Congreso de los Pueblos por la Paz by Frieda Kahlo*
In 1986, I had a marketing job in a young data communications company close to home. My work involved entertaining customers in Newport, RI, and traveling to fun cities for trade shows and sales meetings. I was actually encouraged to drink on the job! While alcohol was ultimately my undoing, the many years fueled by cocaine and mellowed out by benzos and marijuana also did their damage. My substance use career preceded my marketing career by about 15 years, and I worked very hard and excelled at both.Though I was frequently late and took longer lunch hours than many coworkers, my business environment supported my continued substance use—it seemed like everyone was drinking. Plus I did a good job and people liked me. But over time, some of my friends who were also substance users commented on my “overuse” habits. I remember getting sent home in a cab only to call another cab to take me back to the wharf bar. Then my closest friend told me she was worried about me. She was one of the few people in my inner circle who was healthy and never used drugs and rarely drank. I respected and loved her dearly. I felt devastated when she promised her friendship but refused to spend time with me any longer. So, I did what all substance abusers do, I used more.
People struggling to manage addictions often engage in bargaining. Prior to my life-changing decision, I’d visited Edgehill Newport, a high-end rehab facility that was within walking distance of the carriage house where I lived. My roommate and I used to joke that one day I’d be there, but it was just a joke. I’d made an appointment to discuss with the “experts” how I might “manage” or “control” my alcohol consumption. I never mentioned the other drugs. On that day, they offered to check me in based on the information I shared. I was offended, mortified, indignant, and left. And, of course, I went out that night. It was over a year later that I made the final call after I woke up sitting in the lobby of a hotel when I should have been at a meeting—May 9, 1986. My friend who promised her friendship was good to her word. She picked me up later that morning and drove me up to the door marked “Admissions.”
I was about three months out of rehab for drug and alcohol abuse, and my NA sponsor suggested I go with her to a yoga class. A small group of men and women wearing sweat pants or loose jeans met in the instructor’s sprawling Victorian home. Canyon Trilogy by Carlos Nakai was playing in the background when Alice and I walked into the living room.I distinctly remember that I wasn’t sure about going, but I’d made a decision to begin doing whatever was suggested (by people I trusted) in order to keep from relapsing. It was not a comfortable time. My sponsor never said yoga would help. After years of practice, I believe that she probably came to understand this in the same way I eventually did.
The caring and open community that comprised that class was what struck me over time. Nobody was posing. There was an atmosphere of acceptance and warmth in that group. Everyone was different and maybe had different reasons for being there, but we were a dedicated bunch. Over time, it began to feel like a supportive tribe. Unlike my 12-step groups, it gave me a safe place to begin finding myself in early recovery without talking about drugs or alcohol or the things I did while under the influence.
Yoga wasn’t nearly as popular then, and my knowledge of it was almost non-existent. There were no special yoga clothes, and I remember we all used beach towels for mats. Yoga was just yoga—Kripalu, Kundalini, Iyengar, Astanga, etc. No yoga for recovery, no 12-step yoga, most classes were at least 1.5 hour long, and nobody in that group looked like they were likely to pose for Instagram photos. I was not, by nature, a joiner and the thought of intimate classes made me anxious. But over time I became comfortable as we gamely moved furniture around every week to make space in that open room. The experience was very warm and low key, and not intimidating.
I also noticed that nobody seemed to care what I was doing, the instructor kept reminding us to breathe and pay attention to sensation and challenge ourselves without doing harm. This was my first exposure to the concept of ahimsa at a time when I was yearning for ways to put my life back in order. Non-harming seemed like just what the doctor ordered. After many years of misuse, my body began to feel alive and healthy, and I felt relaxed in a group without using substances. I went to that Thursday night class every week that I was in town for the next four years.
The Kripalu Center in Lenox, MA, was only a couple of hours away. That’s where my yoga teacher had studied so I began to visit the ashram regularly because I wanted to know more about what she seemed to know. After my first visit to Kripalu, I visited often. It’s funny in retrospect because, at the time, my external self was pretty polished (inside I was still pretty messy). At Kripalu in the 1980s, there were lots of hairy legs and armpits on women, not many manicures or pedicures, and certainly no makeup. The ashram atmosphere encouraged—almost enforced—modesty and discouraged unnecessary interaction between males and females. This was kind a relief. It allowed me to immerse myself in the teachings, not think about what I was wearing or how I looked or who I might attract, but focus on how I was feeling. And in early recovery, I was feeling!
My commitment to yoga practice was cultivated lovingly with no conscious thought of how it was impacting my recovery. I just knew I felt better than I’d ever felt and more comfortable in my own skin. When I went on business trips, I practiced on a towel in my hotel room. I felt happy when I woke up instead of glaring at the ceiling thinking, “Shit, I’m still here,” as I’d done during my years of active addiction. I lost unhealthy weight and began eating better. I started to have more meaningful relationships with people I knew and also with new acquaintances. I went to therapy once a week with the psychologist from rehab and attended 12-step meetings regularly. My life was unfolding in an unexpected way. No one thing caused this; I believe it was an assemblage of everything I’ve mentioned. It was the result of adding layers of positive action as I ventured into the future of my new existence. Yoga was one of those layers.
Yoga became a part of my life in a way that is still hard to describe—it was so gradual and constant, ebbing and flowing with regularity. I don’t remember when I first felt comfortable in meditation, I can’t recall when I realized that breath was a tool, when I lost my anxiety in yoga nidra, or when I first became aware of the yamas and niyamas. I just began to learn how to care for myself and it became impossible for me to ignore how my own actions (past and present) affected others.
If the concept of ahimsa is that to hurt another being is the same as hurting oneself, then it stands to reason that to hurt oneself is to hurt another being. Anyone who has dealt with addiction, either as a patient or a support person, knows that everyone gets hurt at some level. Even on my best days, I was insulting my health. I drank too much, smoked cigarettes, didn’t sleep properly, ate late at night, and didn’t exercise. I was insulting my values and the trust that others placed in me by lying to myself about what I was doing and, in turn, lying to everyone else. Because I had blackouts, I often lied about what I did or where I went because I just didn’t remember. I was in denial and unable to see the truth (satya). It became important to me to learn the truth about myself. It became harder to spent time with old friends who were still embroiled in drama. I liked myself better when I was with people whose values I shared. I felt ashamed of my past behavior but learned to treat myself with kindness and make amends, initially by simply being a better person. I learned to respect our class and be on time (asteya).
The first few yamas integrated themselves into my life without any deliberate action on my part other than going to class every Thursday, developing a simple home practice, and expanding my awareness of yoga in a time frame that suited me. The cumulative effect of all of this plus the other recovery work I was doing resulted in my life improving in myriad ways that I sincerely appreciated. It wasn’t about spending money on stuff or treating myself to a special bottle of wine or those sorts of things. My reward was waking up without a hangover, no longer doing things that were illegal, doing a better job at work, going back to school—I was no longer hurting myself and honestly cared about how my actions affected others. The better I felt, the better I wanted to feel. Initially it was as simple as that. I didn’t want to ever feel the way I used to feel.
My practice has changed many times over the past 30 years the same way my life has changed. I’m still drug and alcohol free. In 1993 I became a Kripalu teacher and then went through Phoenix Rising Yoga Therapy training in 1997 (which was an intense 18-month exercise in self-examination). I finished college, and now work as a yoga therapist (C-IAYT) and substance abuse counselor. I’ve shared yogic principles with children, seniors, preachers, Rotary clubs, problem gamblers, large groups of lawyers, marathon runners, people with disabilities, eating disorders, and more. If I hadn’t absorbed the concept of ahimsa along the way, I don’t believe any of this would have been possible because I wouldn’t have been in a position to learn and absorb, and I wouldn’t have cared enough about anyone else to share what I found to be so personally valuable.
I changed, and I see people change all the time. It takes time and happens gradually. And I know I’m still cultivating this virtue by keeping close to a small tribe of friends who will tell me when I’m going off the rails. When a person is in the vortex of addiction they cannot see what they’re doing until they spin out of that vortex. But the people around them see it all. It’s scary to get flung out of your comfort zone even if it is unhealthy and this, I believe, is why so many people stay stuck, or come out for a while but then jump back in. The lure of staying asleep, of not having to deal with what’s often referred to as the wreckage of the past, is tempting when you are being faced with the reality of your life. Denial doesn’t just go away, it seeps into every area of existence and is a great tool when seeing the truth is painful. But avoiding this pain actually keeps it alive, and that is self-harm. The pain that comes with self-awareness is uncomfortable, but once that initial cracking open occurs, the healing is rich.
There is an element of shame and self-loathing that is present in almost everyone affected by substance use disorders or process addictions. To ignore past actions keeps us in a cycle of dysfunction. By practicing self-acceptance, rigorous honesty, and a respect for my needs and the needs of others, I’ve been able to stay on a path of recovery. I’ve learned that if I’m not taking care of myself, it is difficult for me to be honest and kind with others. I’ve learned to say no to people, places, and things that are harmful to me.
There was no guarantee it would work out this way, and there is no guarantee that it will stay this way. But I felt it in my bones, in my muscles, and eventually in my heart that yoga was the path that would help me become a person that was worthy of my love and respect.
"The body always expresses the spirit whose envelope it is." —Auguste Rodin
Subscribe to Yoga for Healthy Aging by Email ° Follow Yoga for Healthy Aging on Facebook ° Join this site with Google Friend Connect
