Of course I feel this way

The first therapist I ever had, at 15 years old, told me I have a strong not-good-enough schema. Which means I developed a core belief that I don’t measure up long before my brain was fully developed. To compensate, or in an attempt to “better” myself, I developed a nasty habit of constantly beating myself up.

The tricky thing about sobriety is, the longer I remain alcohol-free, the more aware I become of this horrifyingly harsh inner dialogue. When I first got sober, I don’t think an hour passed without some form of self-beratement. Oftentimes I would beat myself up simply for experiencing a negative emotion.

Last summer my current therapist recommended I step back, breathe, and jot down each time I catch myself ruminating about my (fake) inferiority. She suggested swapping out, “I shouldn’t feel this way; what the hell is wrong with me?” for a much gentler, “Of course I feel this way.”

Of course I feel pain

Of course I feel anger

Of course I feel grief

Of course I feel afraid

Of course I occasionally lose my shit and become emotionally reactive

Of course there is tension in my shoulders

Of course there are tears

Of course I am exhausted

Of course I crave escape and numbness

Of course my eating disorder flared up when I quit drinking

Of course I feel overwhelmed by current politics and world events

Of course I feel pissed off my driver’s license has been suspended since 2015

Of course it’s hard to focus on work right now

Of course I’m beating myself up; that’s all I’ve known for 20 years

Of course I feel lonely

Of course I need some extra rest

Of course I need some extra TLC

Of course I need some extra support

Of course, sweetheart, of course

Now, each time I catch myself in that not good enough schema I choose to stop, validate my own experience and emotions, shower myself with care, and then get curious. These emotions are not here to use as fuel for negative self-talk. What is this feeling trying to teach me?

Changing a two decade old pattern hasn’t been easy or perfect; I am forever learning. But continuing to beat myself up was never going to help me quit drinking. I am good enough. I am worthy of love and support and positive self-talk. By simply noticing my emotions and welcoming whatever pops up with open arms, I begin to reclaim my truest, always-been-good-enough self.

Of course I feel this way.

"Life is alchemy, and emotions are the fire that turns me to gold. I will continue to become only if I resist extinguishing myself a million times a day. If I can sit in the fire of my own feelings, I will keep becoming." -Glennon Doyle

I am loved

If you’re reading this, you understand that alcohol destroys relationships. You understand what it feels like when people stop being your friend because they think you keep “choosing” to drink. You understand how it feels to wake up in a panic; unsure of the texts and social media posts you sent the night before. You might even understand how it feels when a sibling stops speaking to you. You understand the loneliness, the shame, and the fear of being forever misunderstood.

You can also understand why I created a story in my head that says I am unlovable.

In today’s world we teach people to abandon folks who struggle with substance abuse. My rock bottom was met by a criminal justice system that told me I was a disgrace to society. I needed to be locked up in order to keep the general public safe. I had become otherized; “one of them.” This system made me feel less like a human, and more like an unlovable hollow frame fueled by shame.

One thing that has truly helped reroute this deep, unlovable groove in my brain is showing up for Tempest group calls. Hearing your stories and feeling the nonjudgmental love from the facilitators has honestly changed my life. We’ve all been through the same shit. We’ve all been beaten down. Thankfully, this space is slowly building me back up. Slowly infusing my hollow frame with the love I have been missing. Your faces and your stories have become my medicine.

Now, each time I experience a trigger, I step back and think of all of you. I breathe in your love and your kindness. I breathe in the statement, “There is no fixing, because we are not broken.” No matter how triggered I might feel, I know there will be another call in a few short hours and I can, once again, bathe myself in your love.

Here’s what I have learned by showing up in this space: The story I created in my head about being unlovable is not true. Thanks to all of you, I know I am never alone. Better yet, this space is teaching me to cultivate a self-love that I can bring with me anywhere.

It seems like we live in a world that doesn't know how to help those of us who struggle with substance abuse. I think The Beatles were onto something way back in 1967. Maybe all we need is love.

I flow like water

When I was in grade school, my family took spring break trips from bitter wintry Michigan to sun-bursting St. Augustine, Florida. Without understanding why, my preteen Pisces self became utterly obsessed with the ocean. Each morning I would rise with the sun and, as weird as it might sound, I would have full conversations with the ocean.

There was something mystical about the ocean; its vastness, its awe, its mystery, its never-ending flow. Walking along the coast provided space for and connection to a meditative part of myself I didn’t know existed. It felt like each time I shared a worry or a fear with the ocean, it’s crashing waves would respond with a nugget of inner wisdom.

When spring break ended and my family returned to Michigan, instead of Dear Diary entries, I’d fill notebooks with Dear Ocean entries. I would communicate with and pray to the ocean from afar. I couldn’t wrap my adolescent brain around the idea of a God who lives in the clouds, but I could sense something much larger than myself in the ocean.

Naturally, when I recently stumbled upon a Taoism tradition called the Water Course Way, my interest peaked. The Water Course Way suggests we flow like water. Water is always moving, always shifting. Water never fights against the temperature or the wind or whatever vessel it might be in; it simply adapts and fills space. Water goes with the flow. Water is powerful and gentle, loud and quiet, soothing and drowning. Water is a true paradox.

Alcohol, bulimia, and drugs kept me removed from the natural, waterlike flow of life. I numbed out the bad stuff, along with the good. I was fighting against my own emotional tides. But, when I attempt to flow like water, I too, possess a vastness, an awe, a mystery, and a never-ending flow. Water knows that all emotional waves - the good and the bad - will eventually pass, just like the waves always passed in St. Augustine.

Getting sober continuously forces me to face emotions I have been avoiding for decades. Maybe my preteen Pisces self somehow knew deep down in my bones that water is an excellent teacher. Water knows nothing is permanent, everything passes. When I attempt to flow like water, there is space within myself to hold grief and joy, anger and excitement, fear and wonder. Like water, I too, am a true paradox.

I flow like water. 

I walk on rainbow clouds

We’ve all heard the “pink cloud” sobriety metaphor. Many people, from various recovery programs, have told me stories about this sparkly pink cloud of joy they walk on during the first few months of sobriety. They say it’s as if they are suddenly gliding through a life that is filled with bliss, hope, and rose-colored glasses.

I just celebrated one year of practicing sobriety (🎉). I have only slipped three times in the past 365 days (🎉🎉). To be exact, that is a 99.18% success rate (🎉🎉🎉). This has been the most sober year of my adult life, and I am still waiting to experience this so-called pink cloud. The first year of recovery, for me, often felt closer to trudging through mud in holey boots, than it did walking on some glittery pink cloud.

Yesterday while bundled up for a 19-degrees-below-freezing walk, my dog Teddy and I witnessed the most breathtakingly vibrant sunrise. It looked like the sky had been painted with brilliant hues of red, orange, yellow, green, dark blue, pink, purple, and gray. It was a full rainbow of colors in the clouds.

I like to think of my first year of sobriety as walking on rainbow clouds, rather than a pink cloud.

❤️ Some days I have red clouds of fiery anger and passion beneath my feet.

🧡 Some days I walk on orange clouds filled with optimism and curiosity.

💛 Some days I walk on yellow clouds filled with creativity, joy, and light.

💚 Some days I walk on clouds that are green with envy and resentment.

💙 Some days I walk on midnight blue clouds filled with depression, grief, and loneliness.

💗 Some days I walk on pink clouds filled with love or the rosy cheeks of embarrassment.

💜 Some days I walk on purple clouds filled with fear and sensitivity.

☁️ Some days the clouds beneath my feet are just gray and blah.

🌈 Most days there is a rainbow of clouds and emotions below my feet.

I used to feel a tinge of shame for never reaching this presumed pink cloud in sobriety. It felt like I was doing something wrong. But, by pretending to walk on rainbow clouds, I can welcome and normalize the full spectrum of emotions and colors that I travel with in early sobriety. Is there anything more beautiful than a rainbow?

🌈 I walk on rainbow clouds. 🌈