It's Okay to Be Angry

Lately I’ve noticed myself feeling resentful during Tempest calls when other members talk about their experiences with good therapists, psychiatrists, EMDR, psychics, reiki, massage, acupuncture, psychopharmacology, and other expensive routes toward healing. I get mad because lacking a driver’s license has limited my job opportunities and income to $12.25/hour. I get mad because my state-funded, Medicaid-based insurance only covers therapists who are still in school. I get mad because my financial situation does not allow me access to the specialized care that I deserve. 

Years ago, before I turned 26 and was still covered by my parent’s upper-middle class insurance, I did have access to those things. I understand what holistic, evidence-based care looks and feels like. Of course I get angry that people with privilege and money can supplement their recovery in ways that are no longer available to me.

Earlier this week I was listening to an interview with Gabor Mate on a podcast called Pulling the Thread. Mate says that everyone numbs - whether it’s with drugs, alcohol, food, gambling, sex, pornography, overworking, shopping, social media, the list goes on and on. The point is that everyone does it. So why do we criminalize and dehumanize people who numb with drugs and alcohol? Why was my eating disorder treated in a humane way, but my alcohol addiction was not?

People like me are forced into a criminal justice system that strips us of our dignity, our money, and our ability to get a decent paying job, which also impacts our access to proper care. The legal system believes that this is a choice, that we keep choosing stupidity. But let me tell you from first hand experience that NO ONE chooses to get addicted. The system has never been interested in helping me find the root cause of my addiction. They are only interested in further punishment and financial exploitation. The system is impossible to escape from unless there is a heaping pile of money and privilege involved.

Mate says the word addict is useful in shorthand, but it does not express the richness or complexity of reality. Imagine what would happen if instead of calling myself and other people “addicts,” we said, “that is a human being who has suffered a lot in life and carries a lot of emotional pain from which they try to escape in certain behaviors that are compulsive, that have caused harm, but they can’t give them up because they have so much pain.” Imagine what would happen if instead of stripping drug addicted folks of their rights, sending them off to jail, and traumatizing them further, we gave them proper insurance and the same access to care that privileged people have.

Maybe someday if I ever get my driver’s license back, I will start a program for folks like me who are trapped in a system that literally works to keep us sick. I have been given the blessing and the curse of experiencing both sides of the insurance coverage spectrum. I know that better care exists and I know how unfair all of this is. It makes sense that this boils my blood.

Every single day that I stand up and keep going down the path of sobriety is a miracle. Attempting to navigate an unjust system is no easy feat. I will remember, as Mate says, that I am not some low-life addict who doesn’t deserve proper care. Instead, I am just a human being who attempted to self-soothe after decades of emotional pain. That’s all. The societal rhetoric around addiction is all wrong. 

It’s okay to be angry. 

It’s okay to keep pushing for equal rights. 

It’s okay to stand up and say enough.

Progress.

“She should be mad,

Should be scathing like me,

But no one likes a mad woman.”

-Taylor Swift

Tailgaiting & Sober Revolutionaries

I recently stumbled upon an article called: Section Yellow offers sober Green Bay Packers fans an ‘oasis’ in a sea of game day alcohol. Articles like this infuse my resentful veins with joy. People are finally catching on to the dangers associated with the normalization of alcohol. The Packers seem to be ahead of the curve with this trend. My hope is that all sports teams will soon follow suit.

John Plageman, the founder of Section Yellow said, “It’s a simple idea. But it has such a strong impact and such big support, because there are a ton of Packer fans that are sober that will not go to games because of the drinking culture.” Currently Section Yellow has 1,200 members and that number is growing. It makes me emotional to hear about sober communities forming out in the real world, especially in environments where binge drinking is the norm. There is nothing more badass than going against the grain.

However, my joyful bubble burst when I scrolled to the bottom of the article and read the comments. Someone said, "Too bad this breaks one of the fundamental traditions of AA (anonymity)." My first reaction to this comment was quite strong. I thought: "Good! It’s about damn time someone broke free from the idea that us sober folks need to keep quiet, that we need to be hidden away in dingy church basements. We belong out in the real world just like everyone else. Fuck AA and fuck the idea that anonymity is helpful. We should be shouting from the rooftops that Section Yellow exists, not hiding further."

Something about that comment awoke my anger, which means something much deeper was triggered inside of me. I think many common AA beliefs make me crazy because I carry so much guilt and shame for having zero success within the Twelve Step framework. I worry I sound ungrateful for saying that Twelve Step based programs were, for me, more traumatizing than healing. Just yesterday my therapist diagnosed me with PTSD for the first time in my life. The majority of my flashbacks and nightmares revolve around my experienves at three different grossly underfunded and dehumanizing Twelve Step based inpatient rehab facilities. That comment struck a trauma-based nerve. Of course I reacted with anger.

This is not an AA bashing post. There is no denying that AA has saved countless lives. But the truth is, AA was founded in the 1930s by a cishet privileged white guy after he took a hallucinogen. It was not designed for minorities or women. It was not designed with evidence based or holistic care in mind. I am sick of living in a world where AA is the only way. I am sick of doctors and the criminal justice system telling me that I am forever doomed if I choose to not claim the alcoholic label. Attempting to function in the real world while keeping this huge part of myself locked away in anonymity is exhausting. I'm over it.

It’s confusing that mainstream recovery modalities work so hard to keep people trapped in their anonymity, trapped in silence, trapped without agency. It’s confusing that anyone, except maybe Big Alcohol, would have an issue with Section Yellow. 

John Plageman and Section Yellow are part of a revolution. A revolution that was started last year with Holly Whitaker and her trip to Notre Dame. Stop what you're doing if you haven’t seen this YouTube video about the normalization of alcohol and tailgating on college campuses. It’s a must-watch.

“You have to be brave enough to call bullshit on something that might not make you entirely popular with various groups, but will save a lot of lives,” Holly says. “One in ten Americans ages 18-62 will die an alcohol related death. And that number is going up.”

We still have a longgg way to go, but the Green Bay Packer's Section Yellow group is the definition of progress in a culture that is blind to the normalization and glorification of alcohol.

I speak up

I had a tooth pulled earlier this week. For me, trips to the dentist have been fearfully avoided for far too long after years of bulimia. Not something I would recommend to anyone, but it’s my reality. Unfortunately, I live in a country that does not believe in universal health care, so getting in to see a dentist took almost eight months. Fortunately, my insurance does provide free rides to and from medical and dental appointments, which has been a lifesaver since I can’t drive.

A random driver picked me up at 8:30am for my tooth extraction appointment. When he asked how I was doing, I said I was nervous about the procedure without anesthesia. The whole numb and yank thing really freaked me out. To my surprise, the driver looked at me through his rearview mirror and said, “Well, we could stop and get you liquored up before your appointment. I think there’s a liquor store on our way that is open this early. You could be an alchy for the day. We could have you stumbling in there and you wouldn’t feel a thing! Hahahahahaha.”

Needless to say, I found this comment horribly offensive. In that moment, I had two options. I could politely laugh, go along with the joke, and say nothing or I could speak up. For most of my life I have been a passive doormat. Speaking up felt unnatural, but I couldn't contain myself. With a shaky voice, I responded with:

“Respectfully and kindly, sir, it is not appropriate to joke about alcohol or drugs. You have no idea what my history is. The reason I can’t drive is because of alcohol. It took me nearly 10 years to get sober. Alcohol almost killed me. In the future, you should be more careful with your words.”

The driver looked at me with wide eyes through his rearview mirror and apologized. He was silent the rest of the drive. At first I felt worried that I offended him. But after I got out of the car, I felt nothing but pride, empowered even.

Somewhere along the way, I was taught that church basements are the only acceptable place to speak of my history with addiction. And yet, we live in a world that is obsessed with mindlessly poking fun at people like me. “Alchys” or alcoholics are the butt of people’s jokes. Am I really expected to silently heal while the rest of society mocks my experience?

In 2020 alone, alcohol killed 385 Americans every day. This is not a joking matter. For many people this is life or death. Learning to speak up against the normalization of alcohol might make other people uncomfortable, but for me, it is the only way forward. I’m sure my driver didn’t mean any harm, but I have learned that I no longer need to passively go along with bullshit societal norms.

Progress.

Three Years of Ted

Yesterday marked three years since I unexpectedly brought home a 14lb havapoo dog named Teddy. Reflecting back on that time feels painfully tender because my life was in shambles. I was living in an apartment I couldn’t afford. I was illegally driving an old ragtop Volkswagen Beetle that I bought without a driver’s license. I was hungover more days than not. My drinking landed me in a giant web of lies that I couldn’t keep straight. Who was I to think I could handle a dog?

Ted’s crate barely fit in the back seat of the Beetle as we drove away to start a new life together. I will never forget how scared he was, how scared we both were. Ready or not, this little guy was now fully dependent on me.

I have been struggling to write this for days because relentless dog mom shame surfaces when I think about that first year with Ted. Witnessing my final drinking days must have been traumatizing. When I first brought Ted home, I had given up hope that my life would ever get better. I created a story in my head that said I must be a stupid failure for having zero success within AA’s framework.

But, when I zoom out and look at the big picture, all I see is progress. For the first time in years, something became more important than figuring out where my next drink would come from. Hungover or not, Ted and I started prioritizing daily walks at a local park. His eating schedule helped improve my eating schedule. Before I knew it, I found myself putting more and more days between each drinking episode.

Ted taught me about a type of love that I can only describe as unconditional. Prior to Ted, I was looking for love in all of the wrong places. I was searching for something external to mend my inner turmoil. Ted’s sweet little face taught me that I was worthy of love even while I was still drinking. He brought a bright healing light to a dangerously dark time.

Three years of Ted has reignited hope. Next week we will celebrate 20 months of alcohol-free days together. When I stop to think about how much my life has changed in three years, the bad dog mom shame dissipates. Untangling myself from the web of lies hasn’t been easy, but it’s been possible with Ted by my side.

Three years of Ted has been the greatest gift I could ask for.

Three years of Ted brought me into sobriety.

Three years of Ted saved my life.

Progress.