raising the white flag

deciding to be in recovery again after doing some wild "research"

I have been avoiding writing this newsletter with everything within me. Literally—simply based on the name that I chose (albeit a brilliant name) for this Substack when my recovery felt like it would be in tact forever. Those were the days. I felt like if I wrote under this name I would be lying to everyone in a way that wasn’t simply omitting the truth, but also pretending to be who I’m not on a more major scale than I already was.

The truth is, I haven’t been sober for a while now. I convinced myself that I could drink successfully; I had previously made my recovery my entire identity and because I’ve struggled to rack up more than a month or two since relapsing after three and a half years last year, it felt easier to just allow myself to drink instead of berating myself and slapping myself with shame if I slipped up.

The problem is that previously, my recovery wasn’t for me. It was to please the people who loved me and I hate disappointing others. Ironic, isn’t it? Because the amount of humans I love that I’ve disappointed now are more than I can count.

I know it’s not necessarily because of the drinking. It was the secretiveness behind it. The fact that I was essentially in active addiction while pretending that I was sober. Some friends knew that I had decided on drinking and vocalised their concern but everyone knows that an addict is an actor of major proportions — salesman is the perfect employment role for us.

It all came to a head when I was hospitalised two weeks’ ago. I truly thought that I was going to die in my little garden cottage, with bottles surrounding me and nothing more. I hadn’t eaten in five days by the time I asked my mother to take me to hospital. I could hardly lift my head I was so weak. Upon arrival at the hospital, I was asked twice if I had diabetes because my blood sugar was critically low. I spent three nights there, unable to process the seriousness of what had taken place due to the strong anti-anxiety medication that I was taking. It was only after I left and the medication wasn’t available to me that it all truly sunk in.

I have never been so depressed as I was in those following days. I have a video in my drafts on TikTok that I don’t even remember recording where I look colossally sad. I keep it there as a reminder, as I know that now that I’m sober I will forget what it felt like to be in the grips of death. But every time I watch it, a deep sense of compassion hits me for that woman that I was. The woman that I am.

I’ve had to admit defeat. I’ve had to admit defeat and to be honest, it feels like a weight off my shoulders. I wanted to prove to everyone so desperately that I was able to drink successfully and live alone that I couldn’t bring myself to ask for help. It took a near-death experience for that to happen. I suppose, that makes me grateful for it.

I’ve lost so many friends from my rehab days because of my pride. I’ve felt a lot of resentment for them as it feels like I was shunned after relapsing initially, that suddenly my whole character was called into question. But of course, I’ve been majorly at fault too. I’ve been avoidant and non-communicative because I’m so scared of confrontation. I had archived a chat with one of my former colleagues / friends for over a month and accidentally clicked on it to see her words, “Love you a ton”. God, the shame. And everyone knows that shame is a cycle that perpetuates the avoidant behaviours. I have a hell of a lot of amends to make, especially to my family.

But first, I will become a living amends. I’m moving into a halfway house on Sunday and I’m nervous to be restricted but I know that’s what I need right now. I’m excited to be living around people again because I thrive within community; I realise that living alone isn’t healthy for me because I will isolate. My only child behaviour is at its worst at these times and it’s not good for me or my relationships.

I can’t wait to be the person I know I can be. Freelancing while drinking yourself to death is actually really hard! While my work was still of a high standard because I’m very good at working under pressure, my discipline has flown out the window. I have insane work ethic when I’m in a healthy environment and I am blessed to do work that I absolutely love so once I throw myself in it and actually work towards meeting my goals, I know I’m going to soar. I can’t wait to meet future me, who is also the past me. She’s great. Disciplined, consistent, quirky, insightful, caring of others and also very funny.

It’s been an awfully heavy load to carry. My mental health has taken a turn for the worst, I’ve never been so suicidal and I’ve also never been on so many meds (although I do believe I definitely have lived with undiagnosed anxiety for most of my life, it is known that substances make it a trillion times worse). I’m so tired of being in clinics. I deserve to be facilitating writing workshops and counselling but instead, I find myself on the other side of the chair. Being told things I already know. Because I know how to be functional, I even know how to be remarkable. But I can’t have that if I’m not completely sober.

I don’t regret this time because I do believe it was needed. I’ve never truly felt like I’ve hit my own rock bottom—even though I’ve put myself through immense trauma—but this time feels different. I feel sick to my stomach thinking about what I put myself through. I sometimes want to dismiss how serious my mental and physical health issues have been as a result but if I carried on the way I was going, I would have died. One way or another.

Here’s to a 378234931 chance at life. I can’t die now. I have too much to do. So I will grab it with both hands and be the person that people look up to. I’ve done it before, hell, I can do it again.

My walk on Sunday morning in slides. Nature is supremely healing for me.