“I’m so fucked up right now” has been on loop in my brain since mid-July. I have been running around in such a dysregulated tizzy that I completely forgot last Monday, July 28, marked three years of consecutive alcohol-free days.
(Disclaimer: Before these three years, I had a 17-month period where I only drank three times. If any other health condition had a 99% reduction in symptoms over 17 months, we’d declare it a raging success. And before that, I spent nine years collecting data. To say I’m only three years into my alcohol-free journey is wildly incorrect. Perfection ≠ Progress.)
Three years ago, on July 26, I was at work when I found out that one of the girls I was in eating disorder treatment with, Kerry, had died an alcohol-related death. She was 37.
As the only two patients who struggled with alcohol alongside bulimia, our bond was immediate. Like me, she was born into white conservative culture, except her family is much wealthier than mine. The expectation of perfection weighed so heavily upon her shoulders that it quite literally crushed her.
Because I received news of her passing while clocked in, swallowing all emotion was required to finish my shift.
Unable to hold the current of colossal grief and fiery rage, I drank the next day after five months dry. That easily could’ve been my funeral.
On July 28, 2022, in a violently hungover haze, I decided to end my own death march, to keep living for Kerry.
Amid all my recent fucked up-ness, an inner voice has surfaced—as it usually does when I need it most.
I trust myself.
Every night last week, I wrote I trust myself I trust myself I trust myself in my journal before bed.
There is a woman in my support group with a few years of sobriety who regularly attends boozy networking events. In early sobriety, she said it felt like she had a giant pile of FOMO rice. But with each day sober, she moved a single grain of rice over to a new pile of JOMO rice. Last week, at an event, she noticed for the first time that her pile of JOMO was bigger than her pile of FOMO.
And that’s exactly how I feel about my journey with self-trust. Ever since my first DUI in 2012, I have been moving single grains of rice from a massive pile of self-doubt to a new pile of self-trust. The emerging I trust myself voice is a sign that the self-trust pile is finally bigger than the self-doubt pile.
To honor Kerry’s life and 1,095 consecutive alcohol-free days, I took a drive to a small beach town on Lake Huron. I needed the second-largest Great Lake to help me hold the vastness of this moment. I needed 23,007 square miles of pristine fresh water to act as a vessel for the current of colossal grief that lives within. I needed the sound of crashing waves to soothe my fiery pit of rage.
I found a stick, wrote my mantra in the sand, and felt Kerry’s presence all around me.
I think all of us are born with a pile of self-trust rice. In my case, that sense of inner knowing was asphyxiated at birth by white conservative culture. To receive love and belonging, I was forced to sustain myself with a pile of self-doubt rice, making me easy to control. Alcohol and bulimia, for me, were symptoms of stifled intuition, of stolen self-trust rice.
Sometimes I wonder if Kerry’s real cause of death was white conservative culture, not alcohol. Sometimes I wonder why she died and I lived. Sometimes I wonder if a pile of self-trust rice would’ve saved her. Sometimes I wonder how many more lives will be lost before something changes. Sometimes I wonder how anyone can pretend to be anything other than fucked up.
While sitting at a Lake Huron overlook with Ted, these Mary Oliver words came to mind:
Someone I loved once gave me
A box full of darkness
It took me years to understand
That this, too, was a gift
I might be feeling fucked up, but I trust myself to do what’s best one day, one hour, one moment at a time.
I might be living with uncertainty, but I trust myself to keep moving a daily grain of rice away from the self-doubt pile.
I might be mourning Kerry’s life forever, but I trust myself to seek out a Great Lake when I need help holding the current of colossal grief and fiery rage.
I might have been given a box of darkness, but I trust myself to understand that this, too, was a gift.
Progress.