When I was newly sober, a long time ago, I did a bunch of stupid things. I went on a date with a guy who plied me with coffee in his condo in Jersey City until I actually overdosed on caffeine and had an anxiety attack that sent me into the street having a panic attack like I’d not experienced since my sister had died. I called my sponsor and she asked me a question, “How much coffee have you had?” My answer, ”Too much.” And, “Why are you dating?” which was an important question as I’d recently left a physically and mentally abusive marriage and ten minutes into any date, no matter how much I liked the guy, his face morphed into my ex-husband’s and I frequently fled after ordering something I didn’t  really want or like or need. I felt like I had to do something to justify my right to be alive.

I learned to allow myself all kinds of things that I had formerly drank or drugged about, my grief, my survivor guilt, my terrible memories, my self pity. For like an hour. Then I shook it off and went running or took a bubble bath (a recovery order) or ate something formerly forbidden — sugar and calorie laden — because if I was dead, would it matter if I was thin? I kept going to auditions and tried to channel the sexy best friend, or the happy mom or the yuppie corporate gal. But it didn’t work. I was a network of raw nerves covered with the thinnest skin you could have without dying and when the producer or director frowned it felt like a knife was plunged into my exposed heart. I couldn’t take acceptance or rejection or, in fact, much of anything.

I watched terrible TV on my small black and white set with the coat hanger antennae. I consumed many pints of Ben & Jerry’s while being bored senseless by three channels filled with dreck. I was paralyzed by my understanding that I had touched the edge of madness, darkness, and seriously considered suicide. I bounced into various therapist’s office until I found my person. She told me I had to keep attending AA meetings while seeing her twice a week, This was a major shrink with major prices. When I protested, she said, “Ask your parents.” Before I could stutter out the request each on the phone said, “Yes.”

I was afraid of people, especially men. I didn’t believe I’d ever get another job. I hated meetings but unless I attended them, I knew I’d pick up again. I cried all the time. When I cried in therapy my shrink would say, “Talk about your anger.” I’d glare at her. I wasn’t angry. I was sad. My best friend and my sister had been killed in tragic accidents, my ex-husband had hurt me, my parents were narcissists, my surviving sister mean, I was afraid to be outside or in a room with more than one person, to be around my family, to be alone, to be happy. I fled from a workout class because I suddenly stopped thinking about my dead sister and felt better. I didn’t want to feel better. My grief was my calling card. Feeling better meant I had finally let go and accepted the things I could not change. Admitting to my unacceptable rage without a filter was the most dangerous thing I’d ever attempted. And I had travelled Europe alone, climbed mountains, slept with total strangers, opposed the majority, and risked being an outcast. The anger was choking me. I could barely breathe.

This was serenity. It took a long time. Be patient, be kind, be aware of how fragile you are, and try to stop hating yourself. Help someone worse off than you are, someone who hasn’t had a moment to feel anything but despair, forgive everyone. Forgive yourself.

—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach

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