a new year

I just celebrated my 31^st birthday. It’s crazy to think that it’s been ten years since I celebrated turning 21, because I remember my 21^st birthday like it was yesterday (to an extent). A Tuesday night in Nashville, dinner at, of all places, Chili’s, begging the waitress to card me when she failed to. Gigi’s cupcakes, then off to our favorite bar, Sportsman’s, where I attempted to complete a list of shot to do’s that, at the time, seemed so innocent. How things have changed.

 

As I sit here, I recognize there has been this pull in me to write something raw. I know exactly what I have to write about, what the universe is asking me to say, but I’ve avoided putting it out there for so long because my pride and ego are tough mother f-ers and they usually end up winning the battle. But as I sit here about to enter into a new year, I sense this freedom that will come when I write the words I’ve been wanting to write for so long. And for someone who feels that she’s created her own prison, freedom sounds absolutely divine.

 

I am in recovery from addiction.

 

To some of you reading this, this may explain so much. To some of you, it may come as a complete shock. To some of you, you may automatically change the way you think of me. I am ok with all of that. Addiction is something I’ve struggled to understand myself, so I can’t blame anyone else who has trouble understanding it. It is a disease that causes one to be full of denial, to lie when honesty was always a core value, to hide, to manipulate, to hurt loved ones, not intentionally, but because admitting addiction is one of the hardest things to do. Especially when you’ve spent your life trying to prove to the world that you’ve got things figured out. Remember what I said about ego and pride?

 

There’s a million ways I could go about telling you this fact about me: I’m an addict. I have a disease. I’m addicted. But I choose to say I’m in recovery, because the other labels don’t sit right with me.

 

Here’s the thing: words mean something to me. I grew up playing with words, using them to paint my feelings, using them to figure myself out. Words mean a lot to me. So for me, personally, I am Asha. I am not a label. I am not what you think when you hear that label. I am so much more, and my story is so much deeper, and there is so much more beyond those words, those labels.

 

The truth is, my life has taken turn after turn that I never expected. It’s like I got in the car with a destination in mind, but somewhere along the way someone else took over driving, and before I knew it, I ended up in towns I never expected to land in, on roads I never thought I’d travel. It’s been frightening and exhilarating and quite frankly, confusing as hell. But I am making my way back to the highway, back to where I always intended to go.

 

I’m learning to appreciate the journey, and to let go a little of the destination. I like to have a destination—it gives me security, stability, something to work toward. But I don’t want to be so caught up in where I’m going that I lose out on all the scenery on the way.

 

So back to that statement, the one I have dreaded putting out there for so long. I am in recovery from addiction. There’s so much to this story, so many details I can’t share right now, but just writing it feels freeing. Owning up to the roadblocks I’ve encountered feels liberating. Acceptance means coming to peace with what is. My ‘what is’ isn’t what I’d choose, but it happened, and it affected those I love, and it nearly drove me insane. But out of this pain and turmoil, out of the confusion, the victim mindset, the why me, the anger, the pride, the denial and withdrawal, the isolation, the misery, the times I cried out for someone, something to save me—out of all of that has come surrender. And with surrender has come so much more.

 

Rumi said, “the wound is the place where the light enters you.” If that’s true, I’ve got a light as big as the sun entering me. At times this wound has felt too much to bear, that there would be nothing to cover it up, that nothing would help me heal. At times I felt so much despair and hopelessness that I didn’t know if it was worth fighting. I wondered if I should just give up, succumb to this fate. But if I’ve learned anything, it is that I am a fighter. And that it’s the darkest nights which allow for the brightest stars.

 

Part of why I’ve held back from admitting this is the fear of what others would think of me. I fear what my family halfway across the world will think. What past mentors, teachers, friends will think. What all those strangers who saw me at my worst in addiction will think. We’re living in a world where more people understand addiction, where it is not such a taboo subject. But at the same time, stigmas still exist. And I can’t blame those who view addiction as a malady they are grateful not to have. Before I came to realize addiction was part of my life, I viewed addicts as less -than, as people without willpower, as failures, as the homeless man with a brown bag under the bridge. Now I realize the error of my judgments. That even the homeless man with a brown bag under the bridge has a heart and a brain and a story and a life. That addiction does not discriminate. That some of the kindest, bravest souls I’ve met are those in the rooms of recovery.

 

Without addiction, I’d lack the sense of surrender that I’m finding every day. This painful existence has led me to reconnect with a power greater than myself. I grew up learning about God. I learned about the Christian God in church, the one who sent Jesus to save me from my sins. I learned about the Hindu God from my father’s family in India, the one with many different manifestations, the one that came alive in chants and in the colorful traditions of an ancient faith. I learned that for me, these Gods are the same. I learned that, for me, God is found within each one of us, deep in our truest self, the light that connects us to each other, the thread that binds our souls.

 

My addiction has taught me that we are all equal. I always prided myself on my visions of equality. That I belonged to a multicultural family—I thought in a way this made me superior. That I could understand diversity and inclusion better than others. I wrongly believed that I was less prejudiced, less biased, less selfish. In the throes of addiction, I learned through my flaws that no one is superior. That our imperfections, our mistakes, the things that make us human are what connect us. Our vulnerabilities, the things we fear about ourselves, our deepest secrets—these are the things that, when brought to the light, expose our humanness and make us relatable. When I let down my guard, when I tell my story and my truth, when I take off my masks and let others in—this is when I find peace with who I am. This is when I add value to life. When I find purpose and meaning in my journey here on Earth.

 

Don’t get me wrong. Addiction comes with mistakes that I wish I could take back. There are probably hundreds of people I owe apologies to. I’ve made some of these apologies, and to those that have heard me and accepted me and forgiven me, I can’t tell you how much it means. It has taught me forgiveness in a way I never knew before. To those who I have yet to apologize to, please know that from the very bottom of my heart, I am immensely sorry for the pain I have caused. For the confusion and elusiveness of my actions. They say in recovery that one of the best things you can do is to make your life a living amends. This is what I intend to do from here on out, in my actions, in the things I do, in the way I live my life.

 

There is so much more to speak on with this subject. And I intend to. I’ve opened the door, and to be honest, I’m scared as hell to be this bold. It’s taken me time to be brave enough to put this out into the open, but as I’ve meditated and thought on this over the last several days, I know in my heart that it is what I am being called to do. If, in my vulnerability, I can offer hope to one other soul, then this has all been worth it.

 

More to come. In the meantime, know that we all struggle with something. My battle is not one I’d choose, but I’m learning to deal with the cards I’ve been dealt with, and I hope to make meaning out of some of my darkest days. Know that by loving yourself and accepting where you are in life, you have the power to change heartache into healing. You have the opportunity to connect to something greater, to shed your skin and emerge transformed. Be brave and courageous and fight for what you know to be true. Surrender to what is, and be bold in your actions. Life is a journey that is meant to be enjoyed.