What does freedom mean?

I woke up in a stranger’s bed, still drunk from the night before, with a raging headache and the familiar onset of a bad hangover. I pretended to be okay, nonchalantly calling an Uber to go home, and telling this stranger, “I had a nice time last night,” followed by a quick goodbye. In reality, I didn’t really remember anything. My heart was pounding from alcohol and prescription meds, I had a bunch of missed messages on my phone from my employer demanding to know why I hadn’t shown up, and I was fighting a pit of regret in my stomach.

As I laid on the floor that day, trying not to throw up, I realized I couldn’t do it anymore. While these feelings felt familiar, this wasn’t even rock bottom for me — and I’ve had my fair share: numerous suicide attempts, erratic behavior that damaged relationships, and an experience where I was almost committed to the psychiatric ward. But something about this hangover and experience felt different. It was like everything in my psyche and soul said, “ENOUGH.”

I was out of control and had been for the last four years. After graduating from university and entering a toxic relationship that went on for too long, I lost myself. I stopped competitive running. I let myself replicate childhood abandonment over and over. All my life, my immigrant mother reminded me of the sacrifices she’d made so her children could achieve the “American Dream.” But instead of the American Dream, I had a low-paying job, my partying was getting out of hand, and I was barely holding on.

I felt like a shell of a person amid this transitional post-college change — my low self-esteem and poor sense of self-worth was compounded by the weekend binges on alcohol and cocaine. There were too many times I woke up in strange beds, in unknown places, with unfamiliar people, without my memory. Every time I made it to Sunday, I felt grateful but also disappointed I wasn’t dead. I hated myself when I was drunk, but in some ways, I hated myself, even more, when I was sober. When I’m drunk, I can forget who I am.

I refused to admit I had a problem with alcohol. My father was a textbook alcoholic. I promised myself as a child that I would never touch alcohol but here I was, looking at my bleary-eyed reflection, fighting last night’s hangover. Was I becoming an alcoholic? How could that be possible when I can go five days without drinking? I convinced myself blacking out is OK as long as it’s just on the weekends.

This went on for almost four years: work hard on the weekdays, party hard on the weekends. Every Sunday, my anxiety was so intense as I struggled to remember what I had done, then from hearing about what I did, and finally feeling shame over blacking out once again. I would crawl into work on Monday holding back tears and physically reeling from the binge.

But on that Sunday, there was something different about this hangover. While I’m not religious, it was almost as if some sort of higher being promised me that I could get through this if I was committed to change. Moving forward from that day on the floor of my bedroom, I took the day-by-day approach to heart. The chance to binge drink presented itself often and regularly; I always had to be alert to fight that urge through my thought process:

“I just gotta get through today without stopping at happy hour.”
“I have to skip meeting with friends at the bar and stay home this weekend.”
“I just gotta bike past those bars I really like.”
“I’m not a loser if I have to stay home and sleep early on the weekends.” (I googled this — thanks to supportive posts from the subreddit Stop Drinking).

Of course, I had hiccups – I had a few drinks here and there. But this lifestyle wasn’t sustainable. The last time I binged, blacked out, and acted like a fool (and embarrassingly stripped in front of everyone at my birthday party) was on my 27th birthday. Waking up the next day, I realized I had been lying to myself for years. I’m an alcoholic.  

Presently, I have been sober for 8 months minus one tiny, tiny slip-up. My anxiety has drastically reduced, I feel significantly more confident and comfortable in my skin, and I’m becoming the community member I have always wanted to be.

The biggest piece for me to become sober was a long journey of letting go and acceptance. There is power in acknowledging that all behaviors (including substance abuse and addiction) serve some sort of function — survival, anxiety reduction, and safety. I’m not a monster just because I engage in harmful behaviors to alleviate pain and trauma. My job working with youth also really helped me realize I am who I am due to intergenerational trauma, whether good or bad. From that framework, I am now able to accept (most) of my issues with compassion and curiosity.

This shift allowed me to realize, “Hey — I tend to use alcohol to alleviate anxiety and stress,” which is difficult to admit because coming from a family of alcoholics, it’s a huge source of shame and sadness.

By acknowledging the power my harmful behaviors hold while also recognizing that they aren’t effective long-term, I was able to find skills that do work. I still take it day by day, which is okay! When I start to feel unmotivated, I think of how beneficial this work is for my ancestors who were trapped in their addictions, to my current relatives who are unaware of our intergenerational trauma and its impacts, and especially for my future child. I feel very lucky to have this realization and the capacity to work through shame, trauma processing, and self-compassion practices.

Since addiction in women is often stigmatized, I internalized a lot of shame about making the same mistakes over and over. Then I came across The Body Keeps Score by Dr. Bessel van der Kolk and instantly felt validated by his research. His book showed me a direct link between childhood trauma and addiction. Because our bodies are not able to cope, we turn to something that can effectively help us feel better (in the short term) but that has serious consequences long-term. Reading how I can shift my responses to trauma with compassion for mistakes to live a better life was very influential in my journey.

Another resource that brought me clarity during this time was the podcast A Mindful Emergence by Eddie LeShure. It is no longer running, but there is a catalog of all the episodes online. I like that the podcast reflects the diversity of experiences with substance abuse. It is motivating for me to hear how others have found recovery and how they maintain their sobriety. The podcast includes first-hand interviews along with episodes on mindfulness, meditation, addiction treatment, PTSD, and self-compassion with evidence-based practices and studies.

In my experience with the medical system, I felt that the complexity and multi-dimensionality of my experience were ignored. I am more than a DSM diagnosis—  Dr. LaPera’s “whole person perspective” theory was life-changing for my recovery and allowed me to see how movement, healthy diets, sleep, mindfulness, and spirituality can aid in recovery. This philosophy encourages autonomy and agency in my own healing as well as self-compassion for my mistakes.

Another crucial aspect of my recovery is supported through online communities like Reimagining Recovery, PDX Disability Justice Collective, Fireweed Collective, and subreddits pertaining to trauma, surviving, and addiction. I have intense social anxiety so in-person meetings can be jarring. Online communities bypass this, so I feel much more comfortable being honest with people in these communities. I trust first-person narratives more than “experts” who have never experienced addiction, mental health issues, or trauma.

Every day I am so relieved to be sober. I am thankful to have survived in order to live the life I do now. I feel content and have quiet confidence in most aspects of my life now. I share two kittens named Milk and Mocha with my loving and supportive partner, Corbin, who never fails to uplift me. I am even entering my first year of graduate school as a first-generation student! Four years ago, I could never have imagined being in this place of stability and love. By acknowledging my strength to work through and overcome this challenging time, I am able to feel a sense of pride that keeps me motivated to stay sober.