Recovery, But Make It Weird!

When I pictured recovery, I thought I’d be sitting peacefully on a yoga mat, glowing from the inside out, casually sipping green juice while sharing enlightened wisdom with my friends. Spoiler: that’s not what happened.

Instead, my first meeting felt like I had stepped into an alternate universe — one where everyone was talking about being grateful alcoholics. I kid you not, it was a room full of smiling people saying things like, “Hi, I’m so-and-so, and I’m a grateful alcoholic.” Excuse me, WHAT? Grateful? I wasn’t even a comfortable alcoholic, much less a grateful one. It took me way longer than I’d like to admit to understand that concept.

And yet there I was, sitting in this room full of strangers, listening to them laugh and nod and share like they were glad to be there. It was weirdly comforting. Then, out of nowhere, I was crying — not the single, pretty movie tear, but the full-on, mascara-down-your-face, ugly cry. I poured my heart out about everything I didn’t understand, about how lost I felt, about how I had no idea what came next. And not one person judged me. They just sat there, nodded, and let me talk — like a group of strangers suddenly understood me better than most of the people in my life ever had.

After that, I thought, “Okay, this is it. I’m going to be one of those people with the perfect recovery lifestyle.” You know the type — the ones who proudly talk about how going to the gym every day saved their life. I was so sure that was going to be me. Spoiler alert: yeah, no. I tried. I really did. But the gym did not bring me joy. In fact, it brought me red splotches, trouble breathing, and a general feeling that I was on the verge of a heart attack. I know, I know — clearly I need to work out more — but this was not the magical recovery high people keep talking about.

Somewhere along the way, I also developed a very dark sense of humor about my recovery. Treatment had a way of normalizing things most people would never dream of saying out loud. People would sit around and trauma-dump the craziest stories like they were casually talking about taking their dog for a walk. After a while, you get used to it — maybe too used to it — because one day I made my first wildly inappropriate rehab joke in front of my family. The room went silent. My mom just said, “Oh, now that’s not funny.” Meanwhile, I couldn’t catch my breath from laughing at myself. That’s when it hit me — you either have to laugh about this stuff or cry about it, and I think I’m just about cried out.

So no, my recovery doesn’t look like a wellness influencer’s Instagram feed. It looks like splotchy gym attempts, too much coffee in the grocery cart, dark humor in the kitchen, and a lot of awkward moments I somehow end up laughing about. But here’s the thing — somewhere between the crying, the sarcasm, and the weirdly therapeutic hug circles, I started laughing again. Real, deep, ugly laughs — the kind that make your face hurt.

Recovery has been confusing, funny, and surprisingly full of moments that make me shake my head, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. And yes, somehow, I think I might actually be turning into one of those “grateful alcoholics” after all. (My past self would never believe it — she’d be too busy trying to catch her breath on the treadmill.)