20 Something Years Sober

And I’m still not calling myself an alcoholic

Late 90’s in Manhattan, a couple of years before I got sober

This past March, the fourth to be exact, was my twenty second sobriety anniversary. Seven years ago, was the first time since choosing a sober life that I forgot about the anniversary of my sobriety. For the previous fifteen years that anniversary was cause for me to celebrate being sober with myself and in my communities. It was an opportunity to remember how much I changed, how hard I worked, and how far I came since my early days and months of choosing a non-medicated life. Each year that has passed since not remembering my anniversary I feel a little further from the rooms of A.A. and a little closer to myself, my body, my breath, and my intuition. Some years I remember to the day and others it’s within a span of weeks or a month. The date, March 4^th, 2001, will remain an important part of my story, but it no longer carries the weight of significance that it once did. I no longer feel that I am living a before and after life, life before sobriety and life after sobriety. I have been in this after life for so long now, have lived sober longer than I lived drinking and using drugs, this is just my life now. It’s strange to type that out and it’s also freeing. Rather than feeling doomed with the label of being an alcoholic, I feel liberated in my choices to continue to heal, to restore, and to regenerate myself.

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On March 4, of 2001 I checked into a psych ward with the help of my parents and the following day voluntarily admitted myself into rehab for alcohol and drug addiction. At the time it was the most radical self-care choice I had ever made. For years up until that point my life was all about how I could get out and stay out of my body as often as possible, preferably all the time. I existed to hide in the shame of who I had become, the terrifying situations I found myself in, and the-obvious-to-everyone desire I had to disappear every day. Admitting that I wanted to live and needed help was such an honest action because the truth was, deep down I didn’t want to die, I just didn’t want to keep living in the spiral of pain and destruction that encompassed my entire life. To this day, I am grateful that when presented with the opportunity to choose to try and live in this world I took it without hesitation and never looked back.

Some of you know bits and pieces of my recovery journey that I have shared either with you IRL or on my old online journal. It has been very healing for me to be out regarding my experiences with addiction and what it means to live without any substances clouding my judgement, perceptions, and emotions. Gratitude doesn’t even begin to express the depth of how I feel knowing there is a safe place for me to share parts of my past with the single intention of letting you know that you are not alone. That has been and will continue to be a driving force behind my writing, teaching, and life.

For years I taught my clients that the words we use and the phrases that we repeat to ourselves matter. There is nothing more powerful than the sound of our own voice, it rings louder what our parents, lovers, friends, and bosses say to us. It’s our own voice that calls the loudest to our spirit. Years ago, I recognized that I was no longer comfortable sitting in meetings saying the words, I’m Ashley and I’m an Alcoholic. While those same words were the medicine I needed to heal through the process of naming, recognizing, admitting my struggles in public, and taking responsibility for many of my past choices, they no longer resonated with me. In fact, every time I said I’m Ashley and I’m an Alcoholic, I felt my body contract. It was in the moments of feeling into my body’s response to me saying those words, I realized that it was time to let them go.

Often my body knows what is best and it takes the scared or wounded parts of myself a little longer to onboard. While it might not seem like a big deal to stop labeling yourself as an alcoholic and addict, to me it has been revolutionary. I stopped drinking a long time ago, I was young, desperate, on the verge of death, and needing a container to hold space for my healing. A.A. provided me with that and then some. It was amazing to be part of a secret society where I always had people to connect with and folks I could relate to around the globe. I had countless incredible experiences through relationships I forged in recovery. I am at a point in my life now where I want to connect with people from a place of ease, joy, and rest rather than the most wounded, traumatized parts of myself.

The thing is, I am not broken (never was). I am not crazy (never was). I am also not suffering to the degree that I was in my early twenties. What. A. Massive. Relief. Since my desires have shifted in terms of how I want to reach for connection, I’ve had to release friendships I’ve had for ages as I’ve let parts of myself go that just aren’t who I am anymore. I’ve turned down the loudspeaker on the tapes that want to broadcast that I am still a fuck up. Because the truth is I never was a fuck up. I was in a tremendous amount of pain and doing everything in my power to try and make it stop. In my first year of not drinking a man said to me that A.A. isn’t a bridge back to A.A., it’s a bridge back to life. I have never forgotten those words and know today exactly why he shared them with me.

Making the decision to claim my health, sanity, and joy has been the exact medicine I have needed these last few years. Relating to people from a place of strength, passion, creativity, and openness is far more powerful than relating from a place of pain, stagnancy, suffering, and unresolved trauma. This is something I have been meditating on a great deal, especially these past years. For a long time, I thought that it was most healing to relate through the deep wells of our wounds and that relating through love and joy wasn’t as profound. This is what I learned in A.A. and in other spiritual communities I have been a part of since. Our culture is obsessed with trauma bonding and being wounded. While I am 100% in support of doing our work to transform our suffering and learning to be present with our pain with whatever assistance we need, there is also deep healing in re-orienting the way we relate to people. This re-orientation has never been more apparent than in my relationships.

Sharing our stories from a place of strength is an art. Relating to people with vulnerability and courage take practice. Naming our struggles, wounds, and traumas without re-traumatizing others takes us being resourced enough to be able to feel through the subtle differences between connection and off-loading. Deciding to no longer call myself an alcoholic/addict has been one way that I move towards relating to people from a place of wholeness and it’s exactly this wholeness that has shifted the way I share about my life and live each day.

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Three and a half years sober, a few months after completing my MFA, in my Mom’s guest bathroom in Atlanta

There is something to be said for stepping into the light of no longer feeling broken. Making the choice to update my story and recognize that my alcoholism and addictions were deeply rooted in not loving myself which stemmed from trauma. Working to heal and integrate the trauma through the breath and somatic work I practice and teach has opened my life to many more possibilities than the limited framework of saying that I’m in recovery and needing to identify in that way. During a conversation with a dear psychic friend, we had some good deep belly laughs (and I shed some big tears) about the fact that I am healing. I am whole. I am restoring. I am joyful. And that it was time to invite even more of those energies into my life.

Will I still say that I am sober? Yes. Saying that I am sober doesn’t carry the same energy as labeling myself an alcoholic or addict because the truth is I am not an alcoholic or addict anymore. I have healed the parts that want to escape through self-medicating. I choose to not drink or use drugs because I want to be embodied. I live for being present and I have no desire to check out in those ways. Please know this doesn’t mean I never check out. I do. Disassociation is a big piece of my story and something I am currently getting support for. Not feeling safe in my body and growing up with trauma are what caused my addiction. I needed a way to cope, alcohol and drugs were the remedies.

I recognize these might seem likes radical statements, but they are in line with what I learned in A.A. about how alcoholism is a spiritual disease. ‘Spiritual disease’ is just another way of talking about trauma which is why we isolate and cut ourselves off. The feelings of being alone, that nobody understands you, and that your pain is completely overwhelming often leads to needing to self-medicate if you don’t have any other tools or support. My journey with choosing to not drink or use drugs has been one of incredible healing, profound learning, and has taken me to places I never imagined I would actually get to. I am excited about what the future holds and am grateful that my parents showed up and offered me an opportunity to have a second chance at life. I know the decision to be sober is why I am who I am today, why I continue to write, and why I am so passionate about practicing embodiment and rest as pillars of my life. There are no mistakes. There are no accidents. We are constantly evolving, learning to love harder, and getting even more real with ourselves. No matter where you are on your path, sober or not, my prayer for all of us is this:

May we shine light on our darkness to illuminate the way for others.

May we radically accept our faults, limitations, and judgments with ease, grace and openness.

May we stay curious about each moment and willing to investigate the parts of ourselves that scare us the most.

May we be generous space holders for ourselves and our communities.

May we laugh loudly, shine brightly, speak with intention, and sing off key.

And may we do our best to lead with love every day.

With care,
Ashley

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This book on navigating change by Kaira Jewel Lingo

I finally found the chicken coop we’re going to build

Owning Our Wanting by

Elise Loehnen

On kids and smartphones

A tender comedy about grief and a therapist

Eating mulberries off the tree we planted in the garden with the kids

How childhood trauma leads to addiction with Gabor Maté

A little motivation to keep walking

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