Blog

I had a drunk-driving dream last night.

I was behind the wheel of a white pickup truck, and while I didn’t feel intoxicated, I recklessly steered into an abrupt, wide turn that cut short when the back end of the vehicle bashed into a concrete wall.

Crunching metal. Flying debris. Rubbernecking passerby. Immediate feelings of terror and panic. (None of this was enough to snap me awake.)

It was my third offense, the dream proceeded to reveal to me, and police showed up on scene before I could flee. I don’t know if they intended to take me to jail; my thoughts were immediately consumed with the cover story I’d have to come up with to keep my family from finding out how badly I 🤬ed up…

Then, finally, that beautiful moment arrived. You know it well, I’m sure. You’re at the climax of the nightmare, and suddenly realize you can just wake up and it will all go away.

And so, I did.

Before I was the middle-aged woman in black Under Armour leggings walking through the neighborhood at all times of day, multiple times of day (doesn’t every suburban neighborhood have at least one of these?), I was the pre-teen in Lee jeans, happily roller skating up and down the block for hours on end, listening to music and stopping only when her mom stepped out the front door to call her in for supper.

Occasionally, I’d get a phone call from another kid asking if I wanted to “ride bikes,” or maybe play catch, but for the most part, my favorite childhood activity involved one pair of white Roller Derbies (with pastel stripes, as shown), and, of course, one double-decker Panasonic boom box with a stack of homemade mix tapes.

When outdoor conditions didn’t cooperate, I skated in my grandma’s basement. That place was the textbook grandma’s basement — both fascinating and spooky, dimly lit, smelling like plumbing and old stuff, packed with appliances and 1950/60s artifacts, like Alvin and the Chipmunks records, early-edition “Clue” and “Life” games, and my dad’s childhood train board that still worked and inspired many a made-up story in my head. (Come to think of it, everything back then inspired made-up stories in my head…)

The basement was not well-suited to serve as a makeshift roller rink, but I carved out enough of a clear path, winding my way around the tiled floor. Then, I literally carved up the tile on the floor with my skate wheels as I circled and circled, singing along to Tiffany and Madonna. I don’t remember Grandma being mad.

I do remember feeling so totally happy when I was free to move.

Maybe it was anxiety driving me, keeping me from ever sitting comfortably still, and fueling a constant desire to break away — to go my own way. I would eventually establish an identity playing team sports, but deep down, I didn’t want to have to perform for other people. Trying to be perfect was too much pressure, and fear of failure was too hauntingly painful to bear for very long. I relished any chance to go away, be alone and calm down by keeping active; skating became my go-to escape, long before I found alcohol.

This week, I got a real-life Dundie (digital certificate standing in for cheap trophy) and was given “the floor” for the first 10 minutes of our weekly team teleconference. My new coworkers wanted me to highlight five fun facts about myself.

😳!

Mind ➡️ blank. I mean, other than my 397 days of sobriety, the personal revelations I’ve made in the past year through therapy/recovery, and the prescription for a new mood stabilizer that’s currently waiting for me at CVS 😬, I couldn’t think of anything “fun” — or, really, anything factual that wouldn’t result in excruciating awkward silence and immediately cement my role as Office Outcast after just one month on the job.

Heck, I’d already, unapologetically, blew off their Virtual Happy Hour invite a couple weeks ago. And believe it or not, as much as I’ve always loved the loner’s life, I don’t go around actively trying to be antisocial.

So, I pulled out the old standby.

“I was at Game 7 of the World Series in 2016 and got a ‘W’ flag tattoo to celebrate the Cubs winning, even though I’m really scared of needles and blood and pretty much anything…um, biological,” I blurted out…to a group comprised of 80 percent Bulgarian residents and 0 percent Midwesterners, by the way… “I also played Division I college softball, and even though I was a pitcher, I literally cannot throw a slow-pitch pitch over the plate to SAVE MY LIFE. …Weird, right?”

*30, maybe 40 seconds pass with no sound*

“Does anyone like the show ‘Better Call Saul,’ because I just started rewatching it on Netflix and I can’t believe how the characters drink beer or tequila like every day and never get hangovers or end up with weight or digestive issues or DUIs!!”

Probably the saddest storyline I’ve ever watched play out on a TV show — and I mean, even worse than the tragic Adriana arc in “The Sopranos” and what happened to poor little Randy in Season 4 of “The Wire” — followed Wendy Byrde’s bipolar brother Ben in the Netflix series “Ozark.”

So, it probably wasn’t a great idea to watch his final few episodes on my wedding anniversary earlier this week. Just what my husband wanted to see when he came downstairs from the work day was his beloved wife wrapped in a blanket, swollen-faced and sobbing on the couch.

(He usually finds me in such amorous poses as “face buried in a salad bowl,” or “asleep and drooling,” wearing come-hither house coats and pajama pants, if you’re looking for the secret to our successful 13 years.) 🤣

“Ozark” is one of Hubby’s and my shared obsessions of late. I won’t bore you with a whole long character study of Ben, whose severe mental illness became a major plot point and whose decision to go off his meds — side effect: impotence — ultimately precipitated his devastating downfall. But his story touched me deeply, especially since I’m in the process of (possibly) procuring medication for my own mental health struggles.

After months and months…OK, years of talking about it, I finally made an appointment with a new psychiatrist in early August.

This week’s traditional Sunday walk took me through my literal old stomping grounds, from my parents’ house down to the Morton Grove Forest Preserve, where I snapped the attached picture to mark the dawn of Day 365. Along the way, I passed my former elementary school and the park across the street, which together made up the “small pond” for the “big fish” I was as a child.

My name is on a plaque in the main school hallway, as the 1992 female American Legion Award winner, which basically cemented my status as an eighth-grade achiever. I didn’t make the record board in the big gym, which was reserved for the fastest shuttle-runners and longest flexed-arm-hangers, but I did make a graduation speech themed “Be Your Own Person” in that high-ceilinged, yellow-tinted room. I stood in front of the whole student body and botched the word “wreckage” in the spelling bee finals. I sang a solo at an all-school concert (the intro to “Show Me The Way” by Styx 😂). I discovered the power of my right arm by smashing overhand volleyball serves into many an unsuspecting opposing player (and occasionally the opposite wall.) I finished third overall in our co-ed gym class mile run, wearing basic canvas Keds… 😂 😂

I think you get the point. I “achieved” a lot of stuff when I was younger that doesn’t matter anymore — if it ever did.

My life now is nothing like I thought it would be back then.

At 42, I return to my hometown a recovering alcoholic in the middle of a career transition — this is like my fifth since leaving Illinois in the spring of 2000 for a newspaper job in Georgia, and the entry-level marketing job I just left paid less than that one did.

I don’t say any of that to poor-mouth my journey; in fact, I’m proud of my ability — or at least my willingness — to start from scratch and reinvent myself when the path I’m on isn’t working, or appears to be careening off a cliff. I’ll have one full year of sobriety after today, then one day to bask in that tremendous achievement before another set of professional challenges smacks me in the face on Tuesday morning.

Reflecting on my first sober “birthday,” hanging here in a hammock under a tree in my sister’s yard, after an emotional week and an up-and-down year, I feel utterly exhausted. I feel relaxed. I feel very warm (hello, Chicago heat wave.) I also feel a little…let down?