I was desperate to get to my class, but every path I tried was blocked, so I ended up cutting through the pool — as in, a fully-clothed plunge and doggy-paddle — and climbing a steep staircase around the natatorium rafters to a window, where the only option appeared to be wriggling under an open crack. And just as I was about to shove my head between pane and sill, like Wendy Torrance clambering to escape the Overlook Hotel bathroom, a loud voice boomed over the PA system, dripping with contempt:
“JENNIFER WIELGUS, GO IMMEDIATELY TO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. YOU ARE BEING EXPELLED.”
It was then that I realized…this wasn’t real! I could just open my eyes and be free! 😅 Relief was followed by bewilderment, which quickly turned to frustration.
“Damn! WTF! Why does my brain hate me?!?!”
Shuffling to the bathroom, then downstairs, robotically moving from pantry to coffee maker to couch (never mind it was 2:30AM), I was struck with the maddening repetitiveness of this old routine. Every single dream I’ve ever had, that I’ve remembered, has followed the same basic script: I am lost, I am late, and I am in trouble.
Occasionally over the past 6+ years, I’ve also been drunk in these dreams, but that is happening less and less frequently as my sober time grows (76 months on Friday!)
My nightmares almost always unfold at school — which, gotta hand it to you, Brain, is pretty brilliant! The school setting takes my deeply-engrained performance anxiety and intense fear of displeasing authority figures AND throws the additional horrors of peer rejection and social alienation into the mix! 😱
My relationship with my subconscious feels kind of like Tony Soprano, the wounded “little nephew,” imploring Uncle Joon to stop with the “varsity athlete” putdowns and show him some love.
Freudian psychoanalysis is not my thing — I’m more of a Rogerian humanist with an existential soul — but you don’t have to be Dr. Melfi to sense what’s probably going on with these recurring dreams.
Anxiety has been baked into my bones for 47 years, and since I quit drinking and lost my (weighted) security blanket, my body moves through the world in constant “threat detection” mode. I’ve learned to steel myself for public consumption, to do what’s necessary to survive the work week, but the second I rest, the ghosts come out to play, and my psyche is still haunted by the bad decisions and wasted potential of two decades in active addiction.
And then, well, shit! It’s pretty impossible to live here in 2025 without feeling stalked by a sense of impending doom. It’s privilege, I know, that I don’t feel dogged by clear and present danger.
Working as a therapist forces me to face negativity on a whole new (to me) level. I spend my days digging into the troubled hearts and minds of my fellow humans, while we all try to grapple with the unchecked evil in the world.
I went to bed (early) on Halloween night having just read texts in my family group chat about ICE terrorizing the northern Illinois communities where my siblings live with their kids. True stories: My teenage niece watched out the window of her high school as masked agents chased people through campus, and my little sister stood at her front door listening to neighbors blow their whistles as they witnessed an attempted abduction of landscapers working on a nearby church lawn.
This was after another full week counseling survivors of trauma and abuse, people facing food insecurity, battling broken systems, getting chewed up by the capitalist machine…
….and then, coming home to watch some spoiled suburban brat on our security camera, dumping our entire candy bucket in his trick-or-treat bag directly underneath a sign that said, “PLEASE SHARE.” 😡
The first thing I did on Saturday morning, November 1, after drinking coffee on the couch while trying to process my f*cked-up dream, was to go out on our deck in my bare feet and stare up at the stars. (Above is my sad attempt at sharing the view.)
I thought about how fortunate I am to have this serene stillness and silence — and cold air, because perimenopause plus the hot beverage had me feeling like a flame-broiled Whopper (“Turn me over; I’m done on this side…”) — in which to gain some perspective and hit “reset.” How fortunate I am to know that the only “trouble” I’m in comes from the monsters in my head!
(Pause for reality check: Remember to vote on Tuesday, because sadly, the previous statement is not entirely true. 😞)
While my sobriety seems less and less significant in the grand scheme, because time does naturally heal and strengthen and balance things out, it still hits me in those quiet, private moments of reflection: Life is immeasurably better without alcohol! “Bad” is nowhere near as bad! I’m facing my anxiety and fear every day, with no chemical assistance, to do a job that makes a difference — and I accept that I can never do it “perfectly” or please everyone.
Whatever threats, challenges, or obstacles arise in my path, I’m far better equipped to handle them than I would have been before.
Nature remains the great antidote to whatever’s ailing me. And that, as my dreams seem to prove, is pretty much always the same basic thing: feeling trapped in my human suffering, bound for an unavoidable punishment that I deserve for simply being human.
In this desperation, I create more suffering, attaching to my fearful thoughts and negative emotions, letting them carry me away in a spiral of “what ifs,” or burrow me deep in a hole where endless darkness is all I can see.
The tighter I cling, the more I suffer. I get myself in more trouble, when I can choose to be free!
Outside, there is open space, wide enough to hold the biggest of feelings and dissipate the thickest of thoughts and remind me how small I really am. I look at the miracle of real life all around me, growing out of the Earth or twinkling in the sky, and my troubles instantly shrink into proper perspective — or at least closer to it. An ancient wisdom emerges within me, and I understand the difference between what’s real and true, according to the natural order of things, and the reality I create based on made-up human rules.
Freedom, in the latter context, seems terrifyingly tenuous. We can only control the one voice we raise, the ballot we cast, the “good trouble” we make, the way we use our relative privilege and show love and support to our neighbors in need. “Spiritual freedom” lies in our ability to step up and meet each moment, resisting the urge to run away and hide in fear. It lies in acceptance, that we cannot ever avoid human suffering, but we do not have to let it lock us up in a self-made prison.
I can still fall into that trap, after almost 6 1/2 years without alcohol. I can walk (or doggy-paddle 🤣) myself right into trouble. The trick is to recognize it’s happening and climb right back out. Living sober can feel like waking up over and over from the same bad dream, reassuring myself that yes, the darkness exists and will always be a part of me — of the world — but each new day brings light.
It’s such a precious gift, the light, and all I need to do to receive it is open my eyes and look up. 👀💡
Jen Wielgus Journalism 