1989 (Kelsi's Version)
A full moon, a lunar eclipse, the onset of my seasonal depression, and 1989 TV - oh my!
Phew, what a weekend. A full moon, a lunar eclipse, the onset of my seasonal depression, and the re-release of 1989 (Taylor’s Version) all happened in 48 hours. It’s a miracle I am still standing.
For anyone who doesn’t know, 1989 is arguably Taylor Swift’s biggest album. Originally, 1989 came out on October 27, 2014. Last Friday, exactly nine years later, Taylor released the re-recorded version of 1989.
Listening to this album again has consumed me with memories. In October 2014, I was twenty-six years old and in the third year of the social work bachelor’s program at Saginaw Valley State University. I drove a red, two-door Chevy Cobalt. The 1989 CD got stuck in the disc player and was the soundtrack to that season of my life.
On the outside, I appeared to be doing everything right in 2014. Behind closed doors, however, I was drinking myself to the point of blackout four or five times a week.
2014 was the last year it was socially acceptable for me to drink. Everywhere I went - weddings, bars, parties, etc. - I would request Shake It Off and have a drunken dance party (usually alone). I was able to hide my drinking just enough to be in an Instagramably perfect “Starbucks Lovers” relationship, but covertly, he knew I had a problem. The only way I could make it through a full day of school was to bring a tumbler filled with cheap, warm Pinot Grigio to class. And as much as I hate to admit it, I was drinking and driving all of the time.
On October 27, 2014, when 1989 came out, I was teetering on the brink of disaster and didn’t know how to stop. I was too ashamed to be honest about my drinking because I didn’t want to take on the “alcoholic” label. All of the stigma, judgment, and self-hatred that comes with that word kept me from getting help before things got worse.
And things did get worse. In 2015, after one too many wedding reception blackouts, the people in my life started expressing concern. It was no longer acceptable for me to drink in public, so I started hiding mini wine bottles in my purse. Physical withdrawal symptoms led to “hair of the dog” glasses of wine in the shower before work. It was hard for me to accept that I was the one with the problem while everyone around me kept drinking.
I planned to somehow power through the final year of the social work program, but that changed after I drunkenly showed up to class on the first day of the fall semester. I knew I needed help, so I dropped out and checked myself into rehab voluntarily on September 10, 2015.
Just five days after completing that 21-day rehab stay, I got arrested for my second DUI. My mom bailed me out of jail, and I immediately listened to 1989. I was nowhere near Out of the Woods.
Instead of going to jail, I finished out 2015 at a 90-day women’s rehab facility in Grand Rapids, Michigan. That experience was hell. During the first session with my therapist, she told me she wished to have my eating disorder so she could be thin. I didn’t feel seen or heard, so I disassociated, symptom-swapped, and began a nightly habit of purging in a trash can in my closet.
Like all inpatient facilities, we weren’t allowed phones or computers or access to the outside world. My saving grace in Grand Rapids was an old iPod that had 1989 on it.
After staff found a puke-filled garbage bag in my closet, 2016 began with a trip to eating disorder treatment in Sylvania, Ohio. I was there for three months before being transferred, yet again, to another substance abuse rehab facility in Ann Arbor, Michigan. When I completed that 21-day program, I moved into a halfway house. With a revoked driver’s license, I biked around Ann Arbor and blasted Clean on repeat.
I wish I could say that I immediately got better after all of that, but I didn’t. I continued to get worse for a while because Twelve-Step-based substance abuse treatment fed me the lie that I was selfish, powerless, full of character defects, and terribly broken. The criminal justice system did not rehabilitate me. It re-traumatized me.
Haters gonna hate on Tswift, but her art has been a guiding light through so many dark days. 1989 was there for me when no one else was. It makes sense that I have been an emotional wreck all weekend long.
If I could relive the original 1989 release day in October 2014, I would tell my 26-year-old self that she was never broken. Our culture’s relationship with this legal, highly addictive, potentially fatal drug is the problem, not me. I would tell her to hold on just a little bit longer because there are strong women out there blazing a new, compassionate, holistic path to abstinence. I would tell her to release all shame because I was doing the best I could in a systemically broken society that is not equipped or educated enough to treat addiction. I would tell my younger self that everything would eventually be okay, that it is possible to create a life I don’t need to escape from. And miraculously, nine years later, the thought of drinking poison will be repulsive.
Progress.