Last Thursday, I ran through the pitch dark woods, guided only by a headlamp and my memory of the trails, and serenaded by a spooky-themed playlist I put together just for the occasion. (Not that you asked, but selections ranged from “Thriller” and “Zombie” to half the original “Crow” soundtrack and tracks from both of the first two “Ghostbusters” movies.) And I finished devouring the latest Stephen King novel I had added to my Audible library. (Maybe it goes without saying, but I much prefer fictional horrors to the real ones all around us.)
I’m not “into Halloween,” though, in the sense that I put on disguises and go to parties. I haven’t “participated” in the “holiday” since my sewing whiz of a mom was dressing me — and my Cabbage Patch dolls or little sisters — in painstakingly constructed companion ensembles that dominated the elementary school costume contest nearly every year.
A rare advantage for the firstborn daughter: not having to play the pet/sidekick, or “be the boy,” as my childish mind would’ve framed it. Continue reading “Fear”→
My eyes take in some version of the above scene once or twice a week. It flashes before me about a half-hour into my morning jog, just a minute or two after my turnaround point on the Delaware Canal towpath, and then vanishes behind a line of trees within five or six steps. My brain barely has a chance to process anything beyond “Wow,” before my focus has shrunk from that beautiful big-picture perspective to whatever granular “real-world stuff” I’m going to have to face a couple miles down the path.
The other day, I forced myself to stop — OK, slow, not that I ever move particularly fast — long enough to snap a quick picture. Guess you could say I had the presence of mind to realize how seldom I’m truly present in the moments of my life, and here was a perfect example.
(Of course, my intention all along was to use the example in a blog post, in the future, so…maybe that doubly proves the point? 🤔)
See, the human tendency to time travel is truly torturous. We know our time here is finite, and fleeting, and all we really have to work with/revel in is now, and yet our brains insist on ruminating or rushing ahead. Or they immediately conjure up some distraction, usually involving a cell phone, like how I’m currently standing on the deck of this amazing log cabin in the Poconos at 5AM on a Sunday, under a glittering canopy of stars, playing an episode of “Better Call Saul” on the Netflix app while typing in WordPress and posting a new cover photo on my Facebook profile, for some unfathomable reason…
The farther I get from my last drink, the closer I feel to the human race — and that does not mean that I’m actively seeking out opportunities to be around people, outside of work. It doesn’t even mean that I really like people, in general. No; I’ve actually been struggling lately with giving in to my natural urge to isolate, maybe (sigh) a little too much. And it’s election season, and I live in a (gulp) red patch of Pennsylvania…need I say more?
The closeness I’m talking about comes from finally connecting to my basic humanity, underneath it all. Dialing down the frantic cycle of self-medication that snared me back in my late teens has led to a greater understanding of how that happened, or what the hell was really going on with the eating disorders, the overexercising, the alcoholism, the…how shall I put this?…attention-whoring? Swimming in the social media cesspool?
In any case, things finally got desperate enough for me to grab a life raft, and over the past five years, the “addiction” layers of my onion have gradually peeled themselves back, stripping away the most intense and extreme of my all-or-nothing tendencies and anxiety-driven coping mechanisms. The urgent, surface craving that once drove me to grab out for any kind of symptom relief has muted, morphing into a much deeper, sustained sort of internal longing for whatever life’s supposed to be about. And in turn, my body has, amazingly, settled into a kind of homeostasis — at least for that “one good week” each month before the perimenopausal tornado blows in and blows it all to bits. 🌪️💥 🥵
I think we’re in that week now, folks, given the fact that I’m able to sit still and willing to exert the effort it takes to herd the cats in my head into a reasonably coherent self-reflective essay.
It’s times like these, fleeting though they might be, when who I am, where I’m going, how I “relate to the infinite” or fit into the grand scheme…it all starts to make sense.
On the way to the running path early Saturday morning, with dawn breaking in brilliant pinks and purples and Road Trip Radio pumping Kenny Loggins through my car speakers — the song was “Danger Zone,” which in hindsight is so appropriate — I drove by a place from my sordid past. My brain did a quick calculation: It’s been six years. And out of my mouth shot a short prayer: THANK YOU SO MUCH!
There have been so many topics on my mind lately that I started and stopped writing several different blog posts over the past month. Finally, I just decided to focus on how I really feel at this moment in time. Which is…well, grateful, yes, of course. But overall, just very pleased. And to channel the sentiment in Dr. Doyle’s lovely Instagram post, this good feeling comes without any real “worthiness” qualifications, or reasons why.
I mean, it’s awesome that fall is nearing and for the first time in three years, I don’t have to go back to school. It’s equally awesome that Fall 2024 finds me working in private practice, the job I dreamed of when I decided to enroll at DelVal, study counseling psychology, earn my Masters and become a therapist who helps people with substance use and eating disorders.
Can you frickin’ believe it, y’all? I actually am that.
Our annual reminder that it’s so much cheaper to go to MLB games when you don’t drink — and your family has a ticket hookup at the league office!💰 S/O to Chris for the sweet seats!
“Bring it in; I need something for the blog!” I directed Hubby as I pulled out my phone, flipped the camera and “cheesed” with the souvenir cup of Coke Zero he had just brought me from a Wrigley Field concession stand.
This was a few days before my 5-year sober anniversary, and true to form, my brain was whirring away, jumping ahead, scheming and plotting and writing checks it was far too cluttered and chaotic to actually cash.
Case in point: It’s two weeks later, and I can’t even type one paragraph without my own words sidetracking me off onto a random tangent. 🧠🔃
Warning: You will not have any earthly idea what I’m talking about on this blog if you’re not acquainted with HBO shows.
There’s a lot going on right now with my transition from the Class of 2024 to working as a full-time therapist in a private group practice, which is turning out to be equal parts “dream job” and “be careful what you wish for,” in the sense that great freedom brings great Imposter Syndrome. Cutting through all the anxiety to form coherent thoughts, much less sitting down to craft them into sentences, much less imbuing those sentences with wisdom, is proving exceedingly difficult as of late. 😰
🚨 SPOILER ALERT: THIS POST CONTAINS PLOT DETAILS FROM THE NEW MOVIE “INSIDE OUT 2.” PROCEED AT YOUR OWN PERIL — AND DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU! ⚠️
When I saw that Anxiety was the new cast member in the “Inside Out” sequel, the feeling in my gut driving me to go see the thing immediately overrode my Anxiety about going to a crowded public movie theater in the summer when school’s out.
That’s not easy to do, in general, because Anxiety (yes, it warrants continued capitalization) has been my most powerful driving force since birth. And these days, during my “time of the month,” it’s basically my entire personality.
I joke that I’m going through “second puberty,” though the hormonal mayhem of perimenopause has hardly been funny. You have to understand: I only recently started feeling my feelings when I stopped drinking to self-medicate Anxiety just under 5 years ago. So while I look mature, I’m kind of a combo teen/toddler when it comes to emotional regulation.
When we walked into the theater last Wednesday, my period was due any minute; consequently, the vigorous heartstring-tugging I expect from all PIXAR movies completely rocked my world this time around. The crying babies in the audience had nothing on me; I had to physically strain to keep my visceral reaction in check. It was so strenuous that I left with a splitting headache.
To quote the Disgust character: “Overreact much?”
“Inside Out 2” review: 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 (that’s 8) out of 10. It wasn’t a perfect movie, but its representation of Anxiety as a rabid, relentless go-getter that can completely hijack the personality and dismantle the sense of self (if we let it!) was 100% spot-on. 🎯
Views from the deck of the most perfect VRBO on the planet, located in Cedar Crest, NM, just off the Turquoise Trail, 20 minutes outside Albuquerque, with easy access to the Sandia Mountains and Cibola National Forest.
My husband tried to show me several different options for rental homes as he prepared to book our trip to New Mexico, but once I saw the log cabin with the mountain view and hot tub out back, I pushed the computer right back onto his lap. “That is my dream house!” I declared. “Why would we stay anywhere else? Hell, let’s move there! Can you ask if the owner wants to sell?”
When you know, you know, and if there’s one thing I’ve discovered about myself in the 22 years since I moved to Pennsylvania — I mean, other than the fact that I cannot f*ck with alcohol — and married a man from the Pocono region, it is that I am 100% a mountain girl. Mountains >> The Shore all day, every day. Give me crisp, dry air, tall trees, big rocks, wide open skies where you can see all the stars, and peace and quiet with as few people as possible….
And roosters crowing in the distance just before dawn. 🐓🌅 I’m adding that one after our recent visit to the “Land of Enchantment,” because the chorus of cock-a-doodle-doos that accompanied my morning coffee breaks and yoga sessions on the deck of the cabin made the whole “retreat from reality” experience all the more enchanting.
Jen Wielgus Journalism 