Crying

I'm crying and maybe you are too.

Feeling emotional today. If I let myself, I could probably cry and cry and cry. I used to cry a lot, but for very different reasons. I was in the throws of my alcoholism or untreated bipolar disorder or most likely both. I wanted to die or quite literally murder someone. I have the writing to prove it. I was so sad, confused and angry. I was so out of control about how to address these intense feelings so I did the thing that has always come no naturally to me, I wrote. I’m so grateful I had the self-awareness and insight to know the healing power of writing, even back then.

I also went through phases where I questioned my sanity in an entirely different way. I was so far removed emotionally that I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t even feel. I was listless, numb, all the things you are when nothing matters. But the void of emotions was also void of hopelessness. The only thing left was guilt or confusion about whether or not I was a legit psychopath or most likely sociopath. I had the awareness that I had none of the typical feelings, but I couldn’t do anything about it. This came out typically when my mom was screaming at me or crying saying she was worried and wanted me to get help or stop this utter chaos that was my life. She was terrified and angry at my behavior, and my response was a stone-cold face and reaction along the lines of “Why are you being so sensitive?” or laughing at her misery or not being able to respond at all. I remember vividly being aware of these actions but not having the ability to change them. It was as if I was hovering over my body watching these interactions happen, like a ghost, powerless over the physical world. Maybe this explains my self-awareness.

I used to regularly think I was a sociopath and worry that there was no hope for me. In those moments I was incapable of connecting with others. The lack of empathy was painful, for others and me. But the absence of reaction was the scariest of all. How could someone who really is a caring person be incapable, at that moment, of being human on even the smallest level? These moments were fleeting, but frequent enough that they caused a lot of harm and have required a lot of stepwork to undo the damage.

Even now I often feel a lack of empathy or interest in entertaining my mom's feelings, in particular. I’ve gotten significantly better, but now they come out as a way to preserve my true self and attempt to set a boundary, sending the message that I’m having a hard time entertaining her feelings, because now they are not about her pain, but my life choices. They are fueled by fear and the codependency that I have very much been a contributor to for most of my life.

I know there is probably a better way to approach these scenarios, but I refuse to wrap my responses up in a shiny box and gently hand them back to her, or really anyone for that matter. Because when I acknowledge and allow their feelings to be validated, in these specific instances, I allow them to have an opinion and a vote in my life path. These choices have been the foundation of my journey towards true liberation. Allowing outside influence only harms those and holds me back. The best, and most direct way I know how to acknowledge these concerns of theirs is to ask, “Why does this matter?” Or say, “This does not affect you.” Because those are true statements. They are reminders that they no longer dictate/fuel my self-doubt and the direction of my life. There’s no room for self-doubt. I know they have no intention of having this outcome from these concerns, however, sensitive and defensive the reactions shift the conversation back to them and make my decision, to leave my marriage or be a nomad, about them and the guilt and shame I need to feel in order to come back and make the rational and sensible choice.

So the shift from sociopath to healthy boundaries is fluid. I no longer feel guilty about my lack of engagement in these instances, but I also no longer have to cause harm by my choice to do so. Because the difference between the two has shifted in motivation. I used to be motivated by anger and the need to harm. Now my motivation is fueled by the desire to be authentic and true to myself and honest with others about these facts without allowing them the luxury of interfering.

You may be thinking how the hell do any of these lead to the point I hinted at at the beginning of this post? I will tell you. My creativity has been non-stop, limitless even, the last several days. The words flow out of me as if they are an assembly line stretching forever, only turning off when I say so. I’ve written more in the last three-plus days than I’ve written in months, and I’m excited to see where this goes. This brings me to last night. In all of my research, writing, and forming of this blog, I found my old notebook from high school and it’s a doozy. I knew I needed to find it. I was chomping at the bit to revisit the drug-fueled stream of consciousness that was my 18-year-old self. I was having sex with a lot of different people; smoking a lot of hash; and getting my Christian education by maybe the most convicted and frighteningly certain man. The jumps between suicidal thoughts, existential questions, and Christian guilt were mesmerizing and also heartbreaking. I could see a young, lost me, clearly suffering and so self-aware, but without any hope or solution of any kind.

I read most of the writing and then went to bed with a heavy heart. I woke up ready to jump right back into my writing, but first I wanted to explore the vintage tin that was home to not only this notebook but also much of my early sobriety writing and letters and cards of encouragement. Every card I received while I was in treatment, as well as when I graduated from college, several years later, was jammed in there. I spent the first part of my morning reading them.

The common theme: love. So. Much. Love. I realized my hopeless, and potentially life-threatening thoughts almost cost me this profound life. I am overwhelmed by the grace and protection that surrounded me during the darkest part of my life. What’s the line? But for the grace of God, there go I? I realized that so many others never made it out of this alive. I don’t think it’s because they didn’t have the love and foresight to keep going, but rather I got lucky. I am not better than them or deserve it more, but because I’m alive, I can see that all along, the light was always there I just didn’t have the ability to see it, and that makes what I do next all that more crucial.

I have to keep going and I have to do this for all the others who never got the chance. For their loved ones, for mine, and for everyone who is currently lost in the perception that the only way out is to end it all. Just like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, my existence has an impact and stretches farther than even the most distant people I know.

When I was newly sober, probably in my first year, there was another person named Carly who was in and out of my recovery program. I remember her face, and that she was blonde, but I barely remember anything else. One day I was driving to a meeting and when I was getting out of my car to walk in, a man I'd known my whole sobriety, who I admired, but also thought was kind of a pretentious ass and certainly didn't give a shit about me, was crying until he looked up and saw me. He ran over to me and gave me this huge hug and sigh of relief. He told me he had heard I killed myself and was devastated. We both quickly realized it was the other Carly. Obviously I am not relieved that this beautiful person took their own life, and neither was he, but in that moment I realized I belonged here. On this Earth, with these people. And that I was loved. So deeply loved. Even by the most prickly people.

That day was surreal, I walked into the meeting only to be greeted with overwhelming joy by several other people who had also had the same confusion. Later that night I went to a second meeting, my homegroup. I got sober with a bunch of old men who had 20+ years or more on me. I loved them and they saved my life. I ran into the oldest of the bunch as we both were walking in and he mentioned the other Carly too. He always knew it wasn't me, but it was an opportunity for us both to embrace each other and show our sincerest gratitude and love for each other. I couldn't believe that someone with almost 50 years of sobriety cared so much about me.

I will also mention this because I think it's important. When the two of us were talking he mentioned that she may have died because someone in the program encouraged her to get off her meds because being on them meant she wasn't sober. I have never forgotten this conversation because to this day there is this belief among a small few, but with really loud voices, that anything outside of the 12 steps, when it comes to sobriety, is strictly forbidden. They preach with expertise, stemming from their own fabricated ideas and no basis backed by science. He told me Carly is not the first person to have been lost to this dangerous ideology, nor will she be the last.

I say this not to judge, if someone is convicted in their beliefs and it keeps them sober, great. But our only tool is our experience and if we have not experienced mental illness outside of alcoholism, we have no business giving others direction on the subject. And we certainly have no business giving people medical advice backed by faith and shaming others for getting the outside help they need. I have been saved because of my sobriety. I owe my life to the program and the people in it. But I also have bipolar disorder and no amount of steps will ever stabilize me in that. Believe me, I've tried. I almost didn't make it.

I usually only share this in private with those to whom it might be helpful. I have to separate my outside issues and keep my primary purpose of carrying the message of sobriety within the fellowship.

This blog serves as a way for me to use my platform to creatively express myself freely. I talk about sobriety because it's the most important part of my life, but I also talk about mental illness, the loss of my marriage, finding new love, reconnecting with my voice and reminiscing about my childhood. No topic is off-limits. My only goal is, to tell the truth in my own voice in a way that's honest and raw and authentic to me. Maybe you relate, maybe you think I'm funny, maybe you think my writing is trash. I don't really care. This blog is for me, I'm just choosing to publish it because I was inspired by so many other fearlessly vulnerable women who have done the same.

My hope is that my work can inspire and maybe even change the world, even if it’s just the tiniest bit. Just like their work did for me. Or maybe I'll just have one subscriber (me) and that's ok too.

So yes, I’m crying. But not for any reason other than the fact that I am me. Right here, right now.

*Photo taken November 2022 in Florida