Addiction is Not a Choice

“Addiction is not a choice that anybody makes; it’s not a moral failure; it’s not an ethical lapse; it’s not a weakness of character; it’s not a failure of will, which is how our society depicts addiction. Nor is it an inherited brain disease, which is how our medical tendency is to see it. What it actually is: it’s a response to human suffering, and all these people that I worked with had been serially traumatized as children. All the women had been sexually abused. All the men had been traumatized, some of them sexually, physically, emotionally neglected. And not only is that my perspective, it’s also what the scientific and research literature show. So addiction then, rather than being a disease as such or a human choice, it’s an attempt to escape suffering temporarily.” -Gabor Mate

My first Dubunking Addiction Myths post was published yesterday. I wrote it after one of my coworkers said she believes addiction is a choice.

Ten years ago, one of my cousins recommended I read the book In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts by Gabor Mate. That book changed my entire outlook on addiction. It made me feel seen in a society that believes addiction is some morally-inept choice. Everyone should read this book or listen to a few of his podcast interviews. He has been a pioneer in the addiction field for decades.

Here is a link to my article: Debunking the Myth of Choice in Addiction

I challenge all of you to speak up the next time you hear someone say addiction is a choice. People die addiction-related deaths every single day, and we, as a society, continue to turn a blind eye. Hopefully, this piece will spark a more compassionate conversation.

Progress.

Sixty-Four Days of Meditation

The past six weeks of my life have been a wild, overwhelming ride. Leaving my old job two months ago has opened up some unexpected and magical doors. But sometimes, I wonder if starting two new jobs and simultaneously trying EMDR for the first time is too much. While these are all positive steps forward, it has felt like a sprint.

Whenever I get home from work, I am so overstimulated that I need to go lay in a dark, quiet room to recalibrate my nervous system. All the socializing and forced friendliness leave me feeling fried, drained to the last drop. I’m starting to understand my fifteen-year gravitational pull toward using bulimia and alcohol after work. Both are incredibly efficient at numbing my overstimulated, dysregulated, and often triggered state.

One of the reasons I have been able to handle all of this change is my meditation practice. Today marks sixty-four days in a row of guided meditations on InightTimer.

I wouldn’t say I have reached the point of fully connecting with my subconscious or even being able to sit still while meditating, but I have started to rely on deep breathing as a way to return home to myself. Being out in the real world can be scary for a person in recovery. People constantly joke about and bond over body-hatred, weight loss, and drinking, forcing me to paint a fake smile over my raging insides to appear socially acceptable and likable. Without the meditative practice of recentering myself each day, I would not have survived these past six weeks.

One of my biggest worries is that my new writing job will consume my free time, and I won’t be able to write as much here. My Debunking Addiction Myths introduction post was published last week, and my first full post will be published this upcoming week. I’ll be sure to share that writing here as well.

During the weeks to come, my only goals outside of work are to rest, hydrate, eat enough calories, walk my dog, attend Tempest calls, meditate, and file my taxes. I can let go of feeling lazy because doing more might push me over the edge. For the time being, the more weighted blanket naps and meditation I can incorporate into my schedule, the better.

Progress.

I Forgive Myself for Landing Here

The first full moon of the year greeted us with its glorious presence this weekend. Friday evening at exactly 6:09 p.m. I welcomed the wolf moon with a pull from my tarot deck and a guided meditation. This full moon has been an emotional ride, illuminating a painful awareness of how behind in life I feel. With my 35th birthday approaching, I cannot help but compare my journey to others. Nothing about my life feels on track. Lacking a driver's license leaves me feeling angry and ashamed for landing here.

Yesterday morning I took my dog, Teddy, out for a moonlit walk at 5:00 a.m. I enjoy walking early in the morning because the world around me is quiet. It is just me, Ted, and my intuition in a meditative state without any distractions. Basking in the stillness of the full moon allowed me to hear my innermost voice comfort my heightened emotional state with this affirmation:

I forgive myself for landing here.

As a child, I learned that the only suitable life path was to go to college, find a husband, have a few babies, buy a house, and accumulate wealth. Anything else would not equip me for survival in this heteronormative white patriarchal capitalist society. So I did everything I could to control and contort myself to fit that narrow mold.

The only problem with all of that controlling and contorting was that it required me to abandon myself completely. Last week on the We Can Do Hard Things podcast, Glennon’s sister, Amanda, said: "By controlling ourselves, we cut off our natural intelligence at its root, and white supremacy grows in its place."

The need to control everything about myself - my appetite, my emotions, my sexuality, my appearance, my opinions - comes from a childhood steeped in white privilege and patriarchal norms. By doing everything I could to be perfect, I made myself so sick that it almost killed me. Addiction is where I went to numb myself from society's impossible standards. It was how I coped with the presumed detachment of my natural intelligence.

My history with addiction has taken my life down a different path than many of my peers. My life does not resemble that of a “successful” soon-to-be 35-year-old. But what if that is the best thing that has ever happened to me? Being different creates space to reconnect with my inner child. It allows me to rebuild a foundation that works for me. Addiction and sobriety have given me a rare opportunity to free myself from the chains of controlling and contorting. I get to chop that patriarchal brainwashing bullshit at its root and watch my natural intelligence grow in its place.

It makes sense that I fell into addiction while trying to survive in a society designed to disconnect me from myself. It is okay if my life looks different than I thought it would because I am breaking free from the cycle of generational oppression and trauma. 

Thanks to my reflections during the full moon, I can forgive myself for landing here.

Progress.

Celebrating the Ordinary

Yesterday at work, one of my fellow shift leads asked everyone how drunk they got on New Year’s Eve like it was normal and appropriate. As you can imagine, my whole body tensed as I tried to contain my rage. I never know how to react when I am out in the real world, and people talk about getting shit-faced like it’s no big deal. How is it possible that using this highly addictive drug and Group 1 carcinogen is considered a suitable way to celebrate the New Year?

While immersed in society’s excessive holiday emphasis on alcohol, I noticed a dip in my mood. For most of December, I was drowning in lethargy, resentment, and emotional mood swings. Sometimes I feel like an outcast. I feel like I did something wrong for not being able to “handle” booze like everyone else. My anger and shame for being criminalized were heavier than usual. It was easy to get stuck in a thought loop of hating everything and everyone, making hibernation sound like an enticing way to survive this season.

My New Year’s Eve festivities looked like any other midwinter night. I took my dog for a long walk downtown, lit some candles, ate some leftover lasagna, had a good cry, brewed a pot of tea, listened to a guided meditation, curled up in my bed with a book, and was sound asleep by 8 pm. There was no fancy party or sparkly dress. There was just me and my gloomy mood.

Luckily, the Universe gave me two not-so-coincidental things to chuckle about on New Year’s Day that helped lift my spirit.

First, before the sun rose, I got out my tarot cards and drew The High Priestess. The High Priestess is an invitation toward stillness and meditation. This card shows a woman sitting on her throne with her laptop and the moon at her feet. The High Priestess knows the path toward enlightenment lies within and is only accessible through a quiet routine, which is exactly how I rang in the New Year.

Second, I have a Word of the Day app on my phone, and ironically, my New Year’s Day word was iconoclastic, which means to go against generally accepted beliefs and traditions. Is there anything more iconoclastic than remaining teetotal on New Year’s Eve?

Now that the season has passed and my mood is restabilizing, I can see the New Year was an opportunity to reflect on all of the wonderfully soothing routines I added to my life in 2022. The development of my evening routine has been a lifesaver. It’s the thing that replaced dousing myself with ethanol after a long day. It has become my place of refuge, a spiritual practice, and the path home to myself.

If the New Year is a party, I celebrate the ordinary. My New Year was a continuation of self-nourishment instead of self-abandonment. There is something magical about returning home to myself night after night. Why would I want to ring in the New Year any other way?

The only intention I am setting for 2023 is to keep adding routines to my life that fill up my cup. All I want for 2023 is to be like the High Priestess and continue quietly down the path of self-discovery, even if that makes me an iconoclastic outcast amongst work pals.

Progress.