It was Sunday morning around 3AM, and I was more than just wide awake. Iwas awestruck, star-gazing from the balcony of an oceanfront room on the third floor of Turtle Bay Resort, listening to the relentless wind whip through the palms and stir up the Pacific.
Being in Hawaii was like plugging permanently into the “Calm” app, if it had an “intense” setting.
Listen! Waves! 👂🏻🌊
Bliss on steroids…that’s the best way I can describe my return to Oahu, where I soaked up the sun, sand, surf, seafood — and room service! — on my husband’s company dime for four lovely, lazy days. I lounged on the beach in a two-piece bathing suit in the middle of February, when I was supposed to be slaving away at work/school…and, based on the faint rumblings I heard from back home, at shoveling snow.
Five minutes into the first class of the final semester, I realized I was done with being in school.
I mean, it was fine to be treated like a fresh-faced noob when this all started three years ago and the experience of academia as a “nontraditional student” was novel; I was so caught up in the adjustment to a full-time job/class/homework schedule that I had no perspective on anything. But to be older and wiser and sitting on achy hips in a plastic chair past my bedtime, dissecting yet another syllabus and engaging in childish icebreakers like, “Tell us what grade you want to get in this class”? 🙄
I at least tried to make this futile exercise interesting. “I’m going to say a ‘B,’ because I used to freak out about this stuff, and now, I’m trying to be more chill about everything.”
B’s, by the way, are the lowest you can go in this Master’s program and still pass, but to suggest that it’s OK to want that was apparently the wrong answer. My professor seemed taken aback, and quickly clarified: she wanted us all to be good little grade-grubbers gunning for A’s! My classmates complied, upping the absurdity ante as they went around the room: “I want an A-plus plus PLUS!” 🙄🙄🙄
The recovering perfectionist/all-or-nothing alcoholic in me wanted to scream, “WAKE UP, YE CITIZENS OF LA-LA LAND! YOU’RE BEING SOLD A LIE!”
“Screw it!” This season’s version of the trademark “Fargo” dark-night-of-the-soul scene, which, in a new twist, led to a therapeutic puppet show.
I don’t really do “mindless entertainment.” I mean, I wish I could listen to music or watch TV without it turning into a full research project/forensic investigation/online novella, with sweat spilled and tears shed in the process. Alas, I’m always all-in, body and soul, on my favorite works of art, which I suppose is due to both their substance and my style. When I’m looking to lighten my mental load after a heavy day/week, I gravitate toward the rated-MA think-piece “prestige dramas” that folks love to take far too seriously.
Yes, it’s been a good, long, healthy while since my “mental obsession” for alcohol was “removed,” as AA’s sacred text puts it, but there’s plenty more obsessing where that came from! With 54 months of sobriety comes greater clarity and extra room to ruminate on minutia that makes me no money nor advances my life in any tangible way!
This weekend finds me fully immersed in the “Fargo” universe, given that my second bout of COVID happens to coincide with the climax of Season 5. I’ve been a die-hard devotee of Noah Hawley’s FX anthology for the past decade, but this is the series at its best, IMEO. (‘E’ for educated, given that I’ve probably spent more time studying this show than all my grad school counseling theories combined.)
I’d love to tell you that I’ve been using my winter break from grad school to work on the capstone presentation that’s required of all master’s candidates or search for jobs I might want to apply for after graduation…but I’ve mostly been sprawled out on my couch, punching remote buttons in an escapist search for good distractions.
I’ve caught myself barking at the TV more than usual.
For example, just yesterday, I hit on a few old “Intervention” episodes where these families were desperate to get their loved ones to stop drinking. And yet, based on what the “before” scenes showed us, the parents and/or siblings had no qualms about sitting around boozing it up with the “problem drinkers” at gatherings or out at bars. I’m watching this, like, “How the hell do you expect this person to beat their addiction when you’re shoving their drug of choice — and your freedom to imbibe — in their face all the time?”
Pro tip: “Do as I say, not as I do,” is NOT an effective approach to coaxing someone into recovery.
I plopped down in my usual spot on the couch this morning a little after 2 a.m. — yes, this is standard wake-up time for me, even on days off 😳 — with my usual mug of coffee…and absolutely nothing to do.
No test to study for (I passed the National Counseling Exam just before Thanksgiving). No assignments hanging over my head (fall semester ended Tuesday, and my final grades are already in). Not even any Christmas presents to buy (I’ve done all I can to contribute to our household’s giving list on my meager intern salary, and I’m currently between paychecks).
I don’t have a podcast episode to prepare for, either, as my partner had to push our recording session off until next week. By the way, once we bang that out, we will have the entire first season of “Living Sober” in the can and ready for our anticipated February 2024 launch. 🎉
I don’t even have a “Fargo” Season 5 episode to catch up on, as my routine is to devour the DVR recording from Tuesday night at least twice before I leave for work on Wednesday. It’s that kind of show, where you need to watch multiple times to catch, let alone understand, what the (aw) heck is happening. Ialso need to confirm what I think is happening by reading as many online reviews as possible, but that’s just me being obsessed.
It took me four paragraphs of brain-dumping to get to the point of this post, which, if I’m being honest, is the laziest one I’ve written in my (now) 53 months of sober living. You can tell by the title. I didn’t even try to come up with a topic or theme, or to wax poetic about the events of the past few weeks. I didn’t have, nor want, to try. I just wanted to dump! 🚮
It makes sense that I would cry at the sight of her signature. The encouraging words my great aunt cared enough to scrawl on Hallmark cards and snail-mail from Chicago to Philly have helped keep my blood pumping — at a 0.0% BAC— over the past 4+ years. To see them jumping off the wall on Nov. 14, what would’ve been her 91st birthday, stretched my heartstrings to the breaking point.
“Can’t wait for Christmas” popped a few of them, I think.
I taped my entire collection of recovery support cards to the mirror in my bathroom, as positive affirmations to start each day. Since Auntie Mickey passed away back in July, I’ve found myself staring at her handwriting, and, like Proust’s madeleine, it’s sent me spiraling into an emotional rabbit hole of family memories. Misty red-and-green-colored memories, now that the holidays are here.
“Auntie Mick” was our annual Christmas Eve hostess, as iconic as mom’s patchwork stockings, dad’s retro bubble lights, or the mysterious cookie crumbs that covered the special Santa plate on the most wonderful morning of the year.
I guess it also makes sense that every flippin’ Black Friday commercial on TV or wintry ad on Instagram has been triggering my tear ducts of late. I hear jingle bell sounds on a podcast break or see a flash of twinkle lights in my neighborhood — there was a truck loaded with pre-cut evergreens, riding down the road the other day! — and I’m suddenly all up in my feelings. ’Tis the season for existential distress!
My jogging route includes a few steep(ish) hills that never seem to feel easier, no matter how many times I scale them, so I allow myself a break at the traffic light leading from the park back into my neighborhood. I typically have a gorgeous view of daybreak as I shuffle up the final incline, and on Halloween morning, I lingered a little longer at the stopping point to catch my breath and snap the attached pic.
That sky illustrates how my life feels right now — no matter how you look at it. From the “glass half full” perspective, I’m currently, temporarily, mired in murkiness and doubt, but there’s light, hope, room to breathe and seemingly limitless possibility waiting in the distance. On the other hand, I could say I’m floating around on the light side while the dark clouds of reality are looming, creeping in, getting closer every day.
My grad school “commencement” is May 11, 2024, which I suppose could be the line of demarcation in this scenario. The plan is to cross it, grab that diploma, then take a beat to decide on next steps for my counseling career.
I have hundreds of internship hours to log and research papers/final projects to turn in prior to that date. There’s also the minor matter of passing the National Counseling Exam, which students in DelVal’s program are somehow expected to do during their second-to-last semester in school while they’re trying to log all those required hours and turn in all those aforementioned assignments.
View from my picnic spot in the Andorra Natural Area, Sunday, Oct. 22, 2023
The group leaders had “discussion prompts” for us to use in this exercise, but I didn’t wait around to grab the list they were handing out. I heard them say “lunch with a tree” and instantly fled the circle to go explore the surrounding forest and grab a bite with some bark. 😉
It was noon on Sunday, Day 2 of last weekend’s Philadelphia Ecotherapy Fall Training event, and I’d had more than my fill of human contact by that point. I’d signed up (and paid $250 of my husband’s money) to join 15 other trainees in the woods of Wissahickon Valley Park and learn from real therapists integrating nature into their counseling practices throughout the area.
When I first heard the term ecotherapy, I knew it was for me, and though I’m years from hanging my own shingle, my goal in the training was to gain knowledge — What’s the science behind nature’s medicinal effect on our mental health? What does “reciprocity” in our relationship with the environment really mean? How do you say, “I’m from Philly” in the language of the Lenape? — and pick up practical skills and techniques so I can one day help my clients experience nature in a more therapeutic way. 🤞🏻
I also, selfishly, came here craving my own therapeutic experience in the Great Outdoors. There is precious little “eco” in the therapy I’m currently doing as a grad school intern at a drug and alcohol treatment clinic in the suburbs — and I, my friends, am a wild creature who was not built for office, and maybe not even indoor, work. 🐺
Jen Wielgus Journalism 