âWhen I loved myself enough, I began leaving whatever wasnât healthy. This meant people, jobs, my own beliefs and habitsâanything that kept me small. My judgment called it disloyal. Now I see it as self-loving.â ~Kim McMillen
I like to think of my inner self as a curly-haired stick figure who lives inside my chest cavity. Like most inner selves, mine has a simple, childlike quality. She smiles when sheâs happy and cries when sheâs sad. She has an intuitive sense of what is right and wrong. She speaks her needs simply, the way a young girl might.
My inner self and I are on good terms nowadays, but it hasnât always been this way. When I was addicted to booze, food, and relationships, I treated my inner self like a prisoner.
For years, I dazed her with whiskey and wine and snuck away to make rash decisions under the light of the moon. Through a groggy haze she would slur warnings: âDonât drive! Donât sleep with him! Itâs dangerous!â But I had abandoned her, lost in the sweet abyss of another blackout, and left her alone to handle the consequences that met the body Iâd left behind.
As I got older, I sought love in the way the women of my family had for generations: by getting thin. I fed my inner self rations and scraps, barely enough to get by. Her hungry cries were met with six almonds, a tall glass of water, one slice of bread.
As my eating disorder progressed, I purged after most meals, eyes watery and kneecaps bruising against the linoleum floor. I monitored my inner self with scornful eyes. She shrunk under my gaze.
As you might imagine, playing captor to my inner self got very tiring. I felt a wave of relief when I became romantically involved with a partner and could focus my attention on him instead.
Finally, a respite! I was no longer trapped alone with my inner self and her incessant whining, her needs, her uncontrollable feelings! By contrast, he seemed uncomplicated. Unbroken. Better than I could ever be.
Over the next two years, my visits to my inner self became more and more infrequent. She gathered dust like a china doll.
Sometimesâafter particularly debilitating hangovers, tortured binges, or grueling arguments with my partnerâI would recognize, with a sharp burst of clarity, the unmanageability of my predicament.
Remorsefully, I would vow to do better. I would rush back to my inner self and pant, out of breath, âThis is the last time. I wonât treat you so badly again.â But those promises quickly collapsed under the weight of my shame.
To alleviate my self-loathing, I cracked the whip above my inner self, desperate to improve. âWork harder!â I shouted. âDo more!â âBe better!â âFix yourself!â
Around the addiction carousel I went, stumbling from drinking to eating disorder to codependency to perfectionism. My inner self bore the brunt of my cruelty. Eventually, she stopped trusting me entirely.
Years of therapy and self-reflection later, I reached an impasse.
By most definitions of the word, I was utterly free; I made my own work schedule, enjoyed financial security, and could travel any time, anywhere. In the presence of friends, I radiated enthusiasm and laughed straight from my belly. But in my own company, when the afternoon sunlight cast shadows across my carpet and the muted sounds of the city came through my open window, I felt utterly alone.
I couldnât deny the truth: I was trapped in a life dictated by vicious, anxious cycles. The life I wantedâthe liberated, peaceful, inspired lifeâwould be unattainable until I confronted my addictions. Not just one of them, but all of them. I had to tug the weed from the soil at the very root.
And so I took a deep breath and stepped off of the addiction carousel. Squinting and dizzied beneath the carnival lights, I took a hard and honest look at my inner selfâthe first Iâd taken in years.
She had become unrecognizable. Emaciated, exhausted, fearful. Anxiety ran through her veins, rich and red as blood. She was afraid of me. And her voiceâthe voice that had called out:
âIâm overwhelmed. Can we slow down for a second?â
âIâm tired. Can we go home and sleep?â
âIâm so fucking sad today.â
âDonât sleep with him! You donât even know him!â
âIâm doing the best that I can.â
âCan you hear me?â
That voice had disappeared entirely. Like newborn babies whose cries go unanswered, my inner selfâs voice had died. My heart broke as I reflected on the years of neglect Iâd shown her.
I realized then that my newfound sobriety was much more than a refusal to pick up the bottle. It was an uncompromising commitment to rebuild trust with my inner self. After years of neglect, I had to show her, with my words and actions, that I would care for her
Since then, Iâve come to learn that each of us enters recovery with a traumatized inner self. Every time we acted addictively by taking that drink, or eating all three pints, or spending our savings, or losing ourselves entirely in our lovers, we neglected that quiet voice that was always there, that knew we were harming ourselves, that begged to be treated with love.
I have been untangling my myriad addictions for almost three years, and this conception of my inner self has been my greatest tool in my recovery. Every time my inner self speaks up, I am presented with a choice. I can listen and act accordingly. Or I can disregard her wishes and begin another cycle of neglect.
In recovery, my work is to rebuild trust with my inner self by feeling and speaking her truth by:
- Naming and feeling my feelings instead of numbing them
- Prioritizing my reality over othersâ perceptions
- Setting boundaries with others
Naming and Feeling My Feelings
During my addictions, I became an expert at self-medicating my anxiety, shame, fear, and sadness. A hearty glass of cabernet, I believed, was the respite I deserved after a long, weary day of trying not to feel my feelings.
When I woke up the next morning with a headache and drinkerâs remorse, anxiety was the only emotion accessible to me. Grief, loss, anger, and sadness were buried under layers of shame that hardened over time. I effectively exiled my full spectrum of human emotion.
Recovery, especially early recovery, has been a process of reclaiming the sensitivities that make me human. Without the vices that numbed my heart like Novocain, my feelings arise swiftly, uncensored and colorful. Not just the painful ones, but the happy and beautiful ones, too. I cry most days with equal parts sadness and joy.
At times, I feel like there must be something wrong with me, as if someone cranked the volume dial on my emotions to the max and left it there.
My work in recovery is learning to sit with, and work with, those feelings. What makes this challenging work possibleâenjoyable, evenâis the relief my inner self feels when, for the first time in ages, her simple truth travels from her heart to my lips without interruption. With every potent emotion comes an opportunity to make her feel seen and heard.
Prioritizing My Reality Over Othersâ Perceptions
When I was in the throes of my addictions, I became an expert at keeping up appearances. Nightly, my inner monologue went something like this:
Can I get away with sneaking another drink? I wonder if Joe saw me pour the last two⊠Probably better to put this one in my water bottle…
I wonder if this bathroom has a fan to hide the sounds of my purging⊠I better turn the water on. And fake a sneeze or two to explain my watery eyes…
Did they notice that I blacked out at the party last night? God, I hope not… How can I find out what I said without seeming suspicious?
Managing appearances became my part-time job. I cared more about othersâ perceptions of my reality than my own reality. White lies and half-truths flooded my conversations, even when I had nobody to impress and nothing to prove. Every time I distorted my story, I became more distant from my inner self.
In recovery, I uncompromisingly follow my inner selfâs judgment. I am accountable to her first and foremost. My friendsâ, family, and colleaguesâ opinions of me are secondary because, at 1AM when Iâm sleeplessly staring at the ceiling, my inner self is the one Iâm stuck with.
In recovery, when Iâm swept away by the cacophony of othersâ needs and wishes –
âWill you sign up for this?â
âWant to go back to my place?â
âCan you help?â
âCall me backâ
âI needââ
âWill youââ
âI wantââ
I get quiet. I listen. And I whisper, âWhat do you really need right now?â
And this time, I really listen.
Setting Boundaries With Others
As a recovering people-pleaser, I hate disappointing others. I spent most of my life avoiding it as much as possible. As a result, my calendar was packed with tedious obligations and my relationships were all give and no take. I left social interactions to massage the corners of my mouth, which ached from forcing a smile. I hooked up with people I didnât even like. Basically, I felt like a shadow of myself.
In recovery, the reason why I say no to that beer is the same reason I donât go to the party, or donât sleep with that stranger, or donât call during my lunch break. The same reason I say âNo thanks, I donât drinkâ is the same reason why I say âI felt hurt when you said thatâ or âNo, I wonât.â
Boundaries are honesty in action. Every time I set one, I teach my inner self that she can trust me.
When I get nervous to set a particular boundary, I remember that my inner self is gaining strength under my protection and care. In this delicate stage of early recovery, she is fragile, like a seedling. She requires a safe, secure, reliable environment in which to grow. If Iâm committed to bringing her to life, itâs my responsibility to shape that environmentâeven if that means erecting a fence to keep the pests out.
—
My addiction was characterized by living out of alignment with my inner self. My recovery, by extension, must be characterized by the opposite. For me, recovery and speaking my truth are inseparable.
Iâve heard folks describe addiction as oneâs isolation from others. I think that first and foremost, addiction is oneâs isolation from oneâs self.
The more we treat our inner selves with compassion, the less important it becomes to please others and manage appearances. Our emotions thicken, arise, and depart. When we break the cycle of abusing our inner selves, our own company becomes bearable. And when our own company becomes bearable, sobriety becomes possible.
About Hailey Magee
Hailey Magee is a Codependency Recovery Coach who helps individuals conquer people-pleasing, set empowered boundaries, and master the art of speaking their truth. She has worked with over 100 clients from the US, Canada, Ireland, France, South Africa, and more. Sign up for a complimentary consultation to learn how coaching can help you live from a place of authenticity and inner freedom. You can follow Hailey on Facebook and Instagram, or visit www.haileymagee.com.
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