I reclaim my alone time

For the past five months, I have been given the gift of about 30 hours of alone time each week. Admittingly though, at first, this alone time felt more like torture than a gift. I have been without a driver’s license since 2015, which has forced me into a 7 year situation that mirrors the COVID lockdown period. Daily bike rides to the park with my dog have become my version of getting out of the house.

Sometime around 2006, I began spending all of my alone time either binging and purging or drinking. Anything to distract myself from myself. Alone time used to feel like the scariest thing in the world because all of my emotions came to the surface. Alone time forces me to look at my discomfort, fear, confusion, and overwhelm straight in the eye.

In order to survive these past 5 months, I have clung to these Brianna Weist words like a lifeline:

“What if, in the moments you feel most alone, 

you begin to realize that you are also free? 

What if you could see that in these very moments you fear most, 

you are also completely unburdened from the expectations of others, 

able to define and redefine yourself, 

to explore life on your own terms, 

to hear the sound of your own voice? 

What if being on your own, in any capacity, 

is a sign of self-sufficiency and courage? 

What if you’ve already made it? 

What if instead of believing your aloneness is a sign you have failed, 

you realize that it is proof you have accomplished the most daring thing of all?”

This summer started out feeling painfully lonely for me. However, as time passed and I learned to lovingly fill my time, I have found true freedom. Making the decision to stop numbing my emotions with booze and food has given me space to get to know myself without input from the outside world, to create a routine that works for me. For the first time in my life, I am learning to become my own best friend. I am learning to ride my own emotional waves. I am learning, as Weist says, that I have accomplished the most daring thing of all.

The key to sobriety for me, is learning to create a life I do not want to escape from. In my experience, this has not been possible without reclaiming my alone time. Sometimes I complain about still not having a driver’s license; but sometimes, I also wonder if it’s one of the best things that ever happened to me. Not driving has given me extra space to indulge in the greatest gift of all - alone time.

I reclaim my alone time.

I honor and protect everything that comes along with being me

The second time I went to a 12 step based inpatient rehab program, in 2015, was at a 90 day women’s facility in Grand Rapids, Michigan. One of the mantras we lived by was, “the only way to get sober is to change everything but your name.” Sadly, that made sense at the time because I still believed I was just an alcoholic, bulimic loser who was in rehab to avoid jail time. Changing everything but my name felt like winning.

But here’s the thing, the more I tried to change and deny myself, the sicker I became.

Because I am someone who engages in cross-addictive behaviors, I was discharged on day 76 of my stay, after a trash bag filled with puke was found in my closet where I purged every night. That was at a drug and alcohol facility. They had zero tolerance for my eating disorder, which isn’t uncommon.

So there I was, sober from alcohol; but also being taught to reject every single part of myself, twenty pounds lighter, and more disassociated than the day I arrived.

What I have learned since then is, changing everything but my name doesn’t work. What I need in order to be okay is to honor and protect everything that comes along with being Kelsi. I need to work with my highly sensitive, highly anxious self, rather than against her. I need to become more of myself, not less.

For me, this wouldn’t be possible without alone time, endless self-compassion, and Tempest. It’s difficult to get to know myself when I am constantly bombarded with messages from the outside world about how I should be. It’s difficult to get to know my truest self while engaged in a program that gave me a shameful label, suggests I am filled with character defects, and tells me I cannot be trusted with myself.

That rehab stay was a traumatic hell. Being told to deny all parts of myself did not help me feel seen or heard, all it did was reinforce my alcoholic, bulimic loser shame.

But now, years later, I feel lucky to have the opportunity to reconnect with and RECOVER that girl I was taught to bury. I was not born just to spend life trying to be someone else. I am not changing everything but my name. Instead, I am embracing everything that comes along with being me.

“I will not stay, not ever again - in a room or conversation or relationship or institution that requires me to abandon myself.” -Glennon Doyle

I use my morning routine to return home to myself

This week marks 18 months since I began (imperfectly) practicing sobriety. There are 547 days in 18 months, and I have spent 542 of those days alcohol-free (!!!). This truly feels miraculous. It’s the first time I have had a stretch of sobriety that was not forced upon me by the criminal justice system. It’s the first time I have done this for me.

The best part of the past 18 months has been the development of my morning routine. It’s the only time of day when the messed up world around me is quiet. It’s my time to write, feel my feelings, and recenter. I use my morning routine to return home to myself.

5:30 fur baby alarm clock.

Brush my teeth.

A moonlit stroll around the block

metabolizes my grief.

Crisp morning air.

Neighbors cozily tucked in bed.

With each silent step

my soul is fed.

Veins pulsing with a

golden sunrise glow.

The early bird’s song

eases worries of tomorrow.

A blank page

fills my heart with glee.

Here I am

 542 days hangover-free.

I have hope for the future

Ten years ago when I left eating disorder treatment for the first time, I remember being angry and constantly triggered because everyone around me was dieting. Just ten years ago the patriarchy still had full control over pop culture’s unattainable thinness and beauty standards. Body positivity did not exist. The Biggest Loser was still on TV. It was perfectly normal to bond with folks over diet talk and body hatred. Nowhere felt safe. Everything felt triggering.

Now, ten years later, the same type of thing is happening on my alcohol-free journey. There are nine different places to buy alcohol on the six block walk to my job where people openly and eagerly await beer o'clock. In the summer there is a beer drinking, bike peddling trolley that rowdily goes by my apartment every hour. My dog walking trail is littered with beer cans. I can’t even listen to Pandora without hearing a Leinenkugel’s ad. Nowhere feels safe. Everything feels triggering.

I feel angry and constantly triggered by other people's alcohol use the same way I did ten years ago with other people's diets.

The good news is, hearing about other people’s diets does not bother me the same way it used to. My anger and resentment eventually morphed into acceptance and empathy towards those who remain trapped in endless diet cycles. Last week at work, for example, a woman beamed with pride saying she had been “good” for an entire week because she avoided carbohydrates. Instead of feeling angry and triggered, I felt sad for her. I know how impossibly miserable it is to equate food restriction with goodness.

This experience with my coworker gives me hope for my future alcohol-free journey. Maybe someday other people's alcohol use won’t be so triggering. Maybe I can learn to trade my anger for empathy. I also know how impossibly miserable it is to live for beer o’clock, after all.

In 2012 it was hard to find decent articles or books on eating disorders. Now we have social media accounts solely dedicated to debunking diet culture. There has been a significant cultural shift in a single decade. Hopefully by 2032 alcohol-free lifestyles will be more normalized, mirroring today's more body-positive culture.

I am slowly learning to survive in this alcohol-obsessed world by remembering my past. If this type of a shift is possible for eating disorders, it is also possible for alcohol. I am not crazy for feeling this way. It makes sense that this is hard. Maybe things won’t change today or tomorrow, but if I keep putting one foot in front of the other, maybe in another ten years I’ll be lucky enough to witness an alcohol-free cultural revolution.

I have hope for the future.

I am valuable, worthy, and rare

“Being weird is when you

love yourself enough to

liberate yourself from

the burden of trying

to be normal. It is also

when you are smart enough

to know that there is

no such thing as normal.

Know that you are valuable.

Know that you are worthy.

Know that you are rare.

How could anyone be

better than you if

you are the only you?”

-Cleo Wade

I wish I had found this poem 10 years ago at the start of my recovery journey. Being labeled an alcoholic has made me feel like the ultimate weirdo, like I don’t belong in my family or in society.

This poem helps reframe my so-called weirdness as a valuable, worthy, and rare superpower. My experiences with addiction and sobriety have given me the opportunity to view the world through my own uniquely special lense. My liberation comes from knowing that I no longer need to fit into this sick society. Sobriety allows me to take pride in my weirdness, and as a result, develop my own sparkly and fabulous definition of normal.

I am valuable.

I am worthy.

I am rare.

If I am the only me,

how could anyone be better?

My face tells a story of strength

I have an older cousin who was given the nickname “wrinkle” because he always had a scowl on his face that caused a crease between his brows. As I grew into my teens and early 20s I often had the same wrinkled expression on my face. My parents would jokingly say, “Hey wrinkle!” as a reminder to not let my face age prematurely. I learned from a young age that wrinkles do not make me desirable.

The messages to maintain a perfectly ageless face continued into my mid-late 20s. We live in a society where women are scolded for “letting themselves go,” while men are praised for “aging like fine wine.” Society discards women after their youth has worn off. Pop culture is steeped in toxic femininity and impossible standards. For example, I recently heard Kim Kardashian say she’d eat poop if that meant she would look younger, for goodness sakes.

Currently, I am 34 years young and have a deepening number 11 wrinkle between my eyebrows thanks to twenty years of bulimia and alcohol dependency. Oftentimes being sober feels challenging because all I see when I look in the mirror is an overly aged face. It feels like the wrinkle tells a story of two decades worth of self-harm.

Unfortunately, I have been chasing the idea of “pretty privilege” my entire life. I always thought I was too shy to be accepted, but if I could be pretty enough then life would somehow be easier. And now that I have a single imperfection in the middle of my face, I feel unworthy and ugly. Is this something all women experience? Are we all greeted with a slight (or massive) identity crisis while grieving the loss of youth and beauty?

Recently I saw an article where Jennifer Garner says young people should be cautious and wait to get injectables and fillers. My love for Jen began with 13 Going on 30, but now I love her even more. This article makes me wonder how much of my own negative self-image has been caused by patriarchy and capitalism. Has this botox-driven world skewed my perception of reality?

These Brandi Carlile lyrics have helped reframe my wrinkle shame:

All of these lines across my face

Tell you the story of who I am

So many stories of where I've been

And how I got to where I am

Instead of allowing my wrinkle to be a story of self-harm and addiction, I am learning to take pride in this facial battle scar. My wrinkle tells the story of the blood, sweat, and tears I have put into my recovery. It tells the story of the countless times I picked my hungover self up from the bathroom floor and tried again. It tells the story of my resilience, courage, and survival.

I can breathe a little easier when I think of my wrinkles as a story of strength, instead of a story of undesirability. I can breathe a little easier knowing that life’s greatest privilege has nothing to do with a smooth face and everything to do with having the opportunity to be soberly present as I grow older.

My face tells a story of strength.

I celebrate a Day Won

I had a slip last week. After several months without alcohol, I drank again. Since my recovery journey began ten years ago, I have been taught two completely different ways to deal with relapses. First, the most mainstream option is to go back to Day One after a slip. To delete all of the progress that has been made and shamefully collect a twenty-four hour chip. In my experience, nothing made me feel more like a failure than another Day One.

Before joining Tempest, I couldn’t figure out how to string together more than 72 consecutive hours of sobriety, so I lived in a space of constant not good enoughness. While hungover on the bathroom floor, I would beat the shit out of myself with abusive and self-berating thoughts like: “What the hell is wrong with me? How did I end up here AGAIN? Why can’t I just stop drinking? Get off the floor you piece of shit.” Understandably, this never helped me quit drinking.

The second way to deal with slips, known as The Myth of Day Ones, was introduced to me when I began my sobriety journey with Tempest 18 months ago. Tempest recovery coach Christina Hanks says the best way to reframe slips is with self-compassion. What is going to help me get back on track - kindness or shame? If I could punish myself into healing, I would not find myself hungover on the bathroom floor once again.

Hanks suggests that instead of kicking myself while I am down, I can lay on the bathroom floor with my hungover self and wipe my own tears. I can give myself the biggest hug knowing I do not have to go back to Day One. Everything I learned and all of the progress I have made before the slip does not go away, it is not erased. Instead of going back to Day One, I can simply skip a day and then proudly keep going.

Hank's words always make me emotional, “Another Day One. Does this equal failure? No way. I am a sweet and giving song of endless tryings. I am a person who loves myself enough to keep trying. Day Ones are never for a second a failure. Do you know what type of person it takes to try something 5 million times in 5 million different ways? 500 million Day Ones adds up to 500 million pieces of arriving home to myself.”

I no longer believe in Day Ones. Rather, I believe every alcohol-free day is to be celebrated as a Day Won (even if I am hungover). Slips are no longer used as fuel to beat myself up with. Now they are simply an opportunity for me to collect data points. What triggered me to drink? How can I set myself up for success moving forward? What changes do I need to make? What can I learn from this? How can I treat myself with even more self-compassion?

I have been practicing sobriety with Tempest for 532 days and have only slipped five times. That is incredible progress considering I only had a handful of sober days in all of 2019. Slipping does not make me a failure, it makes me human. I am not starting over. Nothing has been lost. I am simply learning new ways to love and nurture myself.

Instead of going back to Day One, I celebrate a Day Won.