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

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.

I love you. I am listening.

For as long as I can remember I have kept a quote journal. I enjoy filling page after page with words that bring light to dark times. Back in the spring of 2016 while in rehab, I carried around a notebook and wrote down what I thought were nuggets of wisdom from Twelve Step meetings. A few days ago I pulled that old journal off my bookshelf to find this quote:

Reading this quote six years later makes me scratch my head in confusion and concern. Does this mean my thoughts are unsafe? Does this mean I am not to be trusted with my own emotions? Does this mean I am supposed to live in a constant state of dissociation?

I believed this quote was true for many years. I believed continuous distraction was the only way to survive without allowing my thoughts to implode upon my life. I kept waiting for something external to “fix me.” But now, after 17 months of practicing a more self-compassionate version of sobriety, I can’t help but call bullshit on that quote.

My favorite antithesis to that common Twelve Step way of thinking is a guided meditation led by Sarah Blondin called, “I love you. I am listening.”

Blondin says: “When we live in a state of distraction, we often forget that there is a heart and self within us that needs love and attention. We are often so busy showing up for others in this way that we neglect to care for our own hearts. This creates a type of separation and alienation from our source of love. One of the most potent and powerful ways to realign with our hearts and our deepest self is by saying - I love you. I am listening.”

The first time I heard this 13 minute meditation I wept. It was like someone had finally given me permission to connect with my truest self for the first time in my life. I felt a tenderness and a sorrow for the girl inside of me who was taught that living here - in between my own ears - was not only dangerous, but also to be avoided if I wanted to get sober.

For me, recovery from an eating disorder and alcohol addiction are not possible when I believe it is unsafe to be with my own thoughts. In order to heal, I need to love and listen to the parts of myself that I have been numbing for 20 years.

Today I am going to rip out that page in my old quote journal and burn it. I am going to buy a new journal and write this on the first page:

The safest place for me to build a home is between my own ears.

Danger lives in constant distraction.

I love you.

I am listening.

I am compassionately curious

For the past several months I have been experiencing vivid flashbacks. The type of flashbacks that remind me of the terrible, relationship-ending things I did while drinking. When these flashes happen, I lose grip of my surroundings. I get stuck in a quicksand of self-berating thoughts. For about five minutes, until I am able to regroup, I am short-tempered, sweaty, emotional, and unable to focus on the present moment.

Everyone knows that drugs make people do things they wouldn’t otherwise do. Ambitions and cognitive functioning are lowered. Anger and suppressed emotions are heightened. Chaos ensues. It makes sense that after a ten year span of alcohol addiction, I experienced and caused several traumatic events.

I imagine flashbacks are a common occurrence for most people in sobriety. It’s almost like addiction causes its own unique type of PTSD. Losing relationships, being labeled an alcoholic, and being criminalized for my pain are all deeply traumatic experiences. The problem is, all of this is considered normal. No one teaches newly sober folks about the magical powers of practicing compassionate curiosity while healing from trauma. Instead, I am expected to somehow manage PTSD symptoms below the surface after being told I am powerless and filled with shameful character defects.

In a TedTalk called Understanding PTSD's Effects on Brain, Body, and Emotions, Janet Seahorn describes PTSD symptoms, like my flashbacks, as a hidden wound, a silent scream. Seahorn doesn’t believe PTSD is a disorder, but rather a reordering of neural and sensory pathways. Parts of the brain - the prefrontal cortex, hippocampus, and amygdala - actually change during traumatic events. The sensory system is overloaded and stress hormones are released causing the brain to reset neural pathways as a survival mechanism.

Seahorn says trauma can manifest in our lives as hypervigilance, nightmares, night sweats, panic attacks, insomnia, physical pain, and of course, flashbacks. All of this makes it extremely difficult to figure out how to soberly function in the real world.

When I choose to look at my flashbacks with a compassionately curious gaze, I can’t help but wonder these four things:

1. What if these flashbacks are actually a perfectly normal response to all that has happened in my life? 

2. What if I stopped beating myself for responding this way?

3. What tools can I use to reroute this deeply engrained trauma groove in my brain?

4. What if compassionate curiosity is the birthplace of healing?

According to Seahorn, a few common ways to begin healing from trauma include: trauma-focused cognitive behavioral therapy, EMDR, meditation, yoga and tai chi, service dogs, harm reduction, and grounding practices. Books and documentaries can also help. It is impossible to have a conversation about addiction, trauma, and compassionate curiosity without Gabor Mate's book In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts and docuseries The Wisdom of Trauma. Oprah's empathetic approach to trauma in her recent book What Happened to You? is another great resource.

Additionally, in recent years, countless articles and studies* on the life-altering effects of psychopharmacological medicine have become impossible to ignore. One of my favorite writers and researchers of all time, Michael Pollen, recently released a book and a four part docuseries on Netflix called How to Change Your Mind. Although I personally have never tried psychedelics, this documentary has removed previous stigmas and judgments I held towards those who have. Pollen's work sparks compassionate curiosity. Contrastly, my shero Holly Whitaker summed up her therapist guided psilocybin experience on this podcast episode as, “Fucking terrible. I threw up twice.” Plant-based medicine might not be for everyone, but I do think it is worth exploring if other treatments fail.

In my opinion, mainstream institutions of recovery and incarceration don't work because they completely miss the mark on trauma-informed care. In fact, I believe the system itself causes trauma because my worst flashbacks involve handcuffs. Luckily I am learning this is not a me problem, it is a societal problem. There is nothing wrong with me or other addicts. The problem lies within the criminalization of pain and trauma.

Unresolved trauma is a heavy burden to carry. But when I look at my trauma through a compassionately curious lense, I can see my flashbacks are a normal biological response and nothing to be ashamed of. Best of all, as the shame lifts, the magical healing powers of compassionate curiosity begin.

I am compassionately curious.

***Here are a just a few psychopharmacological medicine articles and studies:

Ketamine – Guernica (guernicamag.com)

The Next Big Addiction Treatment - The New York Times (nytimes.com)

What is Microdosing, and Does it Work? - The New York Times (nytimes.com)

Mental Health Startup Journey Colab Aims To Develop Mescaline As An FDA-Approved Treatment For Alcohol Use Disorder (forbes.com)

Could psilocybin mushrooms help with depression? | The Independent