Living within walking distance of Tyler State Park is right up there at the top of my gratitude list, next to “super-supportive hubby,” and I’m in the park so often that I’ve become quite adept at stealthily squatting in the woods.
The bathrooms are closed, I assume because of COVID, and you gotta do what you gotta do, and there are plenty of large trees to hide behind in the off chance a family of bikers appears out of nowhere, as they always seem to do when I’m in the middle of saying my prayers out loud to the sky.
Yes, I’m a literal tree hugger who talks to nature. And however peculiar this might look to the random passerby — as far as I know, I haven’t traumatized anyone with my brief displays of public semi-nudity — this is how I stay sane at nearly 15 1/2 months sober.
In a former life, my hobby was signing up for fitness competitions and paying to get my ass kicked — and my nerves rattled — for entire Saturdays, from pre-dawn until whenever the three, four, five workouts were complete, and I got knocked out of the running for the coveted plastic trophy/tin medal/commemorative T-shirt/$5-off Hylete coupon, and I’d fully drained the 12-pack of hard ciders I packed with my CrossFit gear.
Apart from the drinking, I honestly hated every second of those comps. I hated the whole day. It was awful to wake up scared, feeling immense pressure and dreading what I had to do — what I’d chosen to do — and wishing I could just choose not to do it, just change my mind, even if that made me a weakling or a coward.
It’s been a long time since I felt that particular kind of unpleasant anxiety. I’m feeling it now.
Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up and go get a tattoo, all by myself.
The last time I did this, four years ago, I white-knuckle-death-gripped my husband’s hand for 45 minutes straight as Sue, my tattoo artist, branded my shoulder with a simple, monochromatic ‘W’ flag in honor of the Cubs’ historic World Series victory. I think I branded Hubby in the process.
Back in the box with you, hat I never wear anyway! 🐻👎🏻😫
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.
Each morning sky I witness while out on foot in my neighborhood is unique and beautiful in its own way. But after enough mornings wandering the same streets and pathways, adding photo after photo to the Instagram feed, everything kind of starts to look the same.
Each hashmark I make on my basement whiteboard to record another day of sobriety is its own great accomplishment. But more than a year spent performing a ritual tends to lessen its luster.
I actually had to cross-reference the board with the calendar this week, because I absentmindedly missed a few days and fell behind in my tally. A few minutes of calculating cleared up the confusion, and I know for a fact I’ll have 15 months of sobriety as of this coming Monday. It’s clear, though, that the novelty of this mark-a-day tradition — which once had me bounding down the stairs like a kid on Christmas — has officially worn off.
It’s a good thing I’ll be celebrating my “anniversary” by speaking (in person! 🤭) at a 12-step meeting in a nearby town. When your own recovery process has started to bore you, it’s time to ramp things up or the whole deal is bound to break down.
Sobriety is kind of like life, you know? It gets so freaking monotonous — like, to the point that it physically hurts — and to avoid staring into an empty void wondering about the point of it all, you have to invent some excitement.
You might actually physically hurt yourself just to feel more alive.
If this post seems to be taking a dark turn in a hurry…I mean, I’m always up for a good existential chat, but I really just want to talk about this new tattoo I’m getting.
Celebrating a sweet Chicago Sunday on my Monday sunrise walk. Forgive the tired face; it was smashed into a pillow like 10 minutes prior to taking this pic. 🥱
Sunday was the first time in a long time that I sat down and intentionally watched sports. It was a “safe” endeavor, given my complete lack of skin in the Eagles-Washington game — which, come to think of it, lacked “skin” altogether, now that the home team has dropped its controversial nickname.
“Safe” is all I do these days, now that I’m sober.
Of course, the second that game was decided, the sports gods LOLed at my snugness (and smugness), and FOX switched to the final seconds of Bears-Lions. Detroit had the ball down 4, with favorable field position and plenty of time to snag the winning score. Then, before I could change the channel in a panic, they had it — no, they dropped it! — and Matthew Stafford was launching one more last-ditch pass…😱
This was precisely the type of emotionally-charged, unpredictable situation I have been strenuously trying to avoid for the past 14 1/2 months.
It’s almost — no, it’s exactly — like I don’t want to feel things I can no longer numb with a drink. 🤔
My 2020 Uni. The green is me “stepping out of my comfort zone” – but I still made sure the pants matched the shoes.
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.
It can be difficult for non-addicted people to understand that just because it’s been X number of days/years since your last “fix,” and you appear to be “killing it” in recovery, that doesn’t mean you’re totally OK with confronting the same old “people, places and things” from your drinking life.
It doesn’t mean you’re “cured.”
Familiar “triggers,” or situations in which you drank to self-soothe for years and years until it became an ingrained habit, can be very powerful, no matter how much time has passed. A certain person, or even a feeling, can send you reeling off in an anxiety spiral.
Then, add the ready availability of your go-to “medication,” your drug of choice looking you square in the face, and it’s not so easy to “act normal” or play it cool.
So, when I was overcome by a sudden, very unexpected sobbing fit on Sunday morning before we left for a family barbecue — the first gathering on our schedule in more than 2 months, and only the third time we were venturing out in a non-work capacity since COVID-19 quarantine closed everything down — I knew my husband was not the only one to talk to about it. He’s wonderfully supportive, and I 💯 would not be 428 days sober today without him…but he’s not an alcoholic.
A healthy support system absolutely starts at home, but for me, a well-rounded recovery requires some occasional, non-blog branching out.
