I recently lamented to my husband that I wasn’t feeling moved to write much anymore. When he inevitably asked why, I was forced to do the very thing that writing requires, the thing I’ve been avoiding like the plague: sit still and think.
My instinct is to do as little of that as possible outside of work. As a therapist, I spend 20-22 hours a week locked in to the intense, up-and-down emotional experiences of others — yes, that’s considered a full-time caseload; providing mental healthcare is not your typical office job — then several more hours reliving each session in my supervision meetings and client progress notes.
I obviously can’t share anything here that happens in there, and my job, combined with the onslaught of deeply disturbing world news on my Threads feed every day, has me kind of lurching through my personal life, zombiefied, an empty shell with nothing of note to say.
Truth be told, lately, I’ve been so spent at the end of the week that I’m struggling mightily to keep up with those aforementioned progress notes. If you’re watching “The Pitt,” the subplot where Dr. Santos keeps getting guilt-tripped for being “behind on her charting” hits uncomfortably close to home. 😬
It doesn’t help that January-April is what I call “the wasteland of winter,” during which my own mental health traditionally goes in the tank. The seasonal depression isn’t as all-consuming as it was in early sobriety, but it still tugs hard at me in those still, quiet moments that I’m trying so hard to avoid.
If life feels like a bit of a nothing burger here at 80 months sober, I still have plenty to fill my gratitude cup.
I’m almost 48, with a birthday coming up in one month, and I’m two years into my second career as a psychotherapist, which means that I’ve successfully reinvented myself in midlife. That is not nothing.
The path I was ambling down for 20+ years, writing newspaper articles and email/social media/SEO marketing content, either no longer exists or is a soulless, low-paid dead end. It feels really good to have taken the necessary steps — quitting drinking, going back to school, starting at the bottom of a new industry — to forge a different path full of meaning and opportunity…even if walking it completely taps me out sometimes.
There’s certainly less there to tap, given that I’m smack dab in the thick of perimenopause. My body is softer and slower and perpetually achy/ornery, but it’s healthy enough to keep me reasonably active. I’m gritting my teeth as I write that, because this was an awful week for the old skin suit, with everything feeling heavy and sluggish and “blaaaaah.” I still dragged myself out in the rain and fog and slogged up the hills in the park, so hopefully I banked a little bit of strength, endurance and mental toughness for the lighter days to come.
Lest I forget, my husband and I started this week — and the month of March — with a spur-of-the-moment ski day up at Elk Mountain. The sky was blue, the crowds were pretty thin, and I only fell once on my very first run, which was a blue slope (Delaware) since the green (Lehigh) was closed.
Other than sleeping, skiing is the best cure for winter nothingness that I know, and to have the physical ability, funds and freedom to partake in exhilarating outdoor adventures will always be high on my gratitude list…right up there with my husband’s steady companionship and support, the home we share in a peaceful neighborhood, and the fact that we don’t have kids.
Given the state of the world, the demands of my work, and the mercurial nature of my mental health and moods, I’ve never been more grateful for that than I am now! 🙏🏻
My recovery has enabled me to contribute to the world, and younger generations, in other ways that feel meaningful. I’m a therapist and an aunt — new baby niece due at the end of this month! — and a partner and a citizen who cares about the fate and wellbeing of my fellow humans and the environment.
I just hope the spring season brings an infusion of energy so I can play all those roles with a little more gusto.
Jen Wielgus Journalism 