Tag: sobriety

sober lifestyle

Obsession

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“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.)

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sober lifestyle

Resentment

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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.

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Emotion

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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!

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Procrastination

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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.

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sober lifestyle

Ecotherapy

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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. 🐺

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sober lifestyle

Season

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Post-run moon shot on Sunday morning, the first of October. When I learned that the word “lunatic” is derived from “lunar,” so much made sense! 🌚

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.

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Solidarity

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Some folks at work were talking about the first impressions we give to new people, and I involuntarily got looped into the conversation when one of them spotted me shuffling papers nearby. An easy target. Bullseye! 🎯

“With YOU,” they said, gesturing toward me, “my first impression was, ‘Whoa! That girl is overwhelmed!”

It’s moments like that when I’m reminded why I drank. Call me highly sensitive — no, really, go ahead; the shoe fits — but I think being pinned to a spot where you feel alienated and alone is one of the more excruciating aspects of human life in a civilized society. My instinct in those situations has always been to flee, whether it was lacing up my roller skates or hopping on my bike as a kid, beelining to the office door for a break-time walk every day of my professional life, or downing any “adult beverage” I could get my hands on to free my restless spirit from the anxiety-ridden pressure cooker of social gatherings/interactions.

Of course, when you’re four years sober, starting from scratch on the bottom rung of a brand new career and working in a fast-paced medical facility, all you can do is muddle through — and try your best not to lose your sh*t.

“Uh, yeah,” I replied, a baby deer trapped in a sudden flood of light, “I’m pretty sure anyone in my situation would be.”

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Competence

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Maybe it was too soon. Maybe I didn’t have enough time in sobriety and real therapy — as in, the kind where you’re not sitting there in a fog of denial, willfully spewing lies — before I decided to go back to school to become an addictions therapist.

Or, maybe I hadn’t “worked a program” hard enough in the time I did have, and I had no business thinking I could act like a normal person — much less a competent professional — while starting from scratch in an emotional occupation and getting a bottom-rung job in a high-stress setting.

These thoughts occurred to me this week as I entered my ninth month as a rookie drug and alcohol counselor, feeling out of my depth with no life raft in sight.

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