Lisa Find Love

From the prickly micro-aggressions that occur on the playground to the implicit biases disguised as discipline against black skin that begins in preschool — racism is an illness that our children are exposed to as early as their toddler years. I am a mother of three, two young boys and a baby girl. Their joy is important for me to nurture and protect. In a recent conversation with other parents of black children we lamented about the moment when our boys will no longer be seen as “cute” and innocent humans. We tried to predict the age where our children would have to face an assumption of their guilt. Unfortunately, many of our children have had this experience before their 8th birthday.  

As a mother of Black boys, in the indescribable moments of carrying life I also lamented during my pregnancies because I saw the threat of life after the killing of Travyon Martin, with brutality and violence against our children seemingly on the rise. The remembrance of the police shooting of 12-year-old Tamir Rice overwhelms me because my firstborn just turned 10. The anxiety of raising Black children is real, yet the fear and the persistent rage at injustice is often discounted. I’ve shared my fears for my children in “diverse” mommy groups and the response was “well, we all have something to worry about with our children”; an attempt to silence my pain because “all pain matters.”

In a society that often deems Black children as incapable, aggressive and deviant, I am constantly thinking about how to affirm my children so they can create identities outside racist frames that they will inevitably have to face in this society. But how do you teach your child resilience against racism when you are still learning how to deal with the gnawing subtleties of racial prejudice in your work environment every day? How do you teach your children to be proud of their heritage and culture when media and daily interactions at school reinforce that their blackness is the baggage that weighs them down, rather than the root of their excellence?

I am not unique in this quest, and building community is a necessity for our well-being as parents of a marginalized group of children. I moved closer to my parents for their emotional support of my children, our church is more than a religious affiliation, and social media support groups like Moms of Black Boys United, Inc is part of my daily scroll for positive upliftment that allows me to connect with other moms through our common fears and often uncelebrated joys in raising our children. 

I fear that living in the United States and being constantly inundated with news about implicit and unconscious bias in our education system and the unfair punishment of black children will negatively impact my children’s health. The American Academy of Pediatrics recently published a study in which racism was described as a “socially transmitted disease” and discusses the negative effect on Black children’s health when they experience covert and passive-aggressive expressions of racism. Moreover, racism leads to a range of poor psychological outcomes, including internalized negative stereotypes. Studies show that young Black boys face depression and suicidal ideation at early ages and mental illnesses are linked to the racial trauma of exclusion and discrimination. The tragic incident of suicide by a 9-year-old girl, McKensie Adams, sends an alarm to parents to be mindful of racist bullying. 

As a parent of Black children, post-Obama, I understand that any discussion on race can seem futile and onerous depending on the audience. Nevertheless, I will take the stigma of hypersensitivity and playing the race card because I know the reality. Thus, my husband and I, along with many other parents, have been intentional about looking for communities where our children are not judged pathologically but are seen as fully human with quirks and wonder just like any other child. The most vulnerable site for Black children is the classroom and it is important for parents to be aware of the racial climate of their child’s school and places of playful activities. Thus, parents of Black children should perform advocacy for them as they enter school by following these steps, amongst others: 

1. Be an involved parent at your child’s school. Be sure that administrators and faculty know your face and let them see your involvement with your child. We know the stereotypes of the missing Black father and the overworked and negligent Black mother; your job is to demonstrate that there are other narratives beyond these unfortunate tropes against Black parenthood.  
2. Make an appointment with your child’s teacher and get to know him/her before Parent-Teacher Conference. Somewhere after 2-3 weeks after school has started, schedule a one-on-one meeting and ask the teacher several questions about his/her teaching philosophy. Encourage culturally responsive techniques and learning about mental health concerns related to unfair punishment of Black children. 
3. Connect with other parents of Black children to encourage each other while sharing resources like Princeton professor Imani Perry’s masterful reflection, Breathe: A Letter to My Sons and this insightful webinar from EmbraceRace.org on “Managing racial stress: Guidance for parents.”
4. Meet with the other non-Black parents of your children’s friends before allowing your child to spend time in their house. As a mom of Black boys, there are more concealed threats to my children than a gun in the house, like prejudicial attitudes and potential discriminatory behavior towards my child. Share resources with these parents too, because ignorance is often the root of prejudice. 
5. Talk to your child about race and racism. Historical accuracy about Black people should be prioritized and should not be limited to one month per year. Equip them with the language to speak about any microaggressions and discrimination they may experience at their school because of the color of their skin. Read child-friendly books with anti-racist agendas. Check out hereweeread.com for great booklists on inclusivity and intercultural competency.  

Social justice advocate and author of Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson asserts, “In America, no child should be born with a presumption of guilt, burdened with expectations of failure and dangerousness because of the color of her or his skin or a parent’s poverty. Black people in this nation should be afforded the same protection, safety, and opportunity to thrive as anyone else. But that won’t happen until we look squarely at our history and commit to engaging the past that continues to haunt us.” We must advocate for their safety because it is not worth our children experiencing the presumption of guilt at a young age that will damage their sense of self and lead to chronic stress because of unmitigated racial trauma.

We teach our children to stand boldly against unseen and seen forces that will attempt to dehumanize them and threaten their wellbeing. The extra burden that racism places on the Black parent is laborious, yet critical. As parents and caregivers of Black children, we must find a way to sustain our joy of parenting these beautiful human beings. My job as a mother is to fight for the light in every room my child enters to be present. As our beloved Toni Morrison guided us “When a child walks in the room, your child or anybody else’s child, do your eyes light up? That’s what they’re looking for.” 

Addiction affects a staggering number of lives in the United States; not just those who use substances, but family, friends, co-workers and society at large. According to Defining the Addiction Treatment Gap, a CATG review of the annual National Survey on Drug Use and Health released by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) and other national data sources, addiction continues to impact every segment of American society. 

“Drug use is on the rise in this country and 23.5 million Americans are addicted to alcohol and drugs,” said Dr. Kima Joy Taylor, director of the CATG Initiative. “That’s approximately one in every 10 Americans over the age of 12 — roughly equal to the entire population of Texas. But only 11 percent of those with an addiction receive treatment. It is staggering and unacceptable that so many Americans are living with an untreated chronic disease and cannot access treatment.”

Laura McKowen, MBA, is a no-holds barred, calls it as she sees it (a.k.a. kick-ass) writer, speaker, podcast host, and former PR professional. Her life story is related in her book entitled We Are the Luckiest: The Surprising Magic of a Sober Life. It reads like it was written on one of those Viking ship gondola rides. The reader goes waaaay up and then waaaay down with her, holding on for dear life as if any minute they could be tossed off and into the abyss as she had been countless times.

Laura found alcohol to be, as is true for many in recovery, both friend and enemy. Saying farewell to it was not easy but lifesaving and soul nourishing. She pays forward the support she received to sustain her sobriety by writing about it and offering guidance in online and in-person platforms.

The book begins with the description of the experience of being lost in the fog of alcohol and black-out drunk at her brother’s wedding in 2013. By all appearances she had an enviable life as the mother of a delightful daughter named Alma, a large circle of friends, a successful career, a beautiful home, as well as substantial income that afforded her more than a comfortable lifestyle.

At the end of the book, she speaks of meeting with a friend from AA and they talk about the kind of life one can live, when alcohol is no longer at the center of their world. The woman told Laura that she has a “nice little life,” which initially dismayed her since she imagined it to be boring and limiting when compared to the high intensity, albeit unhealthy and dangerous one she had lived. She wanted an expansive existence, one filled with color and pizzazz.

I am sober by choice. I have a rich, full life and alcohol plays no part in it. Most of my friends either don’t drink, either because it doesn’t feel necessary, or because they are in recovery. Those who do, generally drink occasionally, and I have never seen them majorly intoxicated. I am also an addictions counselor and I choose to be in solidarity with those who refrain.

I had the opportunity to interview Laura and was delighted that she shared her journey, not just in her book, but beyond the pages.

What role did alcohol play in your life?

I started drinking when I was about sixteen. It played various roles in my life: an anesthetic for emotional pain, a social lubricant, and a way for me to be more comfortable in all kinds of situations, from romantic to work to family gatherings. I turned to alcohol for the reason most people do — it is accessible, acceptable, and powerful.

What was the pain you were running from?
Different pain and different points in my life. Early on, it allowed me to disconnect from the painful feelings I had about my body and my awkwardness with boys and my own sexuality. Later, it was about my lack of self-confidence and social anxiety. Then it becomes a vicious cycle; I was running from the shame of what I did while drinking. Underneath it all, I believe I was mediating a basic disconnection from myself.

What was the pivotal moment when you knew that enough was enough?

I knew I had to face it when I had a painful incident happen with my daughter. I put her in real danger, and it was apparent that I had completely lost control.

How did you learn to create a new life as you said goodbye to this substance that was both friend and enemy?

Slowly and piece by piece. I had to change everything from the way I socialized, to the people I surrounded myself with, to how I organized my time and what I turned to for emotional support. I learned a lot from other sober women — they really showed me the way. They showed me how to live life without drinking.

For many, the idea of avoiding people, places, and things is even more challenging since so many in their lives drink. I know that your family indulged. How did you balance your relationships?

This was very difficult at first. It can be extremely lonely. But eventually, I stopped wishing my friends and family would understand what I was going through and I looked to other people — sober people — to do that. I really disconnected myself from anything that compromised my sobriety for a while, including family and friends, until I reached a new equilibrium. Today that’s not much of a problem but it took time and all of my relationships have changed — some for the better, some not.

Do you have a daily practice that keeps you balanced and sober?

I keep my life very simple. That more than anything is a daily practice. I’ve learned to say no a lot. I also have a few basic non-negotiables: 8 hours of sleep, moving my body, spending time outside, drinking a ton of water. I’ve also started to meditate regularly and really love that.

Laura closes the last chapter with these words that stick to my soul, “And this is the best way I can describe sobriety: a giving to, a giving in, a learning to dance with the Divine.”

You may have heard a friend or family member, suffering from Substance Use Disorder, refer to their drug use as a means to “fill a void.” An emptiness inside of them, that is only replenished with actions that dole out instant gratification. As a recovering addict, I can personally attest to the legitimacy of this. For far too many years, producing happiness from within was a seemingly impossible task for me.

By the tender age of thirteen, I knew there was something about me that was different. Yet, I was unsuccessful at identifying why I deviated tremendously from the likes of societal norms. I was in a constant state of anhedonia, lacking the ability to experience life’s pleasures. Forrest Gump’s metaphor comes to mind, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.” My perception of this timeless statement is that while we may not have control over every aspect of our life, we do possess the capability to implement a more optimistic perspective. As an adolescent, my “chocolate” was mold-ridden and stale. I longed to feel complete, but I couldn’t dismiss the unfortunate fact that I resembled a puzzle. With one missing piece.

*Trigger warning: This article includes references to self-injury, intravenous drug use and disordered eating.*

One in five US high school students have reported being bullied. Approximately 160,000 teenagers have skipped school as a preventative measure. I encountered bullies for the first time in second grade, in the midst of such an innocent time of my youth. I dreaded entering my elementary school classroom, as I was well aware of what my presence would entail. I endured both verbal and physical harassment from my fellow peers for nearly a decade. I was passive, inevitably leading to the acceptance of my “fate,” in addition to suffering in silence.

My mother was exceedingly popular in bygone days. She was a cheerleader, with a whole host of friends. I admired my mom, but I was fearful when it came to the possibility of disappointing her. When I considered unveiling the truth about my school life, my undoubted hesitation drove me to opt out. 

Holding in so much agony and depression compromised my sanity. I craved an escape from the turmoil that ran rampant inside of me. Plastering a fake smile onto my face each day to appease my mother only worsened the matter. One evening after school, I filled my void to satiety. I can vividly recall cutting the flesh of my inner forearm with a razor blade. Self-mutilation releases endorphins that can produce euphoria and calmness, making it a dangerously addictive habit. I proceeded down this road for several years. The benefits I reaped initially from cutting myself gradually faded and thereafter, my depression returned with a vengeance. The emptiness within me was gaping, and I was placed in several psychiatric wards. My doctor prescribed me a medication that increases serotonin levels to rid me of my depressive nature. While I did remain on this antidepressant for years, to no extent did I experience relief. 

I experienced an epiphany at the age of sixteen: perhaps illicit drugs would better suit my needs. An acquaintance of mine was an active heroin addict. Sure, I had smoked marijuana, sniffed a few lines of coke and popped MDMA sporadically, but heroin? I was on a journey to find contentment and I was receptive to new ideas, even radical ones. I asked my friend if I could try some, and he obliged. I watched eagerly as he initiated the process. He transformed a powdered drug into a liquid preparation, which he proceeded to pull up into a syringe. He carefully located a viable vein in my arm, then injected me. Instantaneously, I was consumed by the rush of sensations this drug incites. I felt warm, joyful and care-free. The negativity that had been occupying space in my mind all dissipated. I had unearthed the secret to my sorrow; I was happy. 

Addiction is an insidious disease that 240 million people struggle with worldwide, and about 15 million from that statistic use injection drugs. Switching addictions is not an uncommon affair. I had a love/hate relationship with heroin. I was in awe of the impact it had on me, how it unburdened me from life’s hindrances in mere seconds. However, I was ignorant to the detriment this potent drug can precipitate, when I initially began abusing it. Heroin took me down a frightening path of homelessness, prostitution, many overdoses and the loss of trust from my family. I sold all my valuable belongings and maxed out my credit cards. When I ran out of iPads, expensive cameras and high-end handbags to pawn, I entered the gates of Hell — offering my body as collateral to solicit money from strangers. Heroin was not saving me from despair, like I formally believed. It was demolishing my life, and devastating my loved ones. 

I was living in my small car in a Walmart parking lot by age nineteen. The recurrence of waking up each morning in violent withdrawals became painfully tiresome. Being the root cause of my parent’s distress contributed to profound shame, weighing heavily on my conscience. Being fully cognizant of the fact that I needed help, I admitted myself into a substance abuse detox center, followed by a 28-day rehab, which was arranged accordingly. Upon discharge, I felt like a new person — strong, sober and confident.

I was slightly underweight when I  said my goodbye to drugs, however starvation during drug-use resulted in me becoming ravenous. My body craved the nutrients I had been depriving it of. I initiated a spree of eating anything in sight. In a way, food provided comfort, filling my still-existent void. I gained a concerning amount of weight. I loathed my body, so I only wore baggy clothing in an attempt to hide the fat that accumulated. I delusionally suspected that bystanders inside of stores were eyeballing me in disgust. Essentially, I was projecting my own beliefs regarding body image on to random people. I took pride in abstaining from heroin, but my lack of self-restraint when it came to overindulgence was disappointing. 

After several months, I embarked on a healthy diet and exercise regimen. I was determined to reach my goal weight. This well-devised plan lasted a mere two weeks before becoming terribly unhealthful. My daily caloric intake proceeded to drop lower as each month passed me by. I lost over 20% of my body weight in five months. My doctor diagnosed me with Anorexia Nervosa, as I undeniably met the criteria. I had been restricting energy intake for a substantial period of time. My perception regarding my appearance was distorted. I meticulously counted calories, but the most crippling symptom was my intense fear of weight gain. I’d graze my fingertips across my protruding bones, to ensure my body hadn’t changed over night. I’d measure the gap between my thighs and the circumference of my wrists. I reached the point of being critically underweight. My parents saw this foreboding of a disaster, they were afraid for my life. Anorexia takes more lives than any psychiatric illness; it accounts for four times the amount of fatalities of those suffering from depression.  

My immune system was weakened from malnourishment. My mom would bring me food from my “approved to eat” list whenever I was struck with a virus. One afternoon, she dropped off groceries from the market and left my home in tears. I was wearing semi-revealing pajamas, making my slender physique more apparent. She wanted me to be happy, to love myself… and to cease the act of substituting one addictive behavior for the next. After she left, I walked to my full length mirror. Gazing at the person that stood before me, I was able to see myself accurately, for the first time in years. I hardly recognized myself. My entire skeletal frame was visible, my eyes were sunken in and I looked gravely ill. At the outset, starvation gave me a sense of control, which I found satisfying. I realized in that moment though, I was the one being controlled. Anorexia was slowly killing me.

I spoke with Joelle Porush, Registered Dietitian about swapping addictions. “The overlap between substance abuse and eating disorders is very high,” she said. “Many people battle the same struggles with food as they do with drugs and alcohol. The hardest part is, when someone becomes sober, they become completely clean; with food that can never be the case. Telling a person with anorexia, binge eating disorder or bulimia to eat, is the same as asking an alcoholic to sit in a bar all day. We can never become clean with food, we need to make peace with it. We need to learn to see food as fuel and enjoy it as it is part of culture, religion, celebration and everyday life. Food is an addiction just like any other substance. With anyone battling this, I strongly recommend finding help, both professionally and in your everyday life. You are not alone. Remember, everyone deserves to eat. Making peace with food is no simple feat, but once it’s done you’ll be glad you asked for help.”

I underwent a lifetime of swapping addictions, but today I choose freedom. Tomorrow upon awakening, I will choose freedom again. I am taking life one day at a time. Recovering from my eating disorder has been mystifyingly more challenging than kicking heroin. The mantra I repeat daily, “my body is simply housing for my soul” has helped me vastly. I haven’t picked up another addiction. I remain mindful of subtle cues that may indicate I’m entering dangerous territory. If you or a loved one is struggling, there are many resources at your disposal. Early diagnosis and treatment will significantly increase your chance of long-term recovery.  

Resources:

National Eating Disorder Association’s  (NEDA) helpline to find treatment in your area or if you just need someone to talk to: 1-800-931-2237. Visit NEDA.com for more information and assistance. 

The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is available 24/7. If you are experiencing depression or suicidal ideations, feel free to contact them at: 1-800-273-8255

The Self Harm Hotline has trained Crisis Counselors helping people 24/7. In the US, text the word “CONNECT” (no quotations) to number 741741. In Canada, text 686868. A volunteer counselor will respond promptly and assist you. 

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) has a confidential, national help hotline for addicts (and family members of an addict.) While their trained information specialists cannot provide counseling, they can help you find treatment options that accept your health insurance. If you are uninsured, they will refer you to state-funded programs, facilities that accept Medicaid/Medicare and rehabilitation centers that offer scholarships or sliding scale fees.  

The last man that used the words “I love you” used them to control me. 

• He used them by not saying it back, ever, when I said it. 
• He used them by smugly making me say it when he wanted to hear it. 
• He used them by only ever saying them himself when I would work up the strength to try to end things.  
• He used them to make me feel bad when I didn’t “behave” how he wanted me to. 
• He used them to convince me of a false future that he had no intention of ever providing. 

The words “I love you” meant absolutely nothing. They were alternately a crowbar, a hammer, a master key… in a box of tools of manipulation. 

By falling for a narcissist, I learned every possible thing that love is not. 

Including addiction. 

What is addiction? As a recovering addict, I feel qualified to spell that out a little. 

• Addiction is chaos. 
• Addiction is bursts of extreme pleasure that explode above a constant hum of pain. 
• Addiction is overwhelming craving. 
• Addiction is feeling insane. 
• Addiction is the loss of self. 
• Addiction is desperation and confusion. 
• Addiction is becoming professional at being ok with shit you aren’t ok with. 
• Addiction is harboring shame for everything you are and aren’t. 
• Addiction is lowering your bar until it’s on the floor. 
• Addiction is accepting the complete destruction of your future for instant and temporary relief of pain of the present. 
• Addiction is returning over and over again to the source of your misery. 

Now go ahead and swap out the word addiction for “toxic love.” You will find it’s easy to do because toxic love is more like addiction than it is like love. In fact, for many people with traumatic histories and addiction/codependency issues, I would argue it isn’t love at all. But some of us believe it is, usually because the examples of love that we were given were so warped. 

I genuinely believed I loved that man. But after having time to reflect, specifically on what it felt like trying to escape it… I realize I was addicted. Not in love. 

And then there was this simple but revealing truth: Love doesn’t leave you with PTSD. 

As sick and emotionally abusive and cold and manipulative as that man was, I was just as responsible for it all. I was a perfect target. I was someone who was so desperate to be loved that I was willing to accept any pathetic façade of it. 

I am an addict. Sure, I was a year sober when I met him, but the reasons why I used were still very much there. A year of sobriety after 16 years of drinking, while a big accomplishment, isn’t much except the time it takes to get through cravings and break some daily habits related to your using. My wounds still bled openly, and the infection was still living in them. I had only just begun the process of treating them. My addiction desperately sought another venue, and it found it in the place that so many in early recovery do — in a person. 

The. Worst. Possible. One. 

After spending three and a half years locked in that psychological warfare, I could literally write a book on what it’s like to be ensnared in the web of a narcissist. I could write a book on the dynamic between a codependent empath and a narcissist. I could write yet another book on how people’s recovery from addiction to substances is so many times lost as a direct result of a toxic relationship and their codependency. 

Thank god, that’s not what happened. Although the closest I ever came to a relapse, sitting at a bar alone with a drink in front of me, a year and a half sober and long past cravings and desires to drink, was indeed a direct result of the feelings that toxic love stirred up in me. I am forever grateful that instead of putting that glass to my lips, I reached out to a friend. But it was way, way too close for comfort. And for so many people I worked with in addiction treatment, it didn’t end in too close, it ended in relapse. 

The part I’m trying to touch on here though isn’t any of those things. It is understanding that there are certain things that need to be done if that isn’t the future you want for yourself. I understood that that relationship was unhealthy pretty quickly. That wasn’t enough. I ignored red flags, made excuses, and believed lies and empty promises, and got burned EVERY SINGLE TIME. And THAT still wasn’t enough. I learned what a narcissist was, what he was doing to me, what I was doing to myself as a result, and how it was never, ever going to change. And THAT still wasn’t enough. 

What was finally enough was realizing I was back in active addiction. I hadn’t picked up a bottle, a pill, or a bag of coke, but I may as well have. And the little bit of being proud of myself that I had attributed to getting sober without ever relapsing, basically felt slimy and false, because I had relapsed on this man a hundred times. I felt exactly how I did in active addiction. Only worse, because at least in my addiction I had the option to check out. Numb the misery. Now I felt too much. All of the things I used to drink over, all of my insecurity and grief and pain and fear of rejection… he had sniffed it out, and for him it was a sport to rip it all open as often as possible. And I knew that if I didn’t get out of it, I had gotten sober for nothing. I wasn’t progressing. You can’t heal when you keep sticking a knife into your wound. And then using that knife to make new wounds. I got sober to be different. To be better. To dig out the poison that kept me sick, and here I was, adding more. 

I was feeling sorry for myself again. And worse, as often happens when you spend too much time trying to survive the tactics of a narcissist, I was being pulled down into behaviors I was disgusted by. Behaviors that were NOT ME. Here we are again… when were those things part of my life? When I was drinking and using. And those things made me understand, with great certainty, that this was not an option. And that if I could summon up the strength it took to withstand not only his manipulations to reel me in yet again, I would have to withstand my own cravings. Cravings to return to the poison. Just like I had gone through before. Trauma bonding is real. And it is one of the strongest, sickest bonds there is. But just like my addiction to substances, it was going to have be MY doing. The booze and drugs were going to be there as long as I let them. And so was this. He would never end it. I was ideal supply for what he needed. It was going to have to be me. 

And again, just like with getting sober, it would only be the beginning of much more work.

I began to understand that my underlying issues would still run my life, drugs and booze or not, if I didn’t face them. This requires a lot of painful self-examination, a lot of doing what you don’t want to do, and not doing what you DO want to do. Therapy, more failed relationships, more re-examining patterns, more taking uncomfortable inventory of the role I played in my life, where I wanted to blame someone or something else. More learning how to understand how my past shaped me without living in it. More exposing myself to triggers until they became not triggers anymore. More working on detaching meaning from things I had attached meaning to and therefore allowed them to control me. More spending time on my own, more pursuing my interests despite my self-doubt. I won’t lie to you and say that the doubt goes completely away, but I will say that you can make the choice to act anyway. 

You see, I didn’t come this far just to come this far. I didn’t get sober to get smacked in the face with all of my own bullshit only to say, “welp, I guess this is just how I am.”

No. A thousand times, no. 

I promised myself that I would never let someone like that come near my heart again. But I understood that was much less about those people, and much more about me. We attract, and stay with, what we believe we are worthy of. And in the event you find a good one and you haven’t addressed that? Guess what… you’ll chase them away. Mark my words. 

You HAVE to do the work. And you also would do yourself a wealth of good by understanding that the work will never stop. There is no end point. We can all be teachable, all improving all the time. That’s the beauty of it. There are levels. And each time you reach a new one, man, that shit feels GOOD. You can then get yourself addicted to something else… the evolution of YOU, for the better. And then, and only then…

The rewards come. 

Two years removed from the physical presence of the most poisonous person I have ever known, I finally found the person who doesn’t use the words “I love you” with recklessness. He doesn’t use them dishonestly; he doesn’t say them with an ulterior motive. Love is never thrown in my face, it is never withheld conditionally, and it is never used to control me. There is no chaos. There is no frantic confusion, no uneasy certainty that things are not as they seem. There is only consistency, stability, and safety.

There is great patience for the things I struggle with at times, though they make little sense to him. He allows me to be myself, my neurotic, often high strung, thoughts in overdrive self, and he just laughs and calmly makes it known that he is not here to rip open my wounds. He is not here to fix them either, that’s my job. But having someone by your side to put a hand on your back or offer words of reassurance when that process gets painful… that is where it’s at, my friends.

I CAN do it myself. I WILL be fine, whether I have someone or not. I have no doubt about that. No one fought my demons for me, I did that. But I said those things a million times before they were true, and my life and relationships reflected that. It was only when the time came that I had finally destroyed the most unhealthy of my behaviors and excavated the most rotten things inside of me, and I could say those words and MEAN them, that’s when I found everything I knew I wanted and I needed. And that isn’t even the end… then you have to contend with all of the trauma from the toxic relationship(s) before. Then you have to make sure that you don’t do the thing where you have to actually ACCEPT that you deserve it. Because you can want something all you want… but if you don’t believe you deserve it, you’re toast. You can’t keep it. 

You can make excuses. You can accept less than you are capable of. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do. You can shirk the responsibility of facing your own toxic traits and your relationships can reflect that literally forever. For as long as YOU ALLOW IT. 

OR

You can trade excuses for reasons, you can trade blame shifting for ownership, you can trade denial for acknowledgment, you can trade stagnation with action, and you can trade existing for living. 

You deserve it. That’s always been there. But it’s your job to make yourself believe it. 

Just over 19 percent of US adults experienced an anxiety disorder at some point last year (that figure jumps to nearly a quarter when looking at US women in particular) and over 12 percent of people suffer from social anxiety disorder at some point in their lives. So needless to say, quite a few present readers are about to get some bad news: it’s not just your retinue or lack thereof that’s feeling the consequences of sub-functional mental health. No matter how well you’ve co-opted your mental illness and colored it as an endearing eccentricity, if you’re still chronically distressed, impaired or both, then there’s a very high likelihood that nearly every cell in your body is losing the will to go on.  

What does it look like when a cell reacts to your mood or anxiety disorders? While exact mechanisms are unclear, there’s an observable drop in two enzymes key for keeping your cells beautiful and long-replicating: one is essentially an antioxidant and the other serves to persuade your telomeres (those caps on the ends of chromosomes that degrade with each cell division, beckoning the inexorable march towards natural cell death) to not degrade so quickly. In 2015, one of the largest studies relating cell aging to mental disorders found that for among 1,200 participants, those suffering from anxiety disorders had consistently shorter telomere lengths than their non-anxious counterparts.¹

For those learning about telomeres for the first time: If your chromosomes were like the drawstring on your favorite hoodie then your telomeres would be like the aglets on each end, and like aglets they’d gradually deteriorate as you incessantly chew your way through life. One day the caps holding together all those delicate threads of DNA will erode down to nothing, the threads will get splayed out and eventually lost behind the grommets, biological cell death, no further replication, the hoodie is off to Goodwill.

How can you quantify the cost of a disorder like social anxiety on your cellular health? A 2004 study found that women self-reporting higher levels of day-to-day stress showed higher levels of cellular oxidative stress, less protective enzyme activity and shorter telomeres, with the most stressed women showing telomeres shorter by a length equivalent to a decade of additional aging.²

Telomeres exist in the vast majority of your body’s cells, including blood cells, and so can be leisurely drawn from your body with all the associated enzymes, and then measured and tallied up to see if the numbers can tell us anything. Typically this would inform on the successes or failures or dangers of some pharmacological intervention, some pill. But a recent study in Sweden is unique for using blood-derived numbers to quantify the outcome of watching online videos and completing questionnaires, in other words a purely psychosocial intervention, and then using said data to qualify those individuals most likely to benefit from this brand of non-pharmaceutical intervention before it ever takes place.

The Swedish study is the first of its kind, demonstrating a positive link between the kind of improvements you can see in a blood sample, in this case the cellular output of a couple of enzymes, and improvements that were consciously experienced by 42 people who had previously felt socially anxious enough to adhere to 9 weeks of online cognitive behavioral therapy.³

By now there have been quite a few studies on internet-delivered cognitive-behavioral therapy and nearly all the research supports its basic equivalence to face-to-face treatment for a range of mental disorders. One particular study highlights the unique benefit of internet-delivered CBT for those suffering social anxiety disorders, noting that more favorable results “can be understood in light of the possibility that the therapist herself may be a phobic object. Hence, in face-to-face therapy, the patient’s self-focus will be heightened and, thus, his ability to fully concentrate on the therapy might be hampered.”⁴

So how strong is the link between a cognitive-behaviorally repaired mind and our cell’s keenness on keeping healthy and continuing its lineage? Not only did those benefiting most from CBT show the greatest increase in both enzymes, but people with the most inactive telomere-preserving enzymes to begin with were most likely to experience an improvement in symptoms of social anxiety following treatment.

Other studies have demonstrated increases in the activity of telomere-preserving enzymes following mindfulness training or increases in the physical activity of participants. While such practices often play a significant role within CBT, participants here were instructed not to change their baseline activity level so as not to confound the research results. For this particular study, participants worked through homework assignments, engaged in exposure exercises, traded weekly emails with a clinical psychologist, and took weekly multiple choice tests about CBT that they had to (eventually) ace to ensure compliance. 

It should be noted that the Swedish study was not an RCT and of course 42 isn’t an overwhelming sample size. As previously stated, however, the effectiveness of the therapy used was never in question. Many studies have reproduced a general reduction in the symptoms of various mood disorders using internet-delivered CBT. The question was what effect this proven strategy would have on established biological markers, the well-trodden territory that typically lies far within the domain of pharmacological treatments.

Despite the effectiveness use of CBT and pharmaceutical treatments for social anxiety, nearly half the population remains treatment resistant.⁵ Perhaps the most important outcome of better understanding these biomarkers would then be a clinician’s ability to predetermine the best candidates for particular intervention strategies. 

Further research into the unexplored complexities of cellular aging will uncover unexpected ways in which our thoughts and feelings shift the tiny enzymatic tides within our cells, not just those in our brains but in every cell of our body, and such knowledge will serve to redefine our understanding of psychiatric diseases through their existence outside the brain.

References

1. Verhoeven, J. E. et al. Anxiety disorders and accelerated cellular ageing. Br. J. Psychiatry 206, 371–378 (2015).
2. Epel, E. S. et al. Accelerated telomere shortening in response to life stress. Proc. Natl Acad. Sci. USA 101, 17312–17315 (2004).
3. Månsson, K.N.T., Lindqvist, D., Yang, L.L. et al. Improvement in indices of cellular protection after psychological treatment for social anxiety disorder. Transl Psychiatry 9, 340 (2019)
4. Carlbring, P., Andersson, G., Cuijpers, P., Riper, H. & Hedman-Lagerlöf, E. Internet-based vs. face-to-face cognitive behavior therapy for psychiatric and somatic disorders: an updated systematic review and meta-analysis. Cogn. Behav. Ther. 47, 1–18 (2018).
5. Mayo-Wilson, E. et al. Psychological and pharmacological interventions for social anxiety disorder in adults: a systematic review and network meta-analysis. Lancet Psychiatry 1, 368–376 (2014).

I was raised in a home with Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). And I am not alone. According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV), “In 2010, 1 in 15 children in the United States were exposed to intimate partner violence for a total of more than 5 million children… In 43% of domestic violence incidents with female victims, children are residents of the household where the incident occurred.”

IPV creates a long list of damaging consequences.  Many are commonly known (e.g., hypervigilance, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and Childhood Emotional Neglect (CEN)). But in this article I am exploring the hidden behaviors which took decades for me to uncover, along with my “new stories” and affirmations which have been powerful tools in healing.

Anger is not my personality.  

It might seem obvious that growing up with violence would create angry responses. But I was convinced that my anger was an immutable personality trait. It never occurred to me that it could be a side effect of growing up with IPV.    

I even made decisions based on this erroneous notion, such as choosing not to go to law school, although being an attorney would have been a good career choice for me. But at the time, I felt that the kind of legal work I wanted to pursue, in conjunction with what I believed was my angry personality, would make me an impossibly difficult person to live with.  

It took a long time to realize that a great deal of my outrage was a reaction to IPV — the injustice of witnessing violence against my mother while my father escaped punishment, my father’s pervasive control, living in almost continuous fear, and a loss of power in every significant area of my life. 

Affirmations:  I am loving. I am at peace.

It is safe to have personal power.  

I have long been uncomfortable with the idea of my personal power, but only recently did I understand why. I equated my personal power with the malicious power that I grew up with, and I was unable to make the distinction between positive and negative power.  

In addition, when personal power took the form of resisting, it resulted in retaliation by my father. Even relatives living outside our home tried not to “provoke” him. I remember seeing my mother fight back only once, and it was only recently that she revealed her decision to avoid standing up to my father because she feared he would kill her.

Affirmations: I don’t censor myself out of fear of what others will think of me. I let people see the real me. I am safe to be who I am.

I have power over my food and eating behaviors.  

Some of my struggles with food (eating too little) have their origin in hearing my father tell my mother, “You’re not getting food until this argument is over.” His tactic was particularly abusive because my mother has hypoglycemia and must eat throughout the day in order to maintain sugar levels and energy.  

It took a long time for me to realize that I was learning the toxic lessons that (1) I don’t have control over food and (2) I need to “earn” the right to eat.

Affirmations:  I enjoy food whenever I desire it. I deserve nourishment.

Embrace being a woman.  

My father’s misogyny manifested itself as abuse of the women in our home, especially my mother. I internalized his fear of, and hatred for, women. I unknowingly took on his aversion to such an extent that I had a strong resistance even to saying the word “woman” to describe myself.

Affirmation: I am a loving and positive woman.

My mother loved me, even though she couldn’t protect me or be available for me.  

For most of my life, I suspected that my mother didn’t love me because she didn’t protect me (and my siblings) from the effects of our father’s violence. As my father’s mental health deteriorated and his violence escalated, my mother became increasingly unavailable to us because she was preoccupied with either fighting with my father or trying to manage his instability.  

Following decades of personal growth work, I came to understand that her lack of availability was not the same as a lack of love.  But until I had this insight, I interpreted my partners’ unavailability (or inability to protect me) as proof that they did not love me.  

Affirmation: Another person cannot fill the void or fix the pain from my childhood.

I deserve love.  

My long-held impression that my parents didn’t love me grew into the belief that I don’t deserve love. I didn’t begin to comprehend this fully until I texted my boyfriend on Christmas Eve to let him know that I struggled with his absence at the holiday due to his out-of-town commitment. He responded, “I love you. Nothing can change that.” Yet I had trouble absorbing what should have been a reassuring statement. 

The following day, on Christmas morning, I repeated his response several times as if it were an affirmation, in an attempt to fully embrace this loving sentiment. When I continued to feel resistance, it became clear to me that I was unable to accept that I deserved his love.

Affirmations:  I deserve love. I reassure myself about feeling lovable and don’t rely on others to do this for me.  

I give myself permission to ask for what I want.

Growing up with a father who was a controlling rageaholic created an environment where expressing wants or needs could produce a response ranging from verbal abuse to threats of physical harm to my mother. Even when I no longer lived with my parents, I was afraid to ask for what I wanted from anyone, borne of a deeply-rooted dread of repercussions, the fear of being a burden to others, and the belief that I was not deserving.  

Affirmations:  I deserve to have desires and needs. My needs do not make me too demanding or undeserving of love. I don’t ignore my wants and needs.  

I am irreplaceable.  

Not that long ago, I learned that my younger brother, when he was only 4 years old, told our mother that he can simply get rid of his wife if he doesn’t like her.  The same environment which modeled relationships in this unimaginable way also had me believing the converse — that I was disposable as a wife/girlfriend.

Affirmations:  I am awesome. I feel secure, in or out of a relationship.

For many years, I made decisions without realizing how they were driven by the insidious and pervasive effects of IPV.  But as I gain further insight into how violence and control have influenced my thoughts and behaviors, most notably in relationships, I am able to re-frame these toxic mindsets. 

While I continue to make use of varied forms of guidance (therapy, support and discussion groups, readings, workshops, 12-step programs, telephone calls, writing, and affirmations), I am confident that I will thrive as a happier and healthier woman.