This week, in Eclosion: An Artistās Path to Power and Peace, Iām sharing some of the hardest truths Iāve ever writtenāas I begin to move through the haze of denial into something quietly radical: the decision to see clearly and reach for help.
(If youāre new here, start at the beginning. Or visit my Memoir Hub for a full table of contents with links.)
The Darkness Inside
You know that thing you turn to again and again when life gets to be too much? When you are so uncomfortable inside that you just want to change how you feel? Instead of sitting with the discomfort, allowing your emotions to do what they will, you want to change them, and change them now? Or when you get too close to whatever it is you yearn for the most, but are too afraid to actually do, because, what if you fail? What would that mean about you? Or, even more frightening, what if you succeed?!
We all have that thing we turn to when life gets to be too much. It might be food or social media, video games or endless scrolling, drugs, sex, work, or binge-watching TV shows.
For me, it was alcohol.
Alcohol was the one thing that I just couldnāt bring myself to look at, just couldnāt give up. If I did, Iād have to face myself. As much as I tried to deny it, the evidence was building, and I couldnāt pretend forever.
Sitting in the meadow below our cabin, Iām on my third beer and maybe my sixth cigarette. I need at least two strong beers to calm the anxiety and turmoil that lives inside of me. I drink and smoke and escape into a fantasy novel, but Iām always listening. Listening for the sound of Shonās truck. When I hear it, I grab all my things and race up the hill to our cabin, breath coming hard I stash my cigarettes and empty beer bottles before grabbing two more. I crack them open and then head outside to meet Shon on his way to the cabin. With a big smile on my face, I give him one of the beers, which we clink together in a quick toast. Problem solved. Now heāll never know how much I drankā¦
We have friends over to play a board game and Iām mixing drinks. I always mix the drinks. That way, when I pour mine, I can, oops, pour a little too much into my glass. Somehow this happens every single time I make a drink, and no one is the wiserā¦
Itās dark and pouring outside when I get home. I need to tend the beast inside of me before I can face Shon, so I hide in the goat shed to drink and escape for a while. I tell myself Iām only going to have one beer, knowing it for the lie it is before I even begin, but telling myself anyways. Soon Iām so drunk Iām dizzy. As I get up from the upside down 5-gallon bucket Iām sitting on, I slip and fall hard, getting a huge bruise on my leg. I make up a story about how I stopped at the Nisqually River on my way home from work and slipped on a rockāa war wound from getting the most out of life, when really, I was so drunk I slipped on some shit while hiding in a goat pen, drinking my life away.
I remember when I was in my early 20s, getting in an argument with my then-partner. I wanted to escalate things, to get a rise out of him, to feel powerful and alive instead of the anxious, scared person I was. I remember throwing our kitchen chair to the floor in a rage; it was almost like I was watching from outside of myselfāpart of me cool and calm while my physical body picked up a ceramic mug and slammed it onto the table with all my might.
As my alcoholism progressed, I began to experience life like that moment in my 20s, like I was outside of myself, watching myself live out my addiction from a distance, detached. By then, I knew how I drank wasnāt normalāthat no matter how much I wanted and tried to drink like a normal person, I couldnāt.
I never really knew what would happen after I took that first drink.
I just wanted the pain to stop. To stop feeling. To stop obsessing about alcohol. I peeled away layers and layers trying to find equanimity. Trying to find another way. No matter how many āhealthyā things I tried, I could never find the balance, the relief I so desired.
I could go a while without taking a drink, or with just having one or two drinks when we went out. But thenā¦I couldnāt. I would simply be going about my day, and it was like a switch flipped in my brain. The switch would flip, and I would find myself in my car driving to the closest gas station to buy a six pack of IPA and a pack of cigarettes. And then I was off. I would go to one of my many hiding spots on the land where I would drink and smoke and read fantasy novels, living out my own little fantasy that was slowly killing me. I was living deeper and deeper into my addiction; an addiction I couldnāt even admit to myself. No matter what I did, I couldnāt escape the darkness inside.
On some levels, I was still succeeding. I had a stable job, doing work that had meaning; I even had health benefits. I had friends and was doing cool things. I was married to the man of my dreams.
Shon and I lived in a small, sweet cabin at Delphinia, on a gorgeous hillside, immersed in an incredible forest. Massive redcedar trees surrounded our cabin, their towering trunks so close I could reach out and touch their rough, fragrant bark from our porch. When I took in the sheer rightness of this forest, there was always a loosening, a softening inside of me. Maybe it was being so close to this pristine nature, that never tried to be anything other than it was, that opened my eyes to my own dichotomy.
From the outside, my life looked pretty good. On the inside though, I felt broken.
A Crack in the Dark
Shon and I were on an epic ten-day river trip with friends on the Middle Fork Salmon River, rafting and kayaking through the pristine wilderness of Idaho. Weād celebrated my 33rd birthday the day before by soaking in hot springs overlooking the river, not a road or building for miles and miles.
It was in the middle of nowhere, by that wild river, that Shon asked me if I would have a baby with him. The baby I had let go for him. As this dream resurfaced, I found I still badly wanted to become a mother. I wanted it so badly. But in that moment, I found myself terrified at the thought of having a baby. And I couldnāt understand why. Or at least, I couldnāt express why.
Wrecking my own life by drinking was one thing. Even the potential of wrecking Shonās life hadnāt stopped me from drinking. He was an adult and could make his own decisions. But a baby? A child who would be dependent on me? I had wanted a child so much, still did, and yet I couldnāt imagine bringing one into this life, when my life was ruled by alcohol. When I took a drink, I never knew what came next. Would I just have the one? Or would I be off on a bender driving so drunk the lines on the road blurred so badly that I had to close one eye to see?
Still in denial of my own addiction, I agreed to try and have a child with Shon, and we stopped using protection. But that choice weighed on my heart and mind, so much so that not long after returning home from our trip, I did some research on alcohol addiction. Iād learned about alcoholism beforeāwhen I was in high school and was sentenced to take a drug and alcohol class after getting a minor in possession, and then again as part of my sentence for the wet and reckless conviction in Alaskaābut Iād never been ready to hear what they had to say. As I looked at my computer screen, one word stood out starkly on the page: Progressive.
Alcoholism is a progressive disease.
Untreated, it doesnāt get better over time, it only gets worse. Once it starts, there is no going back. Once you become a pickle you can never be a cucumber again. For the first time, I saw that this was true. My experience with alcohol over the years lined up with this thinking, I just refused to see it until that moment.
As this realization began to take root, a dear friendās father died. I had never met him, but I was struck with the realization that when something really hard happened in my life, like the death of a sibling or parent, I would have exactly one coping skill. Yes, I practiced yoga, and yes, I connected deeply with nature. Iād even learned to meditate over the years. But I knew with absolute certainty that if someone I loved was suddenly dead or dying, I would be of no use to anyone because I would simply get drunk.
And so, I did the last thing I wanted to do, the only thing I could think of doingāI reached out for help. It was a real measure of my desperation.
I called a friend of mine from high school who drank like I did. Somehow, sheād gotten sober the year before. I called her and said I thought I needed to deal with my alcohol āissue.ā She was very supportive, shared what worked for her, and suggested a book to me, Drinking, A Love Story, by Caroline Knapp.
I read the book, relating more than I wanted to admit, and called a counselor, asking if she could help me with my drinking problem. She said yes, so I made an appointment.
Even though I wasnāt ready to admit I was an alcoholic, I could no longer deny my own realityāmy ālittle problem with alcoholā wasnāt going to get better on its own. In fact, it was only going to get worse.
Once I had this epiphany, I couldnāt un-have it. Once I finally saw the reality of my dependence on alcohol, I couldnāt unsee it. As I began to face this truthāalcohol dominated my life, and it had the power to destroy those I loveāI felt the panic of being pulled under by a riptide.
Whew. That was a lot. But I know Iām not the only one whoās lived in darkness and that in-between placeāwhere something raw and true starts to crack through the dark. I know Iām not alone. And neither are you.