On Losing It

When your feelings come out sideways. Also, join me on Weds. March 27th.

Hello, hi, happy Monday. Before I dig in, a couple of housekeeping items.

I announced a couple of weeks ago that I’d be giving a talk about The 9 Things in my book, Push Off from Here, for paid subscribers. I announced that it would happen on March 19th and went ahead and put it in my calendar for a different date. Lovely! Some of you kindly emailed and asked what was happening, and that was a humbling moment. So, let’s try this again.

Join me this Wednesday, March 27, from 3 - 4 pm ET for a talk about The 9 Things. Zoom info is below behind the paywall. It will be recorded and made available for paid subscribers.

Also, my online course about purpose and dharma, The Bigger Yes, is now open for registration. We begin on April 10 and go until May 24. If you’re in a place of transition, feeling out of alignment in your life, or simply want the space and time for guided self-inquiry, this is a great place to be. Learn more and register here.

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On Losing It

A few weeks ago, I did an AMA. I answered a bunch of questions, but there were many I didn’t get to, and today’s newsletter is my response to one of them.

I am coming up on 8 months [sober] in mid-March, and the last two have been brutal emotionally. I find myself in overwhelm a lot, like the time recently in the middle of Costco, just losing my shit completely. I'm sure it was an interesting sight to see a middle-aged man crying his eyes out for no apparent reason. That is just it. I can't seem to figure out what those triggers are, and it is really unsettling. I have been doing deep work with a therapist as well, so I know a lot of it is that, but still...I guess I'm just wondering when this will be more easily managed. —R

I know how you feel, R. You said you’re middle-aged, so let’s say you’re forty-five. I’ll take a super conservative guess and say you started drinking at twenty-one years old, and that you drank somewhat heavily from the go. That’s twenty-four years of numbing out. Even if you only drank problematically for ten years, that’s still ten years.

When we drink, we stop an essential emotional process from happening. It’s like eating food and not digesting it; we taste a lot of things, but the nutrients never get absorbed and the waste never gets expelled. We keep adding and adding and adding, but never digesting (gross, I know). And it’s not only the painful feelings and experiences that get blunted and muted; it’s all the feelings and experiences. So much of life never gets properly digested and integrated into our system.

Now, add in the cultural messages that men are supposed to be strong and take care of shit on their own, that vulnerability is a weakness, and whatever other messages you absorbed in your family or origin. Since you’re a Gen-X’er like me, I feel pretty comfortable assuming you were raised by parents who didn’t talk feelings much.

You stopped drinking eight months ago, which is incredible and brave and hard. Maybe the not drinking part has been easy for you, maybe not—everyone is different this way. But you know what’s hard for absolutely everyone? Thawing out. Feeling what we haven’t felt for so long. It feels out of control because it is.

In the West, we like to believe that with enough willpower and effort (and the right technology), we—as individuals—can control anything. Our bodies. Our desires. Aging. Time. Illness. The earth. Other people. Our feelings. We absolutely hate the idea of being “out of control.”

When I read your question, I thought, Good. Meaning I was glad you lost it in Costco. I know it’s terrible when it’s happening, but it’s so, so good, because it means you’re reaching the limits of your illusion of control. You’re being forced to surrender to something bigger than you, and thank God for that, because living the other way—which is where most people live—is so tight and airless and sad. I don’t mean “sad” in a punitive or pitying way, I mean sad in the way that a child whose parents don’t let them make mistakes is sad because the protection turned into a cage. I mean sad in the way that so long as we believe in the illusion of control, we’ll judge other people for “losing it.”

I went through a period of rawness in early sobriety, too. I was overwhelmed and angry and exhausted and I couldn’t muscle my way through like I always had. Some old-timer told me that it was my feelings coming out sideways, and that sure felt right. Over time, as I processed the past and learned to feel my feelings in sobriety, I have more appropriate responses to events, but I still “lose it” sometimes. These past few months, I’ve lost it a lot. You mentioned triggers, but that’s not always how it works. The trigger is probably your work in therapy, yes, but also just life—the cumulative effect of living a life without feeling anything all the way through until now.

The other night, a friend texted and asked how I was feeling. I said, I’m sad and that’s okay. That simple sentence felt a little revolutionary. I’m sad and that’s okay.

Do I like it? No. Am I trying to outrun it a bit here and there? Yes. But am I letting it happen to me in ways I never could before? Yes.

Let this happen to you, hard as it is—it’s taking you somewhere beautiful and important.

Love,
Laura

You are reading Love Story, a weekly newsletter about relationships, recovery, and writing from Laura McKowen. Laura is the founder of The Luckiest Club, an international sobriety support community, and the bestselling author of two books, We Are The Luckiest: The Surprising Magic of a Sober Life and Push Off from Here: 9 Essential Truths to Get You Through Sobriety (and Everything Else).

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