I trade shame for compassion

Yesterday was the six year anniversary of my second DUI. Six years ago, I woke up from a drinking blackout in a jail cell to discover I blew a .26 BAC, while driving home from an AA meeting. None of which I remember.

I think it’s safe to say, as Tempest members, we all have cringeworthy, even nausea-inducing drinking memories and anniversaries. Which means, one time each year, I face all of the emotions that accompany the dreaded anniversary day.

I am reminded of that girl from six years ago who couldn’t escape the darkness. While it is painful to reflect back on that season, because Tempest has been pounding radical self-compassion into my brain, I decided to spend the day taking care of myself. And, kicked my old friend, shame, to the curb.

I decided to ask that girl from the past what she actually needed. How can I fill this anniversary day with compassion for that girl who was desperately self-medicating six years ago?

Luckily, I had the day off from work, so I cozied up in matching PJs and fuzzy socks with my dog, Teddy. It was a rainy day filled with candles, homemade pumpkin bread, and soup. I washed my bedding, took a long nap, and caught up on The Great British Baking Show.

I wrote a quick letter to that girl from six years ago. I told her the things I thought she needed to hear back then.

Dear Kelsi - I see you. I am not here to punish you further. You have experienced enough humiliation. I see you and your fear of jail time. I see your fresh breakup wounds. No matter what happens, I am here with you. I will not abandon you. We will do this hand in hand; baby steps all the way. You are not a criminal. You are a human being who deserves proper care. I see you beyond the labels and the lies. I love you.

Six years ago I was lost in a blackhole of shame. I wonder what would have happened if my recovery process began with compassion, rather than criminalization. I wonder what type of world we would live in, if we traded all of this bullshit alcoholic shaming, for compassion.

We all have shame-filled drinking memories and anniversaries, and that’s okay. I choose to look back gently and celebrate anniversaries by giving myself the care I needed back then.

I trade shame for compassion.

Letting Go of Thinness as a Moral Claim

Originally published for The NEDIC Blog

When I was nine years old and in fifth grade, I got my first period. By the time I was 12, I was already taller and weighed more than my five-foot-zero mom. One time on our way home from Burger King my mom grabbed her full stomach and complained about how disgusting it was. Thinness, I learned, according to my mom was like a moral claim.

For all of my childhood I watched my mom count calories and try different diets in an effort to control her weight. The South Beach Diet hardcover book was always on our coffee table; that’s how I learned to diet as a preteen without the internet. Heartbreakingly, it makes sense that my adolescent brain created a story in my head that said, “If my mom thinks she’s fat, then she must think I am a whale because I am bigger than she is.”

Obsessing about food and body became a way to check out of the confusing world around me. My eating disorder was a way to escape the heavy emotional load, the constant overstimulation, the endless self-made pressure, and every other uncomfortable thing in my life. I thought if I can just keep my weight and food intake strict, I can remain just numb enough to survive the day.

Because I believed thinness determined my worthiness, I also learned to completely deny my hunger cues. I stopped trusting myself and began allowing external sources to dictate the size of my body. I wanted to be a morally good girl; so I did exactly what my mom and every other successful woman does. Diet.

It has been nearly ten years since my eating disorder recovery journey began. Over the past decade I was admitted to inpatient treatment six times and have worked with countless therapists. My journey has been anything but a straight line but I sure have learned a lot along the way.

Currently I am in a place where my therapist is once again encouraging me to gain a little healthy weight. It is challenging for many reasons. In order to combat the stories I created in my head as a child, I have created a list of things I know are true about being at a healthy weight:

My brain is less foggy

My emotions are still intense, but manageable

My issues with overstimulation are less noticeable

I have more energy

I obsess about food less

There is more space in my brain for creativity

My sex drive improves

My overall anxiety decreases

My skin is better

I sleep through the night

I perform better at work

I can notice obsessive thoughts without acting on them

My relationships, while still messy, have improved

It’s okay to develop my own relationship with food separate from my mom’s

There are people out there who get it - Glennon Doyle, Christy Harrison

It’s okay to trust and listen to my hunger cues

Weight gain is uncomfortable at times; it’s safe to lean into that discomfort

Our society has a ton of misinformation surrounding food and diets and metabolism

While growing up I was taught to view thinness as a moral claim; a pathway to belonging. Now as an adult with ten years of eating disorder recovery under my belt, I can see beyond the illusion. Even though in the moment it feels familiar to maintain a tight grip of control over my weight, my list is proof that reaching a healthy weight is actually bursting with positives.

I wish I could go back and show my nine-year-old self this list. I wish I could have shown her the truth before she created all of those false stories in her head. Eating disorders are destroying lives. Maybe it’s time to ditch this idea of thinness as a moral claim. Maybe instead, it’s time to properly fuel and develop trust in our bodies. All of the benefits listed above are waiting on the other side.

I no longer strive for past versions of myself

In 2016, while on probation and sober, I helped open an adorably hip coffeeshop in my hometown. During my interview, the owner and I connected over a Brené Brown book and the rest was history. Occupationally speaking, I had more “success” at that job than any previous job in my life. I became the pastry chef and created a few recipes that are still on the menu today. 

Because I was sober from alcohol, it appeared as if I had my shit together. My Instagram page was filled with mouthwatering latte art and seasonal baked goods. I went back to school and became obsessed with my 4.0 GPA. I thought sobriety meant adhering to the confines of my probation and allowing my perfectionistic, people-pleasing tendencies to run the show.

Not surprisingly, when my probation ended in 2018, all of that “success” went down the drain because I started drinking again. My work became sloppy, and I became the queen of calling in with fake excuses. I got demoted and my pay was cut. One time I showed up to an 8 PM team meeting drunk, snuck more booze into the meeting, and then threw up in my boss’s bed after the meeting was over. All of the bridges were burned.

As a result, over the past few years, I have created a story in my head that says I am not good enough until I return to that 2016 perfectly-put-together version of myself.

But the truth is, 2016 Kelsi was living in survival mode. I wasn’t sleeping. I was hyped up on caffeine; constant espresso tasting was a job requirement, after all. I lied to my therapist weekly to ensure her monthly report to my probation officer was squeaky clean. My caloric intake remained strict because I got a high whenever people commented on what cute and tiny pastry chef I was. I was holding up this impossibly heavy façade.

Sober from alcohol? Yes.

Healthy or healing or creating a sustainable recovery for myself? Hell no.

That story in my head about not being good enough until I return to some past version of myself is not real. It is an illusion I created. And, it kept me entangled in addictive behaviors for a couple of years post-probation.

Today I am practicing sobriety because I choose to—not because it is forced upon me—and that alone is more than good enough.

I no longer strive for past versions of myself.

I light a candle

I started a new job this week and survived without drinking. This feels equally triumphant and triggering. While I am trying to celebrate my progress (this is my first new job since joining Tempest last year), I also feel like I have been hit by an emotional freight train. Meeting dozens of new people and having first impressions formed left and right, has left me feeling drained to the last drop. It’s no surprise that numbness sounds good to me right about now.

About a year ago, during my early Tempest days, while fighting urges to drink, I decided to buy a cheap candle instead of a bottle of wine while at the grocery store. When I got home, as I sat on my couch to light the candle, I remember feeling, once again, both triumphant and triggered. Proud of myself for not drinking, but also a little bummed I wasn’t numb.

While I sat on the couch and cried, I became entranced by my new candle. While blankly staring at the flickering flame, I noticed I was sitting with my emotions for the first time in maybe two decades. I noticed, by making the choice to not drink, I could feel both proud and blue at the same time. I noticed that celebratory moments can be just as triggering as anxiety provoking moments.

It felt like that first $3 candle held my hand and provided a hug in the form of a calm and cozy glow while I sat with dueling emotions. The candle gave me space to just be. Space to let my feelings come and go and teach me things.

This candle lighting ritual has continued into my sobriety. It has become my go-to witching hour mood stabilizer. Now, I look forward to cozy candle time the same way I used to look forward to booze. Now, I use the money I would’ve spent on cheap wine to buy cheap candles at Walmart.

You might have already guessed that lighting all the candles I could find helped me survive the first week at a new job without drinking. I still cried myself to sleep 3 out of the 5 nights; but at least my tears and fears and progress were all met with a warm, cozy, nonjudgmental glow. Sure beats a hangover.