Author: jenwielgusjournalism

Waking up sober is always — and I mean this sincerely — wonderful, but it’s a little extra gratifying on days when I reach over to the bedside table, swipe the DND lock off my phone and see a text from my dad.

I don’t even have to read it to know it’s good news.

He’s not much of a texter, but at some point in the 20 years since I left Chicago to pursue job opportunities in journalism, Dad started the tradition of firing off a “Cubbies woo!” after every Cubs victory. I remember getting those messages on my very first cell, the standard 5-pound Nokia brick that everyone had back in the early aughts.

Living out here in Pennsylvania (before that, Georgia), and seldom able to watch the game, those texts were a news report. They were also a lifeline. Reassurance that I was not alone, and someone out there was on my side, and we both had a good reason to feel joyful.

Of course, the man lying next to me in the bed for the past 13 years is a Cubs fan who also shares that joy. There’s just something about dads and daughters and baseball, though, right?

The other two Wielgus girls know what I’m talking about!

My hand was shaking, violently and uncontrollably.

I stared down at it in disbelief, as if I was observing someone else’s struggle for composure. Look at that thing go!

I tried to grip the microphone harder, but that didn’t help. It suddenly occurred to me: I’d never had “the shakes” when I was drinking, and here I sat, on my 450th day of sobriety, suffering DT-esque involuntary spasms in front of 25 or so other sober people. I was sure everyone in the circle was staring at my jittery hand, so I spit some self-deprecating comment into the mic before quickly launching into my story.

My first in-person speaking commitment in 15 months of recovery was nothing to be so damn nervous about. You can’t “fail” at service work, or “botch” your participation in a meeting. In fact, one of the most comforting maxims they throw around in the 12-step community says something like, “the only thing you have to do perfectly in this program is not drink.”

It’s October 2020, and this recovering alcoholic (and perfectionist!) has not had a drink since July 6, 2019. The moments when I think I might like one still come and go, like a dark shadow passing over me, and the very best way I’ve found to keep the demons at bay is to seek out some good old-fashioned human connection every now and then.

I’m mostly OK out here on my own, with my books and blogs and podcasts and hubby (and a new season of “Fargo”…hooray!) but there is nothing in the world quite like sitting under a big tree in Yardley, PA, with a bunch of strangers and sharing the gnarly struggles and miraculous triumphs that come with life in recovery.

Living in loungewear and rarely having to look in the mirror over the past 7 months has given me a gloriously distorted concept of reality. As someone who’s always relied on clothes, rather than scales, to assess my physical size, the forgiving stretch of Under Armour and Athleta has made it easier to forget myself at mealtime.

Amazing how portion sizes can sneakily creep up, up, up, and your happy middle-aged ass doesn’t notice anything’s amiss until you’re asked into the office and discover you can no longer move in your Size 29 designer denim pants. (Not quite Kramer, but getting close.)

All things considered in the grand 💩-stormy scheme of 2020, this seems like a minor issue. Still, (sigh 😫)…my additional girth needs to be addressed. I spent way too much money on my “real” wardrobe to have to invest in a whole new, larger version.

I got sober because I could no longer afford to put off growing up. Now, at 432 days A.A. (After Alcohol), I literally cannot afford to keep growing.