Steam
I was cooking last night, as I do almost every night.
It’s my happy place.
A place to not only lose myself in the concocting of flavours and music, but of spending much-needed “after work” time shifting gears, regrouping, and relaxing (I know, some people find cooking stressful and enjoyable – I am much the opposite).
There’s something about having a change in scenery, your train of thought switching tracks and heading in a new direction after rabbit-holing your day, however you spend it and whatever you do.
Last night, I was making a slow cooker pot roast – I find ridiculous joy in having a slow cooker simmering all day, knowing the hard part will have done itself while I was busying myself with everything else throughout the day, saddled to an office chair. Oh, and I made ridiculously amazing cauliflower Mac & Cheese, too.
While I was prepping the cauliflower Mac, I started to hear rattling: tat-a-tat-tat, tat-a-tat-tat. It was incessant, like if metal and glass themselves were nervous and trembling together, distracting me from the typical Upbeat Happy Instrumental Jazz playlist I usually have playing. I turn to see it’s the lid of my slow cooker, having built heat, pressure, and delicious flavours and aromas for over seven hours by this point, rattling and impatient.
It needed to release some steam.
No different from how my time every day in the kitchen allows me to release some of my own, it had been creating so much pressure within itself, doing it's best to keep it’s lid on, tight and snug where it belongs, so none of the good stuff sneaks out.
We all build up steam during times of struggle or incredible focus, heated disputes or frustration, our 9-to-5 jobs (or 7-5 like mine usually ends up – or longer), as well as times of stress, anxiety, or difficulty.
Like bottling up all my emotions and fears for decades and decades before I admitted I had a serious problem, that things had fermented too much inside me, and that I needed help because I had a problem, that pressure eventually builds up and ultimately, needs a way out and you (or your crockpot) will completely explode.
For myself, I found (and continue to find) that release through this blog itself, through the process of writing giving me an outlet to pour out all that built-up pressure, all the thoughts and regrets that had grown so agitated over the years compounded by work failures, relationship failures, you-name-it-and-I-was-failing-failures, and ultimately addiction – the worst kind of pressure that will, one way or another, inevitably find a way out.
And when that gets out, it doesn’t smell as appetizing or enticing as a slow-cooked pot roast.
I quickly learned I needed these outlets for fear of losing my mind, and my life.
I learned I needed to do whatever it took to release the pressure.
I learned that otherwise, it would just start banging around, annoying and distracting not only myself but anyone around me.
I lifted the lid of the slow cooker and despite best practices, allowed the steam to escape out quickly, the rich umami smell filling the kitchen and quieting the incessant rattle, and for a little while, it would be okay. The sheer heat that had accumulated after being on for seven hours was too much for the likely-too-small slow cooker I had used for the roast itself (mostly out of laziness because I didn’t want to dig out or wash the big one after dinner).
What happens when this sort of pressure and heat builds up, mixed with liquids and a lid, is condensation.
Condensation:
“The process by which water vapor in the air is changed into liquid water; it's the opposite of evaporation. Condensation is crucial to the water cycle because it is responsible for the formation of clouds.”
Unfortunately, when you’re a human being or a slow cooker capped with a lid, there is no evaporation. All that steam condenses within, gathers, and slowly begins to drip back in within itself. This is fine when you’re a pot roast. When you’re a struggling human being, however, the last thing you need is for all that grief and self-inflicted anguish to collect within you, festering with no fresh air, no way to find healthy release, and no chance of decompressing and stopping the incessant noise.
It needs to have a way out.
Some way it can find fresh air, evaporate, and leave you.
The challenge with addicts, is that we too often (read: always) will choose the easiest (ha!), fastest route to distancing ourselves from the feelings of discomfort we want nothing more than to get away from. We seldomly – at first, at least – find positive, self-and-others-nurturing ways to constructively and healthily allow that steam to be released from us.
For many, it’s in the simple acting of talking.
Letting the jumble of bottled up words inside become real, knowing they’ve been heard by anyone other than the four-thousand-self-depracating personalities that battle it out within you all day, every day.
Discovering the sensation and comfort of feeling heard.
Feeling seen.
Often, it also dispels the myths we tell ourselves that we’re alone, we’re troubled, we’re broken, we aren’t good enough, we’re going to fail – because we’re failures, and that we’re too far gone to be rescued. That all the pressure that has built up over the years has done too much damage and cooked us too much to ever come back from.
As we are all wildly diverse and different with unique tastes, interests, talents and passions, how we find that release looks equally different to each of us.
So long as we do what works for us and is in the best interest of everyone. Not just ourselves and our selfish, fear-driven desires, for a change.
Yoga. Long quiet walks. Writing and journalling. Rock-climbing, running, meditating, volunteering, going to meetings, gardening, baking and cooking, joining groups and book clubs, painting.
Anything that is a healthy way we can shift gears and discover how good it feels to at long last let it out.
Anything that allows you to form a connection with something other than your troubled thoughts and emotions.
Anything that helps you rediscover – or discover – your passion, again.
Anything that put most simply – makes you happy.
Writing is never a chore for me. I feel calmer once I’m done (and I’ll never be done), I feel at peace, and I feel like there’s less rattling around inside me - but in a good way. I feel like I’m contributing somehow to the betterment of other people’s lives, that I’m channelling as best I can and know how the struggles I’ve worked (and work) through so they don’t simply weigh me down with memories and regret but instead, letting them escape and turn into little clouds that can maybe rain a little insight, support, and comfort over others somewhere, sometime, too.
I find comfort in connection, knowing that it’s not all about me.
And that makes me feel much, much less alone – and my lid is at long last able to stop rattling so much.
PS: Dinner turned out really, really good.
Photo banner ©Brooke Shadden.
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A raw and relatable account of poignant true stories that follow writer and thinker Shawn Van Daele (SJ Van Dee) on his journey through recovery from alcoholism, addiction, heartbreak, grief, loss and anxiety – as well as the shared struggle of being human. Told through a series of journal-like chapters, his unique way of storytelling resonates regardless of where you are in your journey. His words have helped thousands worldwide feel seen and understood, finding the strength to embark on their recovery. Van Daele’s writing continues to guide countless people as they work through their struggles with addiction (and being human) and he holds your hand along the path in a sincere, often humourous way. Every piece dives deep below the surface of addictions, and allows you to begin to uncover and face the deep-rooted truths behind our shared condition of being alive – and why we struggle and develop addictions in the first place.
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