Tag: alcoholism

sober lifestyle

Moodiness

jenwielgusjournalism

Monday morning: My eyes darted upward at the pale blue, predawn sky as I jogged through my neighborhood, and I was struck with a bolt of inspiration. Or maybe it was a jolt of caffeine from the BCAA+Energy drink I’d mixed and guzzled as extra oomph to help force my ass out the door.

Either way, I felt a euphoric mix of emotions — joy, relief, gratitude — course through my body in that moment. I was back on track!

I was out doing something I love! I mean, I was doing something athletic that I love, because I also love to sleep, but I’d just done that on and off for the past 48 hours straight. I had trudged back upstairs shortly after breakfast on Saturday and Sunday, to yank the blackout blinds and burrow into my blankets while munching a melatonin gummy to self-medicate a mental state the AA folks would describe as “off the beam.”…and all my perimenopausal pals likely know as “the norm.”

It had been, more or less, a lost weekend. But moving toward the state park at the start of the work week, I felt reborn as a fully functional human! My heart was pumping, creative juices flowing, brain whipping up ideas I couldn’t wait to share in my blog…

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sober lifestyle

47

jenwielgusjournalism
Not intended as an ad/shameless plug — but I do love ‘47 and would totally welcome a blog sponsorship! 😉 I think a responsible sober sports fan makes a great brand ambassador out in the wild, don’t you?

It’s fun having my real birthday and sober birthday on the same day — of the month, not the actual date— because it gives me an extra excuse to treat myself.

Not that I need any excuse. I’m pretty spoiled, y’all, though like most humans, I sometimes get mired in the uncomfortable business of being human in a capitalist dystopia and lose sight of my big, beautiful and immensely privileged picture. I ignore the abundant gifts surrounding me and slip out of “an attitude of gratitude” into the scarcity mindset that consumer culture loves to perpetuate and exploit for profit. Shoot, look at the pic I chose to open this post!

If I haven’t mentioned it 70 times already — that’s my tally of sober months as of April 7, 2025 — quitting drinking absolutely opened the door to “building a life I don’t want to escape from,” but it did not totally stop me from self-medicating anxiety/depression/stress or stuffing my feelings with other obsessions/compulsions.

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sober lifestyle

Ability

jenwielgusjournalism

The video was my husband’s idea, and in hindsight, I’m so glad he “pulled over” trailside and took it, because otherwise, I’d have precious few visuals to use with this post. True, it’s a poor representation of the lovely images flashing through my memory of our late Valentine’s date at Elk Mountain Ski Resort. But despite how nonchalant I might seem transitioning between the “Mahican” and “Schuylkill” runs, I was far too focused on staying upright, injury-free, and warm, to go through the trouble of digging out my phone and snapping photos of my own.

The views at Elk were breathtaking, and I mean that literally. In the moments I felt controlled enough to look up and out, I found myself gasping, yelling, “Look at that!” to no one in particular, and smiling so widely and for so long that my face froze, painfully joker-esque. 🤡

Outdoor activities always seem to morph me into a jubilant little kid; I don’t need to be an expert schussing down black diamonds to feel the intoxicating rush of the purest “natural high.” Skiing offers a potent cocktail of freedom, empowerment, possibility, and connection to all that’s “right” with the world.

I mean, when I was an actual little kid tagging along with the ski club at my aunt’s school back in the Midwest, I remember spending entire outings tugging on the tow rope and snowplowing down the bunny slope and feeling the same exhilaration.

Skiing reminds me that the mere ability to move, regardless of skill level, or how I look, is a precious gift. A celebration of life.

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Philly

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Blown away by all the brother/sister/nongender-ly love for my latest Thread! Only had to block one comment…so, in the great social media shakeup of 2025, I’d say this platform is a winner. 🤞🏻

It occurred to me (again) recently that I came here due to DEI, answering an ad on JournalismJobs.com that explicitly stated “women and minorities encouraged to apply.” I’m just as embarrassed to admit that today as I was back then.

Which is to say, I’m not. Even a little.

I mean, it’s been more than 22 years since I UHauled in from Macon, Georgia, a chubby-cheeked, recent Medill grad who’d spent just enough time covering sports down in Braves — or was it more like Dawgs? — Country to know that I was undoubtedly “of the North,” like a wild direwolf destined to find my Winterfell. The Bucks County Courier Times sports editor picked my resume and “clips” over what he said were over a hundred other hopefuls, making me the latest non-white-male reporter to “diversify” the staff at phillyburbs.com.

I was (am) a strong writer with a unique style who knew her shit and embraced covering the local sports scene as much, if not more than the pros. I deserved that job and did it well, rolling with every punch the company threw at us as the newspaper industry began its death rattle, until Gatehouse Media came along and knocked the whole operation flat on the canvas.

Yes, since settling in suburban Bucks County in the fall of 2002 — with a brief stint as a bona fide Philadelphia resident in ’04-’05 — I have done a bunch of regrettable shit “off the field” in my immaturity and addictions. Still, I’ve always felt pretty good about the way I served this community, first as a writer/videographer…

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sober lifestyle

Winter

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A familiar scent hung in the frigid morning air, and it grew stronger as I traced the usual path from my neighborhood to the state park. I wouldn’t call it pleasant, and it took a while to ascertain that no, my coat hadn’t fallen into a dumpster full of trash juice; there were tractors out fertilizing the fields. But it worked the old magic that smells always do, shooting through my nasal passages straight into my memory bank and time-machining me back to childhood on my grandparents’ farm.

Manure never bothered me anyway. 😉 And my Midwestern blood feels right at home in the cold. Just as I recall bundling up to seek adventure in the frozen Wisconsin woods, dragging my sled on a search for the slightest elevation or white-knuckling rocket-speed snowmobile rides with my dad, I hit the trails of Southeastern PA for daily 4- or 5-mile nature walks, come teen temps or bitter windchills. What was true in ’88 remains so in ’25: Being outside keeps me sane.

Well, sort of.

This winter season, traditionally a minefield of mental health triggers stretching out from January all the way into April, has been fertile ground for my anxiety in the early weeks of this new year. A Thanksgiving back injury, followed by a respiratory bug that hit right after Christmas, has forced me to slow down, pull back and sit still longer than any anxious person would ever voluntarily choose. Particularly an anxious person who’s sober, possesses a social conscience, and is responsible for helping others with their mental health.

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sober lifestyle

Injury

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New Year’s Resolution: Being able to bend over and put these on (tightening the laces might be too ambitious a goal at this point). Maybe by spring I’ll actually be able to use them for their intended purpose. 🤞🏻

I have this Thanksgiving tradition where I design myself a brand new pair of running shoes — technically, they’re “bought” by my in-laws, the Christmas gift I tell them they got me during our annual Exchanging of Receipts ’round the tree — and then, I run myself straight into the ground before they even come out of the box.

The universe has sent me the same lesson for multiple years now, on the same threshold between fall and winter seasons. Is this time THE time I actually learn?

I thought maybe sitting down to flesh it out was a step in the right direction, even though I can’t sit, or step, or do anything without pain crackling through my lower back, stabbing at my SI joints, throbbing in my hips and shooting down my hamstrings.

I mean, screw custom sneakers; the real gift would be household appliances I can operate entirely above the waist, you know what I mean? 😬

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Resistance

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Source: @inspiredtowrite

The first thing I stopped consuming was social media content — outside of Instagram and Threads, which I’ve unapologetically curated into echo chambers full of pro-recovery/therapy profiles and fellow blue hearts. I went and deactivated Twitter, which should’ve been done 10 years ago, but I digress…

The first thing I started creating (before this post) was a plan to GTFO of Pennsylvania. I mean, not permanently, though my hubby did come downstairs early on the morning after, talking about Canada and going to live on a lake (he’s a keeper, and the only thing keeping me from going full 4B 😉). I asked if Vermont would be a good compromise.

But what I actually did was book a round-trip flight to Chicago for the upcoming holiday. I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving since I lived at home, which would’ve been prior to my Northwestern graduation in…shoot, 1999? While I made a life for myself out in the world, after much wandering in the wilderness, my first instinct in times of crisis has always been to get my ass immediately back to my parents’ house.

All you folks in 12-step programs might recognize this as “pulling a geographic.” And yeah, guilty as charged! Running away is still my go-to self-soothing strategy, even though the lesson of “Wherever you go, there you are” has been hammered into my brain by the school of hard knocks over 20 years’ time.

The difference now, at 64 months sober, is awareness. And clarity. The understanding that each action/reaction is a choice, with consequences, and I am fully responsible for the choices I make and the consequences that come. Whether I weigh pro vs. con or act impulsively, whether I consciously break cycles or continue dysfunctional patterns, obey the commands of old programming or resist that pull and do something different — that is up to me. Each moment of my life presents a new opportunity, and sobriety equips me, empowers me, to seize it.

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Fear

jenwielgusjournalism

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.
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