Monday morning: My eyes darted upward at the pale blue, predawn sky as I jogged through my neighborhood, and I was struck with a bolt of inspiration. Or maybe it was a jolt of caffeine from the BCAA+Energy drink I’d mixed and guzzled as extra oomph to help force my ass out the door.
Either way, I felt a euphoric mix of emotions — joy, relief, gratitude — course through my body in that moment. I was back on track!
I was out doing something I love! I mean, I was doing something athletic that I love, because I also love to sleep, but I’d just done that on and off for the past 48 hours straight. I had trudged back upstairs shortly after breakfast on Saturday and Sunday, to yank the blackout blinds and burrow into my blankets while munching a melatonin gummy to self-medicate a mental state the AA folks would describe as “off the beam.”…and all my perimenopausal pals likely know as “the norm.”
It had been, more or less, a lost weekend. But moving toward the state park at the start of the work week, I felt reborn as a fully functional human! My heart was pumping, creative juices flowing, brain whipping up ideas I couldn’t wait to share in my blog…
Sunday morning: I lay in my bed, crying to my therapist over FaceTime that I didn’t want to leave the house or talk to anyone ever again. “Do you feel like you made a mistayy…” she started, and I cut her off, “YES!” What the f*ck was I thinking, deciding to become a therapist and chaining my sensitive, introverted ass to a chair meant for the thick-skinned and the prosocial! I’ll have to do what I’m doing for at least three years (I’ll be 50 😳) until I can get my full LPC license and become my own boss.
My tank was empty, I told her, and I was about to stall out in the middle of traffic.
No, worse…
No, worse!
NO, WORSE!
It’s funny; I had seriously considered canceling therapy when I woke up lethargic and irritable, even after the laziest Saturday this side of — well, last month right around this time. And what do you know, Sunday’s session ended up proving how much I still — and probably always will — need therapy.
I was born highly sensitive, deeply emotional, and naturally moody, but I grew up learning to mask, stuff it down, keep it to myself — or, “just deal with it,” as my dad would say. My mission was to go out and perform for the adults’ pleasure/approval every day as a “good girl,” top student, star athlete. This, I thought, earned me the right to live and be loved, and while I don’t blame myself for thinking that, given how it was constantly reinforced by my environment, I understand now how empty and unfulfilled my approach left me as I entered adulthood.
And, of course, the “never talk about feelings” approach did not, in fact, turn out to be “dealing with it,” and I arrived in my 40s with a whole lotta shit undealt–with. Feel free to peruse past posts if you need a primer on the etiology of alcoholism!
My current therapist — her name is Deb — has been with me since the summer of 2019, which officially makes her one of the most intimate relationships of my life, apart from my husband…and booze…and even my mom, because there are things I’ve shared in therapy that no one else alive will ever know. 🤐
Deb and I “got together” when I was newly sober and floating on the “pink cloud,” which lasted about a year before anxiety and depression came roaring up and out with an intensity I had never experienced before or even knew was possible. Probably because I’d always found some kind of maladaptive coping mechanism to alter my moods before they got a chance to really swing.
We have been riding an emotional roller coaster for nearly six years. It’s sped up considerably, and the track has gotten a lot steeper and more twisty since I made that mind-boggling decision to “follow in her footsteps.” Hard to believe my grad school commencement was almost one year ago (May 11) and I’ve been working full-time in this field for 11 months!
I’m at a low point right now, or to keep using the broke-down car analogy, I’m, uh, kind of “broke down.” I’ve lost a few clients lately for various reasons, some overtly expressed and some maddeningly, hauntingly unclear.
What I loved about my last therapy session was that Deb didn’t tell me, “that’s the job!” Or, “hey, just part of the business!” She treated me like a “fellow traveler,” acknowledging my pain, validating my feelings of rejection as natural, human and something that has happened to her, too, while sort of grabbing my hand and saying, “I’m here with you. We’re in this together. LFG!”
Saturday morning: The work week is over, and I’m just done with my run, which means I’m in about as good a mood as you’ll ever catch me. My perspective on everything is different, broader, saner, when I’ve gotten my ass out the door and worked up a sweat while chugging through the woods, eyes occasionally drifting to the glorious spectacle of a new day’s sky.
From this perspective, I can see how immensely privileged I am, just to have so many great outlets for self-care and mental health! I am able-bodied and healthy enough to run, and can do so freely and safely from my house through one of the great natural wonders of Pennsylvania (IMHO). I can afford to go to therapy. I can sleep through a whole freakin’ weekend if I want to because I don’t have kids and my husband is obsessed with pickleball. And I can lose a few clients and keep a relatively level head about it, because I have the right support at home and in my little recovery community.
I can also see how well I’ve really been handling the moodiness of middle age and the stress of my new work situation. Compared to the “old me,” six years ago? The version of Jen being forced into therapy and the 12-step program back in July 2019, when she was languishing at an entry level marketing job and her marriage was on the rocks?
She’d be “filling the tank” with tequila and all sorts of shitty snack foods from 7-Eleven. I mean, the fact I no longer binge on junk while drunk every damn weekend is a huge reason I can run five miles at 47 years old, and at 5:30AM when the sun’s coming up! 😍
Fueled by addiction, I would have been coping with hard things/times by stomping the gas pedal down what “Better Call Saul”s Mike Ehrmantraut called a “bad choice road” — by the way, if you recognized all the stranded-motorist pop-culture references pictured above, I send you my love 😘 — and I would get lost there for who knows how long before I decided to crawl out and attempt some semblance of damage control.
Life in May 2025 as a sober, perimenopausal woman in her first postgrad year as a therapist can feel like a wild and scary ride, but sweet hallelujah, at least I ain’t causing no more damage, because I’m in control! I mean, of what I can be: Don’t drink. Reach out to the right people for support. Stay open. Look for ways to help. Show up. Do it scared.
Or don’t do it, if you’re exhausted and burned out and need to rest…
Unless, of course, “it” is your own therapy. Don’t cancel that! As a fellow client with plenty of experience, trust me: You need that hour of self-care more than you think. 😉
Jen Wielgus Journalism 