Judgy Judy

Last week was a slice of living hell. Working 6 ten hours days in a row left me feeling mentally, physically, emotionally, socially, and even spiritually drained to the last drop. The day after my work streak ended, I showed up for a therapy appointment feeling cranky AF and unwilling to discuss anything difficult. Naturally, when my therapist told me I tend to be judgmental toward people who still drink, I began to spiral.

How dare he call me judgmental? Isn’t he supposed to help build me back up? Why is he tearing me down further? Should I find a new therapist? Am I judgemental? Is it normal to judge people who still drink while attempting sobriety? Am I crazy? A bad person? What’s wrong with me?

To help straighten out the spiral, I took a much-needed 4 hour nap when I got home from therapy. And then, I remembered an article Holly Whitaker wrote a few years back called Why Do I Still Judge People Who Drink? A reader given the pseudonym Judgy Judy wrote in and asked Holly, “Is this normal? Have you felt this way? Am I just hyper-aware of people's alcohol consumption now that I've made the decision to not drink? I don't want to be judgmental or assume that everyone has a problem just because I did and wanted to stop. Any advice?!”

Holly’s response to the question is brilliant. It makes me feel seen and heard, like my experience might actually be normal. She references the shadow self, a concept from Jungian psychology, which, “represents the things present in ourselves that we disassociate from because we deem them bad, ugly, dark, and less than. The shadow is all the things we suppress, reject, or deny in ourselves—the things we would rather not be. We think that if people were to see our shadow elements, we would not be liked, regarded, loved, and so on.”

This makes me wonder if the reason other people’s drinking bothers me so much is because it reminds me of my own out-of-control drinking days. It reminds me of my own lurking shadows: the incoherent text messages, the ruined relationships, the blackout drinking at work and family gatherings. Deep down, my judginess is not about other people’s drinking at all. It’s about my own suppressed relationship with my past hurting self. Underneath my judginess is shame, fear, and self-hatred.

Holly continues to write, “The point of this story is to prove one very big point to you—and that is that seeing other people drink wouldn't drive you so crazy if you didn't still hold yourself in some judgment for having binge drank and gotten ridiculously drunk in your previous life.”

Maybe over the next several weeks (or years) of therapy it would be helpful for me to work on the judgments I hold toward myself. Maybe I can learn to reframe my judginess as a natural, totally normal, newly-sober human response, instead of yet another thing to beat myself up over. Maybe being judgmental of others is easier than dealing with my own shit. And maybe, now that I understand why I judge, I can also learn to stop.

Progress.

I greet ghosts from my past with compassion

Today is the first day of fall. The autumn equinox brings shorter days, sweater weather, and cozy candlelit evenings. There is something magical about peak color season and crunchy leaves beneath my feet. I just cleaned out my vegetable garden to make room for pumpkins and mums. Spooky season is here.

Even though it is my favorite time of year, I’ve noticed an undertone of sadness lingering in my bones. Ghosts from my past are everywhere. The cooler weather subconsciously reminds me of my first attempt at rehab 7 years ago between September 10 and October 1. During the first week of September 2015, I moved back onto campus for my senior year in a bachelor’s level social work program. I had my field work placement all lined up and was ready to complete my degree.

Except, my drinking had escalated to the point of night sweats and physical withdrawal. After showing up to my first day of classes drunk, I decided to drop out and go to rehab. My education would have to wait until I was sober.

On the morning of September 10, 2015, my mom dropped me off at a 21 day, 12 step based drug and alcohol rehab program located in my hometown. The thing I remember most about that first day was feeling angry, like I didn’t belong. I was the only one there who had admitted myself voluntarily, who wasn’t in legal trouble (yet), who didn’t smoke cigarettes, who hadn’t lost all their teeth. It felt way easier to begrudgingly make comparisons than it did to accept my reality. Instead of fully participating, I used my anger to dissociate and clung to the belief that I wasn’t “that bad.”

And then, just 5 days after completing that rehab stay, on October 5, I was arrested for my second DUI. Now, I was suddenly a criminal who “deserved” even harsher punishments. I was impossibly angry at myself for ending up in legal trouble just like my rehab roommates.

Ever since that first day of rehab, I have felt a sense of being trapped. Trapped under a heavy, inescapable blanket of anger. According to Brene Brown, “When we are in pain and fear, anger and hate are our go-to emotions.” Beneath the anger, I really felt: ashamed, afraid, resentful, self-hatred, grief. 

As much as I adore fall, I am still haunted by the ghosts of my past. Memories from seven years ago make this season extra spooky. But, when I think deeply about what’s beneath my anger, I feel a tenderness toward my younger self. She was only trying to protect me. She was doing the best she could. If I have learned anything, it is that anger will not protect me. It will only keep me trapped.

As the leaves continue to fall, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I allow the ghosts of my past to be a reminder of progress, rather than a reminder of past mistakes. I can allow memories from seven years ago to surface, notice how I gravitate toward anger, stop myself, and remember I just celebrated 19 months of practicing sobriety. This year, I will release my anger and greet those tough underlying emotions with a cozy mug of hot cider, cinnamon sugar donuts, fuzzy slippers, and endless self-compassion. Happy Fall Ya'll.

I greet ghosts from my past with compassion.

I am a good person

The first time I met someone who had a drinking problem was in middle school. My dad was coaching my younger brother’s little league team and one of the kids had a mom who was obviously struggling. I remember hearing stories about her dropping her kid off to practice and then forgetting to pick him up because she had gotten drunk. Or she would show up to games highly intoxicated and highly obnoxious.

What I remember most is the language we used around this situation. There was no sympathy or empathy. There was only judgment and fear. She was the person everyone used to moralize their own drinking, to compare themselves to. People called her a hopeless, raging alcoholic. The way people talked about her made me believe she must be a bad person.

Ten years later I was arrested for my first DUI. My biggest fear came true. I grew up to be just like that lady who my parents, society, and the criminal justice system said was a “bad person.” How was I going to be normal or respected ever again after being labeled an alcoholic? Does everyone talk shit about me the same way they talked shit about her?

Last week on her podcast, Glennon Doyle introduced the idea of being a good person who does less than ideal things. She said we should all practice saying, “I am a good person who ________,” instead of “I am a bad person who _________.” For example:

I am a good person who used to self-medicate with alcohol.

I am a good person who used to struggle with bulimia.

I am a good person who currently struggles with overexercising.

I am a good person who has big emotions.

I am a good person who has been arrested 5 times.

I am a good person who needs extra support.

I am a good person with an imperfect past.

This makes me wonder what would happen if we used this language to change the narrative around addiction. There is incredible shame that comes with repeatedly saying, “Hi my name is Kelsi and I am an alcoholic.” What would happen if I said, “Hi my name is Kelsi and I am a good person who used to drink,” instead?

In my experience, it seems like we teach kids from a young age that drug addicts and alcoholics are bad people. They are not to be associated with. They are trouble. It makes sense that I carried around a big ol’ sack of self-hatred for becoming like that lady from my childhood. It makes sense that addicts like me have a hard time getting better in a world that looks down upon them. It makes sense that I developed a belief that I am a bad person.

What doesn’t make sense is that I was expected to somehow heal after constantly receiving the message that I am bad. It’s time to change the dialogue. Addicts and alcoholics are not bad people. We are good people who have been traumatized. We are good people who don’t have access to adequate care, all we have access to is stigma. We are just regular people with huge hearts and extra sensitivities.

I wish I could go back in time and talk to that lady from my childhood. I wish I could hear her story, give her a giant hug, and tell her she is a good person. Imagine what type of world we would live in if we changed the language and told all addicts they are good people.

I am a good person.

I befriend my sensitivity

There is a full moon in Pisces coming this weekend. This full moon is supposed to be a highly emotional, creative, and intuitive time. It’s a time for deep self-reflection and manifestation. Best of all, it’s a full moon in my sun sign during my favorite time of the year, so I’m feeling extra mystical, witchy, and woo-woo.

Even though the full moon isn’t quite here yet, I have already been feeling overly emotional all week long. This past weekend I got out of town for the first time all year and it was incredible. I felt renewed and energized while hanging out in a much more progressive town than the delusional, Trump-loving town I currently live in. Perusing three different book stores with rainbow gay pride and BLM flags in the window made me feel at home. I spent all of Labor Day coffee-shop-hopping. Oversized cozy mugs of herbal tea and the most decadent pastries blissfully filled my belly and my soul.

Then, when I returned home and was forced to immerse myself back into my daily reality, I felt a wave of sadness, grief, FOMO, and unfairness. I was overwhelmed by thoughts of hating my life and hating that I can’t drive anywhere. Caught in endless rumination, I thought about how angry I am at the criminal justice system for punishing and stigmatizing my trauma instead of helping me find resources to heal. I spent most of the week coming down from my weekend high and got lost in a sea of full moon in Pisces sadness.

One thing that has helped me survive this driver’s license-less season is writers. Yesterday Holly Whitaker posted a newsletter to her Substack account and linked this podcast episode with Martha Beck and Elizabeth Gilbert. This episode didn’t necessarily pull me out of my funk, but it did help me befriend my sensitivity.

In this episode, Liz Gilbert talks about her past with addictive behaviors and how she finally overcame them. She says the hardest part was learning to sit with and feel unwanted emotions. The good news is, experiencing those difficult emotions doesn't mean there is something wrong with her. Liz views her extreme sensitivity as her superpower, as something to be celebrated, as something to befriend. Which, of course, gives me hope because I literally cry 1-12 times each day.

Liz continues to say she has learned to hold and validate herself in moments of intense sadness or grief. Instead of numbing or squashing her sensitivity, she has learned to befriend it. When Liz feels engulfed in emotional tidal waves, she puts a hand over her heart, or wherever her body feels tense, and says:

I see you and I love you

I’m not going anywhere

I see you, I see you, I see you

I love you, I am here for you

What do you need, sweet girl?

A nap? A glass of water? A hug?

I see you, I see you, I see you

I love you

Since I was a small child this culture has told me that being overly emotional is unacceptable. Crying is not allowed in public spaces. I was told: “No tears, my dear” or “Suck it up, Buttercup.” No one taught me how to nurture my nature. No one taught me how to befriend my sensitivity. It’s no wonder I fell deeply down the blackhole of addiction.

Befriending my sensitivity is the opposite of numbing. It means I see and validate my hurting self. It means showing up with endless self-compassion. Feeling this way does not mean there is something wrong with me. It means I am a human with a special superpower.

As the full moon in Pisces approaches and my emotions intensify, I will remember this Liz Gilbert quote: “What a rare bliss it is to finally feel all of the feelings this culture has told me are not allowed.”

I befriend my sensitivity.

First, I forgive myself

While I was drinking, I got into a nasty habit of drunk texting people. I would tell them things that were buried deep in my subconscious. Things that I wouldn’t otherwise say. Things that probably didn’t make a ton of sense. I would message close friends, old friends, my mom, even strangers. It didn’t matter, as long as someone was there to ease my pangs of loneliness.

The worst part is, when I woke up from a blackout around 4am, I would delete those conversations before I could read them. It was too painful and too shameful to reread the words that frantically spewed out of me. The people I messaged didn’t receive an apology or an explanation. It was way easier to pretend like it never happened. Avoidance was my go-to morning after coping mechanism.

Years ago, while attempting to get sober within AA’s framework, I was advised to start making amends for those drunk text messages. I was told to start apologizing to everyone else for my actions, which confused me. Can an apology be authentic if I haven’t forgiven myself first?

On episode 5 of Glennon Doyle’s We Can Do Hard Things podcast, she talks about her experience with AA and the amends process. In her early 20s, after having an abortion and still in the throes of her addiction, her parents desperately sent her to see a priest. To her surprise, the priest told her she better start apologizing to everyone around her for her actions if she wanted to be “saved.”

Glennon then shares this analogy:

“I was raised in a country in which there is a factory that gives off toxic smoke on every single corner. Some people are okay with this smoke, but there is a certain group in the population that has a gene that reacts negatively to this toxic smoke. Those people get sick.

Over time, the smoke makes them so sick that they start showing symptoms and because of those symptoms, they become a huge pain in the ass to their family, their friends, their community. They become a burden because of these symptoms.

Eventually the symptoms get bad enough that the people go to the hospital. And instead of getting help, the doctors say: you better start freaking apologizing. Because that's the only way you’re going to get healthy. Get on your knees and ask for forgiveness for getting sick.”

This is why I have always had such a negatively strong reaction to the amends process. I was born into a culture that says alcohol is not only normal, but also the ultimate celebratory tool. I was born into a misogynistic world where women are expected to be beautiful and small and quiet. Like Glennon, I breathed in this toxic smoke for decades and it made my highly sensitive self incredibly sick.

The smoke was everywhere. 

I was just breathing. 

And now I need to apologize?

Most nights as I attempt to drift off into a sweet slumber, I am haunted by memories of those drunken messages. I feel awful and humiliated. It was unfair of me to worry people with my incoherency. At the same time, it feels inauthentic to apologize for trying to connect with people while in the pits of drinking, to apologize for “breathing.”

For me, the only way to truly heal is to start with self-forgiveness. Drinking in isolation is the loneliest address on planet Earth. Those texts were just my way of searching for connection. They were my way of reaching out and speaking my truth. Maybe in some twisted way it felt therapeutic to unload on people.

When I look at my drunk text messages through a more compassionate lens, it is much easier to forgive myself. It makes sense that I did desperate things after a lifetime of breathing in toxic smoke. The last thing I need to do is apologize.

To heal, first, I forgive myself.