So here’s the truth. I spent most of 2017 struggling. With a lot of things, really. With EVERYTHING… or at least, it felt like that some days.
I was struggling against a divorce process that I didn’t want to be going through (but that was also probably one of the best things that could’ve happened to me as far as my love life goes… because hindsight is 20/20 and all that).
I was struggling with fears over my future and how I would survive being ripped away from everything that I’d known for most of my adult life, everything that I believed in, everything that I’d built my life around.
The ex was the main breadwinner in our household at the time, and had (in my opinion) helped to cultivate a whole “monetary value equals personal worth” thing in our relationship dynamic for years (but only after he started making more money than me, interestingly), and when you couple that with the fact that I ended up having to sell/donate a lot of my stuff and live with friends and family for a while after the divorce, well… I found myself just sort of bouncing around in a half-hearted, reactionary, ungrounded state during a large part of 2017… feeling lost… feeling completely unsure of myself… feeling unsure of what I even really wanted.
I was struggling with unhealthy behaviors that were escalating out of control… binge eating, drinking myself to sleep, late nights spent sexting and/or having phone sex with people I’d met online but never ever planned to meet in real life (you know… the exact opposite of any sort of meaningful connections, basically).
And all of that left me feeling empty and alone in the long run, you know? I mean, when the distractions were over — when the food and alcohol was gone (or I just couldn’t consume anymore of either because I’d made myself sick), when whatever high-class human I’d been sexting randomly stopped responding to my late-night messages… there was just… nothing. Emptiness. A never-ending hole inside me demanding to be filled with something other than what I was attempting to fill it with.
I was also struggling with identity issues and feelings of being a fraud at work, since I held myself out as a health and fitness coach, and spent my days helping other people get their sh*t together, and was even getting paid to lead discussion groups at in-patient and IOP recovery clinics (so basically, I’d been spending a lot of time giving everyone else the advice that I needed to be taking myself but absolutely wasn’t taking).
So like… with 2017 being soooo f*cking hard, I just had this idea in my head that 2018 would be like “The Year of Trish,” you know (catch that “Happy Endings” reference, anyone)? Like… I imagined this major turnaround in my life, where I would get it ALL together with gusto and banners flying and balloons and celebration. Huzzah! You know? Or something like that.
Anyway, 2018 has turned out to be a year of change, for sure, and challenges, and growth, and learning, but it’s been NOTHING like what I expected. There haven’t been any banners or balloons, and it definitely hasn’t been an easy-peasy walk in the park.
I did decide to take a lot of leaps of faith this year, though. So maybe 2018 is the year of the leap?
I mean… I leapt into the full-time RV lifestyle this year, embracing my independence in finally not having to live with family anymore, and embracing a dream I’ve held onto quietly for years about living a free-wheelin’ nomadic adventure.
I leapt into this online recovery support group I recently joined, and started doing the work to confront my alcohol overuse issues, and actually finally got real with myself (and a few close friends and family) about my drinking.
I leapt into therapy. Again. I’d actually been in therapy to help me process some of the issues surrounding my divorce for a while prior to this, but this time I came back to get real with my therapist about my drinking and eating issues (something I’d not discussed or revealed to her up to that point).
And I’ve been slowly leaping (err… as much as anyone can slowly leap… which I guess entails waiting motionless for a while and then making a big dramatic jump, and repeating that process over and over again) into the practice of not pushing down my feelings, of being with them as they arise, and of not holding myself back from speaking my truth. And that’s a work in progress.
But I’m looking forward to 2019 with a sense of hopeful curiosity. Which is, I suppose, all anyone can really do, right?
And I’m so grateful to be able to be here right now sharing these feelings and insights with you all. I think there’s a kind of magic in the group synergy of conscious presence and intent that exists in the sacred spaces we create for ourselves, whether online or in-person. And this feels like a sacred space to me. I hope it does to you as well.
For context on this post, and links to related journal entries from this particular piece of my life's journey, see My Sobriety Journey, Journaled.
So I’m kind of a “challenge-all-social-norms, alternative-lifestyle-embracing” sort of girl, and probably mostly not everyone’s cup of tea. And that’s okay. I actually think my unique blend of quirks and weirdnesses are the exact parts of my personality that drew me to this online recovery support group that I’m a part of now like a homing beacon.
And when I first found this community of special humans, the recovery space they shared — online thought it may have been — just felt like home to me. Probably more than my own familial home growing up ever did, honestly, even though I love my family with all my heart. I mean, the amount of acceptance and love in the words I’ve seen shared in this space, between total strangers on the internet, is just, like… an uber-supportive, all-encompassing, spiritually touching approach to sobriety that I’ve never been exposed to before (and I worked in the recovery business for several years, so that’s saying something).
Anyway, now that I’m a part of this community of special humans… as tends to happen in support groups, I find that I’m often re-introducing myself to the group, whenever there are new people that come into it. And since I think it could be an interesting thing for me to witness how my own introduction of myself to others — especially in relation to my recovery — changes over time, I’m going to record my latest re-introduction posts here, going forward. So here goes…
Hey there, y’all. I’m Trish. I’m a relatively recently divorced 9/11 military veteran, have been leading an ethically non-monogamous lifestyle for the past 6 years or so, and am a newbie full-time RV dweller (by choice) who is about to migrate from Southern California to Arizona for the winter.
I’ve struggled with alcohol for about 20 years, with my divorce and subsequent issues probably bringing that more to the forefront over the past couple of years than in the past. I’ve also struggled with eating disorder issues rather sporadically throughout that whole time. The eating disorder stuff was really bad for part of my early 20s, but I thought I had totally kicked it, until I started purposefully trying to incorporate periods of sobriety into my life over the past few years. And then, surprise surprise, the eating disorder behaviors reared their ugly head again.
I’ve actually spent the past few months with my therapist working through how all of that mess is tied together with my tendency to subsume my own desires for those of my romantic partners, and have basically been learning to stop repressing my feelings so much, so that I won’t feel as strong of a need to turn to consumption of anything (food or alcohol) as a numbing or distraction agent.
That’s definitely a work in progress, but I’ve started practicing… IDK… “conscious vulnerability,” I guess is what I would call it, with trusted friends and family thus far, and it’s been… well, way more positive of an experience than I expected. I’ve read a lot of Brene Brown’s stuff (“Daring Greatly,” “The Gifts of Imperfection,” etc.), and I guess it makes more sense to me now how sharing the story of my softer and more vulnerable parts has made me feel strangely better. But dang, it sure doesn’t make sharing that stuff any less scary.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Sharing is hard, y’all.
For context on this post, and links to related journal entries from this particular piece of my life's journey, see My Sobriety Journey, Journaled.
So… I just last year came out of a painful divorce from a 13+ year live-in relationship, and was financially shell-shocked/traumatized enough from that to not EVER want to be dependent on another person like that again… a situation that ultimately spurred me to finally embrace a lifestyle that I’ve been secretly pining for for quite a while… and so I became a conscious nomad, of sorts. Which basically means that, after living with family for months, I decided to get an RV and strike out on my own. Making the RV my actual home. Yep, you read that right. My home has wheels.
It might be an odd choice to some, akin to embracing homelessness (I prefer the term “houselessness,” actually), but I have a wanderer’s soul, and having the freedom to go where my heart pulls me, combined with having a place that’s just MINE no matter what, that is paid for and that nobody can take from me, after the hell and financial insecurity of divorce, is actually amazing.
I’m still pretty new to the nomad thing, so I’m sorta taking it easy on the traveling around, making little baby hops here and there, not very far, you know, that sort of thing.
The pic above is actually one that I took myself, and it reminds me a lot of how far I’ve come on the journey of my life thus far.
I came across this oh-so-appropriate mindfulness message on the sidewalk one day about a year before my ex asked for a divorce. I was at work, on my lunch break, taking a walk to clear my head. We’d been fighting on the phone (again), and I’d suggested couples therapy or counseling, and he didn’t want to hear it, and the conversation hadn’t ended well.
It actually ended with me in tears, wandering watery-eyed and confused around the streets of the neighborhood, if I’m being honest. I felt like I was shattering, like I was going to die if I lost him, like he was my whole world, like we’d been together so long it felt like I didn’t know who I even was without him. And nothing made sense.
How had this happened, how had I let it happen, how had I failed at marriage so badly, how come he didn’t love me enough to stay… all these questions and so many more were spiraling in my mind.
And then I looked down and saw these words that someone had etched in the cement of the paved sidewalk at my feet: “YOU ARE HERE.”
And I’m not even sure I can totally explain everything that went through my head right then, but it just somehow… stopped me from going deeper into my dark mental rabbit hole. Because…
You are here. This is a journey, a process, a stop along the way, and there’s more to come.
And you are HERE, breathing, alive, able to enjoy the sun and the breeze and the birds and squirrels and trees, and you’re not doing yourself any favors if you stay so mired in your own misery that you let yourself miss it, all of this awesomeness.
You are here. YOU. You. Nobody else. And you are strong, and unique, and some parts of you may be bittersweet and tough for some people to swallow, but that’s okay, because you have a flavor all your own that is just right for YOU, that is just the right amount of sweet and tangy and salty and all of the other things that you are. You are enough. In fact, you are an absolutely delicious treat.
You are here. And that is pretty amazing.
And as hard as life is sometimes — especially when things feel like they might be forever broken and the edges of my feelings press into me like cut glass and I just bleed emotion — I really do believe that the universe is guiding me.
And it’s moments like this that make me believe.
For context on this post, and links to related journal entries from this particular piece of my life's journey, see My Sobriety Journey, Journaled.
Hey there, y’all. I just wanted to check in. It’s been a while. I do miss talking to you all.
I’ve been less active in writing than I’d like the past few weeks, since I recently adopted a new puppy who is basically eating up almost all my free time at the moment. She doesn’t have all her shots yet so she can’t even go outside, which means both of us are cabin-fever-y together for about the next… oh… EIGHT weeks or so (yikes), since she can’t even go outside to walk or play and definitely can’t socialize with other dogs until she is protected from parvo and all the scary doggie diseases.
Well, and on top of that, she also came home from the rescue center with an upper respiratory infection and is on TWO different antibiotics right now to try to clear things up. So things are a bit chaotic and worrisome. Probably more for me than for her. LOL. But yeah. Seriously.
But I’m finding the interesting thing with this new time-crunch and these new pet-parent responsibilities is that the time I do end up devoting to my self-improvement nowadays (I’m doing my best to keep on track with both morning and evening rituals) feels so much more deliberate and so much less like an after-thought or less like something that I am forcing myself to go through the motions of (it feels more like a privilege to be able to do it, rather than a chore… which, though it’s sad to say, I think many types of self-care have kind of felt like to me on many levels for most of my life… like a chore; and it strikes me now… isn’t it strange how we feel like the most important moments of life are the moments that we need to rush through just to get to “real life” sometimes?).
So… in summary… I kinda feel like I had maybe WAY too much free time on my hands prior to this puppy thing, and maybe that free time was doing me more harm than good. Is that a weird thing to say or think? It’s definitely something I’ve been wondering about for the past week or so.
I mean, I’m not totally sure that’s exactly what the issue has been with me. But I do think I tend to thrive under pressure, at least historically, and maybe this experience is starting to allow me to unpack some of that and see the roots of where my Type-A-ish tendencies start to manifest in the first place. My mind seems to need at least 10 different tracks to actively function on and work on at any moment in order to keep it from having enough energy LEFT OVER to start attacking me with worries or cravings or anxiousness or other uncomfortable feelings.
Which has me thinking… isn’t the whole business of high-performance “under pressure” functioning really just another way of numbing out, then?
So, like… what does that say about my progress? Or lack thereof?
I guess maybe just the fact that I’m pondering all this is progress in a sense. But…
At the same time, part of me wonders if I didn’t get a pet as a stop-gap measure to staunch the flow of loneliness in my life… since that feeling of loneliness and the so-closely related feeling of being unloved/unwanted are the two critical, tender heartstrings that, when pulled, tend to make me spiral into really bad places and say and do things that I regret to people that I care about a lot.
And that makes me question my motivations as a pet parent, kind of.
Like… am I a bad person for getting a pet to make me feel less lonely? Am I trying to use her to make me a better version of myself? Am I going to totally fuck the puppy up with my neuroses the way it seems like my own mother did to me?
Anyway. I guess these are the mental spirals of a childless 40-something woman struggling with trying to kick an addiction.
Yeah, you’re welcome. Welcome to my world.
On another note… or maybe a related note…
Something that my recently reopened relationship with my therapist has uncovered, funnily enough, is the fact that I seem to constantly allow myself to get sucked into vortexes of unproductive worrying. Like… wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-staring-at-the-ceiling-from-2am-to-5am-vortexes. But it seems that just the fact that I’m able to recognize these vortexes now (some of the time anyway) for what they are, is progress.
I did feel stronger somehow this morning when I woke up. A little bit.
Well… maybe a lot? It’s tough to say yet, though. I have learned not to count my chickens in this life, when it comes to feelings of confidence.
But, for whatever reason (I’m still not sure why), I did go to the store today and buy a bathing suit and several pairs of shorts that I actually intended to wear like… now. Not in minus 10 or 15 or 20 pounds from now.
Like, with the me I am now, in this body, in this moment. Which is… whoa.
I mean, I guess that doesn’t seem like a lot, maybe, to most folks… but it is HUGE for me. It’s a VERY big deal moment for me. And I’m still not sure what got into me to do it.
I haven’t worn a bathing suit or shorts without feeling just… complete and utter self-loathing and disgust… in probably almost 5 years now. Err… to be real… I actually have not voluntarily worn any of the aforementioned pieces of clothing in much of that time, either. And when I did, I hid beneath huge shirts and towels and just… hid.
Hid myself. Hated myself. Hated my body. I think I kind of felt like my body had betrayed me somehow, by turning into something I didn’t recognize and on some level, something I felt like I couldn’t love… and that nobody would ever love.
That’s hard to say. The truth is HARD to say.
And I’ve heard a million times that saying that you can’t truly love or be loved by others until you love yourself, of course. But I don’t think it ever hit me on a visceral level, that sort of “aha” understanding, you know, until today. Because I might not look the way I want to look right now, but I’m going to stop hiding myself away from the world.
So I know this post somehow ended up way more about body image and all than anything directly alcohol-related, but since this is relationship week at my support group, it’s had me thinking more about one of the most important relationships I will ever have — the one with myself. And that relationship has been so TOTALLY fucked up prior to this, that I can honestly look back at it now and think, “Huh… wow, it’s no wonder I drove myself to drink.” LOL.
So hopefully if I do what I can to heal some of this, it’s another step in the right direction.
Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps.
Just a pre-warning that this post is going to be more raw than most I’ve made thus far.
Because something weird that has struck me over the past week or two, that I haven’t yet posted about, for reasons that will become obvious as I continue with this, is the fact that… and I hope I’m not alone here, but… I tend not to post anything here, or to ask for advice or help or anything along those lines (from anyone, really), when I’m feeling the most broken, the most in-pain, the least put-together, the most fucked-up… in life, in love, in everything.
When I need help or commiseration or companionship or a friendly ear is when I am LEAST likely to ask for it.
Which is an interesting thing to observe about myself, from that detached “let’s get curious” place that I’ve found lately.
I mean, I really want to say something judgmental to myself about this, like, “that’s just crazy, it’s ridiculous, it’s (fill in the blank).”
But I watched a video on YouTube recently where a woman (I can’t remember her name now, but it was probably a TedTalk) talked about replacing the expletives and the harsh words in our language with the word “fascinating” instead. (Ex: Instead of saying “you f&*#er!” when someone cuts you off in traffic, saying “oh… fascinating!” And getting curious about it.) And I really liked that approach.
I even put it on a post-it and added it to my post-it mantra menagerie on my fridge. LOL.
Anyway, this whole thing — the self-observation of my total resistance to asking for help when I really need it — it’s something I don’t think I would have been open to noticing (or, god forbid, talking about to anyone because that’s just terrifying) before now. Before finding my community of kindred souls.
And it prompts me, finally, finally, finally — early early early this morning, after waking up at 2am and being up now for over 3 hours, not able to fall asleep, knowing I’ll probably face my Monday sleep-deprived and wan, after spending the evening trying to chase down (via text and online chat, mostly) old lovers that don’t seem to have time for me anymore, after crying my eyes out while falling into a pit of heart-rending loneliness that feels like this hole I just can’t fill and I don’t even know WHY I feel this way or where this loneliness came from — to end up here writing this post. Facing myself in the mirror of my own writing.
Which I think is where I should have gone first, probably. To this place, the place where I know there are people to hold space for me. Who *are* holding space for me, even now.
You, my community.
It is a curious commentary on where I am in my life (and on the work that I need to to do to heal, ultimately, if I’m being brutally honest) that I continually want to turn toward those who can’t or won’t or just aren’t capable of doing what’s necessary to hold that space for me (usually emotionally unavailable men, one of my drugs of choice, apparently). And yet, like a starving dog, I still am hanging around, waiting outside of their windows, hungry for whatever scraps they are willing to throw me, no matter how paltry or rotten.
I know this isn’t a great way to be in the world. I know I am worth more. Emotionally, I think writing about this has actually helped clear my head about it a bit, but still, it’s something I’ve been dealing with for a long time, and this is a process.
And I know that drinking is tangled up in the mess of all this, the self-esteem issues, the learning to value myself, the idea of mothering myself.
But I also just caught up on last Wednesday’s Q&A session in my support group, and the profundity of how eating disorders are also so often tangled up in all of this as well, of how so many of us suffer and fight the same slew of battles all at once… I don’t even have words for what all that brought up in me. A lot of feelings and memories.
Bulimia… it’s actually something that I think triggers more shame for me even than the booze. It is something I’ve struggled with for almost as long and talked about much, much less.
But I’ve recently started watching some videos with Glennon Doyle and just seeing how starkly open and vulnerable and strong it is possible to be about all of these issues, all together, does give me a sense of hope.
Sorry for the rambling post. I really didn’t want to take the time to edit this too much because I know if I go back and look at what I’ve written in depth I might delete this whole thing altogether.
I don’t usually talk about my pain while I’m feeling it. I’m a controller. A perfectionist. I talk about my pain only once I have space from it.
But in the past, getting space from the pain meant numbing out long enough to dull the edges of it, and I think there’s a better way. So I’m acknowledging it and talking about it instead. For probably one of the first times in my life.
Thanks for listening, everyone. Truly. You all just being here with me right now means so very much.
Here’s to a brand-new week full of opportunities to grow.
I feel like I’ve had a radical shift in thinking and perspective over the past 24 hours, a shift that feels so “big” to me that I’ve actually been hesitant to write about it for fear of somehow jinxing myself.
I think it’s like, everything about this journey has felt so hard and like such a struggle for so long that I’m afraid to believe a change is really happening. Like I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment or something. It’s weird to be in a place where I feel good, but I’m afraid to let myself feel good. If that makes any sense at all.
But today didn’t feel like a struggle. Which is a minor (okay, not minor… MAJOR) miracle to me.
I was really struggling with the “be kind to yourself” concept before, not because I didn’t want to be kind to myself, but because there was a part of me that I knew deep-down was still equating “kindness” with giving myself alcohol. So I was afraid to fully embrace that message because it felt like giving myself a pass for still drinking.
Here’s the thing, though. I’ve listened to Annie Grace’s “This Naked Mind” book twice now in the past several months, and it’s awesome, and I loved the message sent and I knew it should be able to reach me… but up ’til now, it was not seeming to get through to me, for whatever reason.
Well, at least that’s how it felt to me, because I was still drinking. Which was frustrating.
I mean, intellectually I knew and accepted beyond a shadow of a doubt that alcohol was NOT being kind to me or to my body or to my relationships, but it was like… that cognitive disconnect was still there, stubbornly refusing to allow me (I think on more of an emotional/fear/survival level) to successfully re-categorize alcohol as a poison, something bad for me, something that makes me feel awful.
Mentally, alcohol still felt cozy and comfy to me, even though what it brought to my life was anything but cozy and comfy.
But I’ve been doing the work, checking in with my support group every day, meditating, all that sh*t.
I really don’t think I would be able to be doing all of this without the group’s support. And — in a way that feels truly miraculous to me — I think this work I’ve been doing and the support of this community I’m a part of is actually starting to enable me to create the mental shift I’ve been seeking for so long.
Which is not just kind of a miracle, but actually still hard for me to let myself fully believe.
I mean, I know we’re surrounded with pro-alcohol messages just throughout the course of going about our daily lives, so in the past, I tried bombarding my psyche with anti-alcohol messages through audiobooks and hypnosis soundtracks and watching a million scary alcohol documentaries. But that never seemed to create the same kind of shift that I’ve felt over this past 24 hours.
I actually spent the past 5 nights crying my eyes out before finally falling asleep. But the crying was not crying in a bad way. Not in that morose, needy, please-love-me-and-pay-attention-to-me mode that alcohol always used to throw me into, that way that used to have me texting or calling or doing things with guys that I really didn’t want to do.
This crying felt like a release. Like letting go of something. And I guess I had a lot of letting go to do, because it took 5 days. It felt kind of like grieving the end of a relationship… like in that way that you grieve when you realize finally that the person is so bad for you in so many ways, and you’re just done.
I had a really, really bad relationship in my 20s with someone who took horrible advantage of me, who truly put me through hell in a lot of ways. I think I have more traumatic memories surrounding that relationship than any other relationship in my life thus far.
We started dating when I was 19. And he was a sh*t to me from the very beginning. But I was so hooked on him. And I kept coming back to him, no matter what he did, no matter the pain or loss or tragedy I went through because of him.
It was like a part of me just completely dissociated the concept of him as a person from these acts that caused me such trauma, so that I could still be with him. It was like, when I grieved those painful events, he wasn’t even in the memories. It was like in order to be with him, I let myself forget that he had caused that pain.
Anyway, one day in my late 20s, something inside me just shifted. I’m still not sure what caused that shift. But I finally told him that I didn’t want to see him or hear from him anymore ever. Not because I hated him or regretted anything about the past, because it taught me so much and made me a lot stronger person. But simply because being around him didn’t do good things for me. And I wished him the best, and it was over. It was really over.
And I think I’m starting to see alcohol in the same light as that old relationship. Which is a really good thing.
I woke up at 4 am today. This was my first early morning sleepless episode in the past several weeks. (Which is kind of an amazing thing, when I think about it.)
Normally these episodes start at about 3 am, and I am kept awake by racing thoughts for at least 2 hours.
Today, as I rolled over at 4 am, I knew immediately upon glancing at the clock that I had to be up in 2 hours and 20 minutes and that my alarm would be going off in that amount of time. I also knew that I desperately NEEDED those 2 hours and 20 minutes of sleep, and probably for that very reason, sleep just would not come back to me.
So after about 20 minutes of fruitless lying there, trying to force myself back into slumber, I decided to just get up and start my day.
So I fixed myself a mug of hot water with a little apple cider vinegar in it and finally, FINALLY made myself do this “future self” meditation that I’ve been for some reason dreading and putting off doing since last week. And I read and absorbed a few positive messages that I’ve been having emailed to me every morning.
So, I mean, as mornings go, I felt like sh*t due to the lack of sleep, but I was basically killing it on meeting my own expectations for myself.
Hell, I even wrote a couple of futureme.org letters to myself (as recommended by my new support group) — one to be received in a couple of months from now, and one to be received one year from now. I’m not sure whether what I wrote met the spirit of the exercise, but I found myself leaning heavily on the “speaking kindly and compassionately to myself” principle throughout writing each of these letters, and even just the fact that I got them done at ALL, I am taking as a huge win for me.
I’m not sure why I was SO resistant to this exercise. But I guess… talking kindly to yourself… about a future you can barely imagine… a future that only recently even started showing a glimmer of a light in it… is a hugely uncomfortable task to tackle. So there’s that.
I’ve found that in the past week or so, I’ve been even MORE heavily drawn than I have in the past few months toward the idea of drinking, which has been extremely difficult to resist (read: I haven’t resisted very well at all… yet).
But I think something that was said tonight in group resonated with something I’ve believed for a while, which is that whenever you’re really, truly on the verge of making a breakthrough in your life, your subconscious… or whatever you call the “id” or that childlike or hidden part of you deep down inside that wants nothing but to be safe and loved but is probably lost and confused after all of the years of sh*t that its been through and can’t see the harm that’s being caused to your body by alcohol… when that part of you realizes that you’re on the verge of a real change and starts to wake up to the implications of the impending change… then… in absolute total and complete fucking terror (because change is fucking SCARY as fuck), it starts to wreak havoc on all of your good intentions, trying like hell to call back the status quo.
When that happens, I’ve learned that I should take that as a GOOD thing.
Because it means, essentially, that I’m on the verge of a major breakthrough, on both conscious and subconscious levels. That’s the theory, anyway. So that’s what I’m going to take this period of time I’m going through now as.
It’s a remodeling period.
I want so badly to fall back on old thought patterns and start beating myself up for failure upon failure but… I’m not. This house is gonna look kinda janky and messy and destroyed for a while, and that’s okay, because things are being remodeled. Good things are happening.
Please excuse our dust.
We’ve spent a lot of time in my support group lately talking about how we should be kind to ourselves, in our words and our thoughts. How we should begin to practice soft and sweet and loving self-talk, rather than critical and self-censuring self-talk. To tell ourselves that it’s okay, that we’re okay, that no matter what, we’re doing alright, we’re worthy of love, we haven’t failed.
But someone posed a question in the group recently that was super profound for me. Basically, it was along the lines of, “How do I not allow myself to use the idea of loving and talking compassionately to myself as an excuse to drink?”
Right? Good f*cking question.
Hard f*cking question.
Having been exposed to lots of different kinds of meditation and self-healing exercises before, and being not unfamiliar with the whole “loving self-talk” concept (though not great at practicing it… yet), I’ve wondered something along the same lines myself. A lot, to be honest.
But I think I’m starting to come to grips with at least part of the answer to this question — that it’s not about making an excuse at all. It’s about making a decision — the decision not to drink — and allowing that decision to come from a place of self-love, compassion, and caring, rather than from a place of self-judgement or blame. It’s about making the decision to take care of myself fully, no matter WHAT the outcome of that particular day might look like.
That thought process resonates with me a lot. But I’m having such a hard time getting there. Of getting from theory to practice.
I’m still not there.
I want to be there.
I’m trying to get there.
I reconnected with my therapist last night after 3 months absent from sessions (I had been telling her up to then that I was doing okay and didn’t need her, when I sooooo, soooo did). I am trying to be more honest with her now and to work on getting “real” help.
It boggles me that I paid for her time in the past and yet was afraid (and still am afraid really) to tell her everything I was and am going through, not even just surrounding my struggles with alcohol… but other stuff too, like it would maybe be “too much” for her or something.
I mean, seriously. WTF is that about?
I think I am still trying to train myself that this is a part of my life where people-pleasing has no place, and to train myself that… f*cking hell, there is NOTHING wrong with me for simply being who I am.
It’s a tall order.
Today, a group of us at the community support group I’m a part of now listened as these words were read aloud from a John O’Donohue essay called “The Question Holds the Lantern” —
“If you could imagine the most incredible story ever, it would be less incredible than the story of being here. And the ironic thing is, that story is not a story; it is true. It takes us so long to see where we are. It takes us even longer to see who we are.”
I started sobbing almost immediately as these words sunk in. I mean… sobbing. Like actual sobbing.
I’m not even sure why exactly I was sobbing. It was a bit shocking to me. I’ve never been a big crier… not over myself anyway (maybe over puppies and kittens, though). But when it comes to my own pain, I tend to be more of a quiet, “hold it all in,” ultra-reserved type. Swallow it and push it down. Pretend it away.
But something about hearing the first few sentences of this essay broke me open inside… in a way that allowed me to touch a part of myself I haven’t been in touch with for a long time. Past all of the shells and walls I’ve built.
These words got through to me in a way that I think I didn’t even know I needed, and hit me on a level and at a depth that I wasn’t even aware I still had inside of me.
To be honest, I didn’t really hear much of the rest of the essay reading. I couldn’t tell you how it ended. I was too distracted by the unexpected visceral reaction I had just had, the wave of emotion that crested over me.
I don’t know what else to say about it all right now. I’m still processing it, I guess.
I mean… I think this raw upchuck of emotion was a good thing? Emotion… it’s a byproduct of connection, right? Connection and community, and not being alone anymore. Maybe that’s why I feel safe enough to feel right now. To feel anything. Even this. This pain.
My heart hurts.
God, I want a drink.
I got drunk for the first time when I was 18. I did this in a very intentional and planned way. I’d never been a drinker or a partier and was actually very strait-laced in high school. I was just really curious what all the fuss was about. Well, my first time flirting with inebriation sparked a rocky love affair that has lasted a little over 20 years now, as of this journal entry.
And over the last five years or so, I’ve become more and more aware that my relationship with alcohol has taken on more of the characteristics of an abusive relationship than a love affair.
I am struggling. A recent divorce and all of the upheaval of money and moving issues has done a number on me, making me want more than ever to stop drinking… while simultaneously feeling more seduced than ever by the desire to use drinking as an emotional anesthetic.
I’ve been trying to cut down and/or stop drinking for years now with very limited and spotty success, but I know I do better at achieving goals when I feel a sense of community and group support, so I have high hopes for what I can achieve with this new community support group I’ve recently found, because it seems like what I’ve FINALLY, finally found is a group of truly kindred spirits, people who can really understand me and who won’t try to make me denounce or renounce a part of myself in order to become a part of the group.
Ironically, prior to my divorce last year, which necessitated a move from California to Arizona (and during which time I had to move in with family… at age 40, like a real winner), I was actually self-employed as a life/fitness coach, and even more ironically, was frequently asked to lead life-skills-centered groups at drug and alcohol recovery centers.
More than a little hypocritical, I know. And frustrating that I couldn’t help myself achieve the same thing that I was helping others to do.
I hope I can achieve more now.
Huh. Hope. It’s such a foreign concept these days.
I guess we’ll see.