In this week’s episode, Kim and I break down #2 of Women for Sobriety’s 13 Acceptance Statements:
Negative thoughts destroy only myself. My first conscious sober act is to reduce negativity in my life.
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Continue reading “New podcast: “Living Sober,” Ep. 2”When I said I had been working on a podcast with a sober pal, I wasn’t kidding! Here’s the first episode of our “Living Sober” series, inspired by Women for Sobriety’s 13 Acceptance Statements and expertly produced by Kim, my co-host.
Our topic is Statement 1: I have a life-threatening problem that once had me. I now take charge of my life and my well-being. I accept the responsibility.
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!”
Continue reading “Mediocrity”
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.)
Continue reading “Obsession”
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!
Continue reading “Emotion”
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.
Continue reading “Procrastination”
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. 🐺
Continue reading “Ecotherapy”
I don’t really hang around much with other people, or consume any media made in this decade — the radio in my car is pre-set to the Lithium 90s grunge station, and my TV is usually tuned to some black-and-white Hitchcock drama or “Twilight Zone” rerun, when it’s not showing “The Sopranos” on a loop — so I’m pretty much oblivious to current events. Living in my out-of-touch bubble, I’m also susceptible to believing that I’m special. Different. Unique!
Or, completely and hopelessly f*cked up. It depends on the day.
In reality, though, most humans are feeling “it,” in some form. The strange atmospheric energy engulfing our planet as the seasons change is impacting everyone. I see it in my clients at the clinic, my grad school classmates (the ones I still associate with, amid the chaos of Year 3…), and the women in the “Helping Hands” support group I attend every other Sunday for two hours.
Continue reading “Season”
Jen Wielgus Journalism 