Who are you? The first time my therapist asked me this question, I froze. I hadn’t thought to find myself after addiction. I stumbled through the obvious responses – a woman, mother, teacher, and of course, person in long-term recovery. But who am I? What makes me authentically me? If you knew me before my brain and soul were hijacked by addiction, you’d be shocked that I didn’t have an immediate (and optimistic) response to this question.
Before the hijacking
I appeared confident and curious. A sucker for deep conversations, I spent hours debating heady topics over coffee with like-minded friends and searched for beauty in the mundane. I read constantly and was proud of the way words worked their way from my mind to paper. In fact, I wanted to be a writer. I threw my LSAT scores in the trash and headed West to show the world what I thought of it. But the older I got, the further out into the wild I ventured, the less sure of myself I became.
I had what I thought was a time-tested solution. I would “enhance” my creativity with a pill (or 2) here and a drink (or 12) there, just to get my thoughts on paper. Why not? Creative artists all use a little to get in the zone, right? It was a means to an end (one I rather enjoyed) and I would stop when I grew up.
The space between what I wanted and who I was grew exponentially wider with every drink and drug I consumed. Which certainly should not have been a shock because by the time I moved home and had kids, the writing had all but stopped. I was simply and addict that used to be creative.
So, I did what any shamefaced woman full of self-doubt would do, I changed my dreams to fit my addiction. I made myself small, tapered the edges to fit in the world I could control, and told myself I was happy. Aside from the drink permanently in my hand and the secret stash I hid from everyone, there was no evidence that this was a lie. My babies were beautiful and graduate degree in counseling was respectable. So, what if I needed some stimulants to finish the semester with honors? Who’d know I traded my dreams of creativity for a chemical safeguard?
I would.
Deep down in the part of my soul that I refused to share; I would know that I gave up. I would know that I was trading the life I wanted for one I could control. A life I could rearrange to make sure addiction always got what she wanted. Where no one ever got too close. I pointed to things like money and stability to excuse the detour I was on, but really, I was a coward. I was too afraid to risk being found out as a fraud, that I fell deeper into my addiction to a place where beauty no longer mattered.
That’s where I lived for too many years. In a lonely place, decorated with secrets and fueled by addiction. Until something changed. I’d lost my mom, and then my dad. My sister was barely speaking to me, and I embarrassed my kids when we went out in the world. Every relationship that brought me any joy was over. And it was my fault. Instead of creating a life following beauty, I was drowning in fear. And I was ugly.
The life raft metaphor fits here perfectly though if you’re reading this, I’m sure you’ve heard that one before. So instead, I’ll simply say, I got sober. But if I’m honest, that wasn’t where it got hard. Recognizing my addiction was separate from me seemed obvious after a while. Through AVRT, I learned to quit making excuses and shut it down without much of a fight. I never relapsed so I can’t speak to the challenge specifically, but I do know what it means to let myself down. To be disappointed in a decision I’ve made and feel shame for who I have become.
The point is – it isn’t too late.
For you. Or for me. I took that splintered version of myself and lovingly painted the cracks gold. The Japanese tradition of kintsugi, of “golden repair,” came to mind as I learned to find beauty in what’s broken. Instead of disguising my fractured sense of self, I studied the cracks to where I could be made stronger. I stopped doubting myself and made the decision to become that creative woman I imagined I would be.
Now this doesn’t mean I quit my job and moved back to the West Coast to live a boho dream as an artist. In fact, I didn’t change much about the logistics of my life. Such a drastic change would actually make me the imposter I feared and dreaded becoming. I simply started writing. Some words on the page every single day, whether I thought they were worthy of the Nobel Prize or belonged in the trash, I wrote them. I started designing. Layers of text on interesting colors, I taught myself graphic design. And I finally enrolled in the yoga teacher training I’d put off for months. Restorative poses and power yoga flows connected by breath that expressed what my body needed to say and shut down that cowardly voice full out doubt.
Who I found.
I haven’t yet completed the memoir in my mind, but this blog allows me to share my story. My artwork isn’t well known, and my Etsy shop won’t pay the bills, but some friends invited me to design their marketing materials for a new sober living space. I have weeks left of training before I can call myself a yoga teacher, though I’ve found a space to share the practice with others and some solace in the story of a fellow yogi. All this to say, besides a shift in where my energy is spent, my life doesn’t look much different on the outside.
But through these subtle shifts, I have found the answer to my therapist’s question. I have discovered who I am. I am woman who values herself and finds joy in the beauty that surrounds me. Language makes me fall in love each time the words work to show the world something new. I value kindness and take care of myself without feeling selfish. Working hard makes me feel valuable and the right risks are worth taking. I am a mother who loves her body, especially after bringing life into this world. And as I move forward with grace and forgiveness, I will hold space for my future self because she has nothing to prove to anyone but herself.