had one most my life. An old high school friend recently mentioned thinking I was a raging bitch when we met, purely because my mind was elsewhere and my face a blank. (For the record, freshman year was not exactly a joyful time…I’m just saying). In pictures from later years, I’m smiling plenty—my late-teens to mid-20s, when I drank daily. I tended to be a happy drunk (until I wasn’t…feel free to read the book for more on that), but once I got sober I struggled with depression for a long time.

I got sober in 1997 and didn’t smile with any frequency until 2011. That’s the year things fell into place for me creatively and financially. My writing was starting to fire and a business I’d started was going gangbusters. I could finally afford to correct a botched surgery from 2009 and when it appeared to have gone well I had another surgery on my nose, in 2012. What I thought would be a minor rhinoplasty to smooth out a faint ridge in my bridge, was so badly botched I spent the next five years trying to fix it. I haven’t come close.

Long story short, my nose collapsed and then had to be rebuilt (more than once). It’s still swollen and somewhat shapeless, though it may (or may not) continue to subside and regain its once lovely shape. The bigger issue is nerve damage in my right cheek, sustained somewhere along the ling during one of the five aforementioned surgeries. It prevents me from smiling correctly and is permanent.

I’ve never liked having my picture taken. When I was buzzed or high, I felt uninhibited, beautiful, and glamorous, but otherwise I was self-conscious on camera. I look back now and think my former camera shyness was probably absurd, but while I’m no longer insecure, the self-consciousness returned when the surgical damage occurred. It is what it is, but that doesn’t mean I want it recorded for posterity on strangers’ iPhones. (I’d like to believe, neither would they.)

Onward Through the Blog

Mon, 01 Jan 2018 17:53:14 GMT

My first blog was on MySpace, its inception sparked by the growing awareness that at eight years sober I’d yet to open up in any authentically intimate way with my newish social circle. When a mentor pointed this out to me—that I was setting myself up to spend the rest of my life alone—I went home and gave it a good think. I had tried my best to be less guarded in person yet made only infinitesimal progress. I needed a backdoor, I theorized, had I any hope of expressing the emotional vulnerability required to form lasting, genuine friendships. I was not yet strong enough to do it in person. So where do my strengths lay? I wondered. Well, I’m not a bad writer, so… maybe there’s a way to “write” myself open!

Bam, a blog was born.

At first I posted a few short musings on life, two poems I’d (startlingly) managed to get published, and an anecdote or two on my previously undisclosed, drug-fueled, rock-and-roll past life. The response was stunning. People I’d socialized with for years said they were getting to know me for the very first time. And they liked this person…her humor, intellect, quirks, flaws, and capacity for outrageous antics. Even my snark went over pretty well (okay some of it did) so all in all, my first blog was a powerfully validating experience.

I’ve been blogging ever since.

I eventually left MySpace and started up on LiveJournal in 2006. That new blog focused on stripping, hot yoga, and a blossoming romantic relationship—my first in twelve years (since the one I wrote about in ROCK MONSTER). Those topics comprised my life at that time and required as much strength and flexibility as I could muster. The latter was something I had in spades, the former, something I was still accruing (in a trial by fire sort of way). My LJ blog became an exploration on that theme—250 posts on a four-year quest for this metaphorical strength/flexibility balancing act. One day, a cyber bully threatened to use select bits of it out of context to disparage and smear me. I promptly deleted the entire thing, and started an anonymous blog of shorter, less personal stories, that I wrote throughout my 40s.

And now…this.

A newish, not-at-all-private blog where I’ll post about my writing, rock-&-roll past, and issues of addiction & recovery, and the other about my work as an intimacy coach & Surrogate Partner.

Coaching vs Therapy

Wed, 23 Aug 2017 17:54:58 GMT

While there is some overlap, for the most part coaching and licensed therapy are two different beasts. Both modalities facilitate emotional healing and growth, yet with distinct differences in how they're applied and integrated. The simplest explanation is as follows.

As a coach, I do :

respect clients' rights to privacy, and practice strict ethics & confidentiality protocols
focus mainly on present issues and future goals
promote shorter term series of sessions (3 to 12 usually, versus ongoing therapy of an indefinite term)
interact with clients in experiential ways that are outside the parameters of licensed therapy

I do not :

diagnose behavioral health or treat any form of mental illness
focus unduly on a client's past (beyond what is helpful to inform our present moment work)
enjoy the same legal protections regarding client-confidentiality as licensed therapists do

The collaborative aspects of coaching are something I enjoy and believe in. Also, the freedom to individualize sessions based on decades of personal and professional experience, finely-honed instincts, and moment to moment inspiration.

My clients tend to be highly motivated and proactive, thus, conventional therapy's slower pace and (justifiable) restrictions can feel limiting to them. The restrictive structure of a classic therapeutic environment either doesn't appeal to coaching clients or (in many cases*) is something they use in conjunction with short term coaching.

Talk therapy can be incredibly helpful, even lifesaving. It's exactly what many people need, for many years myself included. I had a phenomenal therapist for 15 years, whom I saw during good times and bad, but I don't pretend to have her same skills (or PhD), nor desire to work in that vein. The world needs both coaches and therapists. Some clients need one, the other, or both.

*One third to one half of my coaching clients also see a therapist or have seen one in the past. All my Surrogate Partner clients see a therapist with whom I’m also in contact on a biweekly basis, since that very triadic relationship is a requirement and integral part of Surrogate Partner Therapy.