I play the tape through

This morning in the shower, while washing my hair for the first time this week, I was suddenly hit with the desire to crack open an ice cold alcoholic beverage. My mind took me for a trip down the alcohol-brings-joy-and-comfortable-numbness road. Several months into sobriety and I still experience craving thoughts like these on a regular basis.

Typically, I would beat myself up for even having these thoughts. But lately, instead, I have been attempting to lean into these cravings with curiosity and compassion. There must be a reason why the thought of getting buzzed has the power to erase the memory of my last four-day hangover.

Looking back, I notice alcohol has been a part of my life since I was in the womb. “Alcoholism” runs on both sides of my extended family. Plus, my parents are high-functioning daily drinkers. There was always a box of wine and a few beers in my childhood refrigerator. In many ways, alcohol provided a sense of belonging among my family. It makes sense that alcohol became a big part of my life — no need to beat myself up.

Although I struggled with 12-step based rehab programs, one positive that came from those rooms, is the idea of playing the tape through when urges hit. While sitting with seemingly impossible cravings to drink, it helps to take a walk down memory lane.

It helps to remember the crazy shit I drunkenly posted on social media and the nonsensical texts I sent my friends. I remember those first few hours after waking up from a blackout, when alcohol becomes a stimulant, and my mind races. I remember the self-hatred, the brain fog, and the puking in a trash can next to my bed. I remember the night sweats and the frightened look on my dog’s face. I remember the two mornings I woke up in a jail cell after drinking and driving. I remember the alcohol-detecting ankle tether I wore for six months. I remember all the jobs I have lost and all the people I have hurt. I remember it all.

No matter where I am on my recovery journey, I still face cravings and triggers. Drinking often sounds enticing in the moment, but when I pause and play the tape through the next 24 hours, I create space for a longer term sense of gratification.

Do I really want to put myself through all that again? 

Is it really worth it?

I play the tape through.

I create my own magic

At the time of my birth, my dad was employed by the Chicago White Sox and my mom was a competitive triathlete. My childhood was kind of like The Sandlot. We came home to an endless game of catch in the backyard and hot dogs on the grill. 

Year-round, with the exception of one week during the summer, our calendar was jam-packed with travel sports and expectations of excellence. But I always knew when my Aunt Kathy pulled up in her Mercury Cougar, it was time for seven heavenly days at what I called Camp Bladow (her last name).

Rather than hanging at the ball field, days were spent imagining and creating with my brilliant Bladow cousins. After a dip in the pool, we’d turn our towels into fashion, and strut down the back deck catwalk. We’d camp out in the basement writing and developing skits to perform. At night we were free to catch fireflies and pretend to be fairies in the forest. It was mystical and magical and the complete opposite of my rigid life.

The drive home after a week of Camp Bladow always left me feeling blue. As a kid, it was confusing to not feel connected to the Sporty Spice childhood my parents had provided. Now, twenty five years later, I can recognize that icky emotion as shame for being different. Shame so unbearable it led to five arrests, five rehabs, and two hospitalizations all before my 31st birthday.

The key to sobriety, for me, is about honoring that girl from Camp Bladow. It’s about turning off those impossible, self-made expectations and finding myself by cranking up the creativity. It’s about closing my eyes, breathing deeply, tuning in with myself, and brain dumping with glitter and vibrant colors. This is where my truth lives.

Camp Bladow taught me how to create my own magic with my own imagination. It taught me that magical places reside within me, not outside of me. Best of all, my magic is always there waiting for me when I’m ready to welcome it home.

I create my own magic.

I am worthy of forgiveness right now

One of the most harmful things I was repeatedly taught before joining Tempest was, “Your apology doesn’t mean shit until you get some sober time.” Meaning, I wasn’t deserving of forgiveness until I was, say, six months sober or had completed inventory and step whatever.

At that time I couldn’t get more than 72 consecutive hours of sobriety. Let alone sit with my shame long enough to construct a list of my defects, plus reminisce about every single person I’d hurt while drunk. This way of thinking made me wonder if I would ever be worthy of forgiveness, or anything good in life for that matter.

Luckily, about a year before I joined Tempest, I unexpectedly brought home a 14-pound havapoo dog named Teddy. Those first twelve months together were rough. But he was always there, nuzzled up with his neck on mine, when I woke up from a drinking blackout. He was always there to comfort me. Ted’s sweet little face taught me about a type of forgiveness that I can only describe as unconditional.

His forgiveness was not dependent on sobriety time. His love for me right now is exactly the same as it was on my seemingly endless streak of Day Ones.

Maybe there’s a way to reframe this, “I’m not worthy of shit until I get sober” idea. Maybe it’s okay for my loved ones to have their own (healthy) boundaries while I am using. That makes sense. I am not myself (I am a lying, stealing, unconscious human being) while using.

When I am ready to come back, on my own terms, when I have looked at my past with a less shameful, more compassionate eye, and welcomed a bit of self-forgiveness, then those who are on my team will be there whistling from the bleachers. Or welcoming me with the warmest bear hug.

Forgiveness has to come from within. I am worthy of forgiveness right now. And, in my experience, it doesn’t hurt to have a 14-pound havapoo dog named Ted to remind me of my worthiness every single morning.

Sending slobbery kisses,

Kelsi + Teddy = Telsi

(she/her + he/him) = <3