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.

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.

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