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Correcting Course
Life is unpredictable: we can plan for months or maybe even years, banking on a goal, a dream, or an event taking place that we’ve always wanted – and then in the matter of hours (or even minutes or seconds), everything can change. We go from thinking we have it all figured out, to quickly realizing we must change our mindset, correct our course, and steer our ship in a different direction. This is a time for re-evaluating priorities, for taking a moment (or several) to ourselves, and for unlimited grace.
Most recently, I experienced a pretty significant change in plans – and with it, the expected range of emotions and the strong urgency to figure out what I did wrong and what comes next. I am someone who likes to know what to expect – but I’m finding it difficult to accept that we rarely get that luxury in life. Navigating how to move forward after a shift in the status quo is likely not easy for anyone, particularly those of us who are planners. Finding the positives is also nearly impossible: for someone who already dwells in the negative (easy to do when you are depressed 65% of the time), seeing a silver lining in such a time is – well, not possible. When you get so close to everything finally falling into place, how do you find the positive when it all changes? That is a strictly rhetorical question, as I don’t have the answer – and is certainly one of the reasons I write.
As a planner, it’s also been very challenging (and goes against my nature) to find it within myself to be flexible and agile. One thing I’m realizing about myself in these times of needing to switch gears? I tend to immediately go into survival mode. This is probably not very productive, nor is it going to allow me to successfully course correct that much faster, however staying in this mindset is safe; I can give myself a lot of grace to just do the next right thing; and honestly, it’s familiar, as I became very good at being in this mode when I was making my initial attempts at getting sober in 2019 and again in 2020. Even before that, I spent the majority of my 20s in a type of survival mode, although not one that I would ever want to return to.
So where do I go from here? I find myself asking that question in vain a lot lately. There are a number of factors that make it difficult to envision the way forward. It now feels futile to try to picture the future: to imagine that I might successfully course correct and sail my ship somewhere more stable, where the waters are calm and the horizon is bright; where my life (and my future) feels settled and secure. But this is a good lesson in the volatility of our existence: as I noted in the opening sentence, life is truly unpredictable and nothing is guaranteed, except death, traffic, bad drivers, and taxes. Perhaps one day, when I reflect back on this period of time, it will be easier to see it as part of my story and how it all fits in, rather than being so short-sighted and existing in an endless sea of negativity, feeling more cynical than ever.
Whenever I’m wrapping up a post, attempting to end with a takeaway or just a shred of positivity, I’m continually going through my “brain catalogue” of quotes that are applicable to the topic at hand. I remembered one I had seen on social media, several lifetimes ago, which I think summarizes this topic quite well: “And like all journeys, she did not end: she simply changed directions and kept going.” (R.M. Drake)
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The Change Chapter
February 14th marked the one-year anniversary of perhaps the biggest leap of faith I’ve taken: finally saying “enough!” to the complacency of my former life and embarking on a great adventure, my change chapter. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve moved in my life, so this was (and still is) a very, very big deal for someone who spent an entire decade in a complacent haze, numbing their reality with alcohol and kicking the can down the road. As expected, I have been filled with a wide range of emotions as I attempt to celebrate and acknowledge this milestone: shock and disbelief at how quickly the past 365 days fly by; a twinge of panic that I’m not “further along”, especially with regards to settling into my house and figuring out the next steps in life; a lot of guilt and internal conflict as I struggle to appreciate how far I have come; and a myriad of other feelings.
A few weeks ago, as I was brainstorming a possible title for this post, “The Change Chapter” popped into my head. Brilliant. Because that’s really what it is: a chapter of change, not only a change in geography, but in mindset; new opportunities; growth; perspective; acceptance that maybe, yes, this is not where I’m meant to be, but it is a stepping stone. Trying to see the positives and be bolstered by my personal growth is something I’m working on every day – a brain exercise, if you will.
Despite my current environmental factors, despite a major change in the status quo of my romantic relationship, despite feeling as though my stress is making me sick: I am still proud that I was brave enough to move somewhere new, not knowing a single person here. Nothing can detract from all of the fears I had to conquer to not only go through the physical motions of moving, but also starting a new life for myself, after 22 (!) years in the same area. Granted, I had an enormous amount of help and assistance from my dad, someone I consider a best friend and certainly my biggest cheerleader and supporter, but once he and my mom left after Moving Mania, I was the one who had to start the new life, all on my own.
You might remember the Andy Warhol quote, “They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” As I was starting this post, that popped into my head – and I feel that it’s quite fitting in this context. Had I stayed in Northern Virginia, sure, I might have continued to grow and evolve as a person, but I had to make a big change (in that of my geographical location and subsequently starting a new, completely different life) in order to really continuing growing – and getting the change chapter I so desperately needed. Change is scary: and there’s certainly been a wealth of it in my life over the past 13 months! After the change in geography, I went from being single to in a serious relationship very quickly, a big change for someone who had been on their own for so long; I held two (vastly different) new jobs in the span of six months; related, I went from working remote to being back in an office for as long as I could stand (only two months); my health improved, then deteriorated; I had a lapse in judgment when it came to drinking again, briefly… There have been so many changes, it’s a wonder I haven’t suddenly become an expert in change management!
As I continue to try to figure out my life (emphasis on try), one thing I know to be true is that it will be filled with more change. “The only constant is change”, as the saying goes. The past 13 months have made me a far more humble, sometimes patient, and very resilient human being. I find that I can pivot much more easily than I used to – and that when I do have to quickly switch gears, it isn’t as painful as it used to be. Sure, it is still difficult to go with the flow as a planner and mostly Type A person, however I think that this move and chapter chapter have really allowed me to adapt in ways I never thought possible. And for that I am immensely grateful.
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While We’re Waiting
I had to hunt through my drafts for this post, the idea (and title) having first been conceptualized in 2022 (!), almost two years ago. (I guess you could say my writer’s brain is consistent, at least…) I remember when I first came up with the title, it was vastly different than what has re-inspired me to pen this post. We’re all waiting on something right now – and we have been our whole lives.
We spend much of our lives waiting: as children, we just can’t wait to be like the older kids, so we can drive, shave our legs, and go out with friends. Then, when we do become teenagers, we realize it’s not all it’s cracked up to be – and we want to be adults. And so it continues into adulthood, when we find ourselves waiting for love or our perfect person; for a better-paying job; to finally execute our life-long dreams; to be where we want to be in life. Then we might find or acquire one of those things, however we’re always searching for and waiting on the next goal, aspiration, or frankly, high to make us happy. It truly never ends.
It’s a lot of hurry up and wait. Because life is hard (nay, exhausting) – and because good things take time.
I don’t know what you are patiently (or impatiently) anticipating right now: maybe it’s one of the aforementioned milestones; likely it’s a higher salary or some other type of financial windfall. Maybe it’s a baby you’ve wanted your whole life; a proposal; a new house; or news from the doctor about a loved one’s health. It could be some or all of those things, even.
So what do we do while we’re waiting? I’m beginning to realize none of the things I am waiting on are going to make me happy. True happiness would come from inner peace and finding solitude from the literal and figurative noise; from solving (or better managing) one or more of my chronic health issues; from being able to see my family more often – but it will not come from the temporary highs I am chasing. A tangible or material item is not going to bring us true joy, despite its symbolism. Similarly, moving into a quieter neighborhood or finally escaping to the countryside will still yield its fair share of problems, likely distant neighbors who have a “healthy” gun collection.
I think what we do while we wait says much about us as a person. It is during the waiting period that we can develop strengths like resilience and patience. Patience does not come easily to everyone – if you are a patient person by nature, then I applaud you, because I surely am not! Over the past few months, I have been waiting on many things, some that weigh more heavily on me than others. Some, like mental wellness, will take the rest of my life to achieve. Others, like financial stability, are perhaps more within reach. And during the waiting period, we can also focus on what we already have. I have been making a concerted effort every single day to remind myself of all the positives; to focus on everything I have been given in life and how far I have come in my sobriety, in finding my voice and (hopefully) growing as a writer, and in other areas of life. To no longer be alone and to finally have met my person is incredible: it is a sense of relief in and of itself. And to have a loving family, a roof over my head, a chance at a fresh start, a cat that loves me in his own little aloof way: these things all bring me great joy, happiness, and a sense of comfort.
Whatever it is that you’re waiting on, I hope that you, too, are able to focus on the positives; to find it within yourself to appreciate this waiting period for all that it will teach you – but not to lose faith in whatever it is you are eagerly anticipating. As I am fond of saying, “There is strength in the struggle” – and these periods of waiting can teach us so much about ourselves and help us to refocus as we look for just the tiniest shred of patience.
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Saturated Society
I’ve been debating whether to write this post for a few weeks now. It’s going to be a controversial one, but it needs to be said – and a little louder for the folks in the back. So please get comfy while I climb onto my soapbox about our saturated society for the next several paragraphs…
We live in a society that is saturated with alcohol: our culture is, on the whole, absolutely obsessed with getting drunk. But I know I don’t have to tell you this twice; it’s fairly common knowledge. Most people want to drink at every single event, plan their weekends around alcohol (happy hour, breweries, wineries, Super
StressfulBowl Sunday, you name it), and then, I guess, deal with the consequences on Monday morning. People, I get it: I, too, was stuck in that vicious cycle for an entire decade, all told. But what do you have to show for it, when you spend your entire life seeking out opportunities to drink?I will pause to interject that of course I know individuals who are able to balance enjoying some weekend wine tastings with the rest of their lives, for example, and not let their drinking take over. But for many, especially those (like me) who are genetically predisposed to alcoholism, they are walking on very thin ice; they are playing with fire. It is incredibly problematic, troublesome, and tragic in my opinion, that our culture condones (and encourages) alcohol misuse and abuse. According to the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism, there are 28.8 million adults, ages 18 and older, living with alcohol abuse disorder. Yikes. And the Columbia University Department of Psychiatry writes that, “Nearly one-third of Americans’ alcohol consumption puts them at risk for alcohol dependence.” I’m not great at math, but neither of those statistics are very comforting…
To attempt to play devil’s advocate, I know (from experience) that there are many reasons for turning to the bottle: it provides a brief escape from the deafening din of daily life; it is a coping mechanism for many. Also, it is incredibly difficult not to continue on a path of self-medicating with alcohol when, let’s face it, it is the easiest of the substances to find: you can procure it at just about every CVS, gas station, grocery store, Target, and other store imaginable. It is a HUGE, inescapable part of our culture, dating back to the early settlers. But it has become a terrible problem – and it continues to be. It is all the more heartbreaking, having gone through active addiction, then fighting to claw my way out of the darkest moments of my life, because I know all too well what it feels like to be consumed by this disease; this obsession. But I also know what it feels like to have my life (somewhat) together; to wake up without the shame, hangxiety, and headaches. I know that change IS possible – and I wish more than anything that other people could experience that, too. However, our society is far from healing if it remains nearly impossible to find non-alcoholic beers (and certainly wines – those are completely MIA) at local restaurants; if asking for a mocktail menu is met with a somewhat puzzled expression; if it remains an elusive concept to go to a comedy show where everyone isn’t BYOB to the max.
As someone who is now fighting tooth and nail to recover (once again) in a linear fashion, it fills me with rage that we are still very much on a fast track to destruction as a society. I hate that alcohol is so easy to come by. This means that, when I made the decision to somewhat briefly drink again during “Augtember”, I was able to get my hands on that problematic poison without anyone asking any questions whatsoever; without any difficulty at all. I am now (and have been) back in my right mind and back on the straight and narrow – and am so thankful for that – but it is completely understandable why this is now all the more upsetting, having experienced such a setback almost three full years into my sobriety. Am I blaming the stores that sell alcohol? No, not necessarily. I have free will and it was my decision to drink again. I am the one who experienced the break with reality; the “oh, screw it” moment. But the problem remains: alcohol is far too easy to obtain, both for legal adults and those that are underage. It’s also deeply ingrained in us, from a young age for many (depending on how they were raised), that it’s acceptable to drink at every meal; every occasion; every milestone. Then we go away to college and it’s game over. That should be its own separate post, as there is much to be said about the horrors of binge drinking during the collegiate years and the lasting effect that can have, when, for at least four years, that is the center of one’s existence. Naturally that sets the stage for the rest of adulthood.
This is a vast understatement, but it’s incredibly difficult to heal from active addiction to alcohol when you are surrounded by it, constantly – and I don’t just mean at the aforementioned stores. Let me start by giving you a recent example to back this up, that is truly absurd. I just went on the hunt for some new running hats – and I can’t even shop online without being assaulted by HATS (that should be a simple enough quest) that are covered in a beer motif, like this one from Sprints, their “Save Water” cap. Oh, my goodness, really? I realize they are likely trying to be cute – but give it a rest, will you? I would like to be able to do some online shopping in peace, without being reminded that beer is such an omnipresent part of the running (and marathon) scene, just once.
So, as a saturated society, where do we go from here? And how do I, personally, manage the anger of living in a country where every single social setting involves alcohol? A world in which I can’t even accomplish some Sunday shopping without coming across running paraphernalia that makes light of drinking in excess – or reminds me that there are never any fun alcohol-free options waiting for me at the finish line? How do other recovering alcoholics heal from their own trauma lived out during their active addiction? And how do we deal with the burden of having to plan ahead each time we go to a restaurant, a party, a work event, literally anywhere – knowing that we will have to potentially “explain” and defend the decision not to have an alcoholic beverage in hand? I don’t have the answer, not even close. This is not one of those posts that ends on a happy note. We have such a long way to go as a society, in educating ourselves on the horrors of alcohol abuse, of alcoholism, of the destruction that this poison causes for people, before we can even begin to think about changing. But I hope, through social media; months like “Dry January”; quit lit by incredibly talented writers who clawed their way out from the darkest depths of drinking despair, just like me; and by perhaps more loud voices from the back, that we might one day live in a society that is no longer completed saturated by the pervasive (and dangerous) presence of alcohol.
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Trigger Talk
As a recovering alcoholic, I frequently face triggering situations, some more overwhelming than others. In fact, I could probably (and maybe will) write an entire series about triggers. Perhaps you are also navigating how to deal with your former (and present) triggers – and how to cope with these anxiety-inducing circumstances without returning to the bottle or your substance of choice. I wish I was here to deliver the answer or some magical potion that would fix this for us – but what I do intend to provide is what has worked for me, in the hopes that perhaps one of these anecdotes might reach the right people and in turn, help them, too.
Over the past 3ish years and counting, I have amassed quite the collection of quotes and mantras; absorbed beautifully written quit lit by the likes of Laura McKowen and Annie Grace; run thousands of miles in my quest for peace (and some level of forgiveness of self) from my active addiction; made messes and mistakes; and put one foot in front of the other, often making it all up as I go.
One of my favorite mantras, which I believe I initially came across on Instagram, is, “Do the next right thing.” This saved me most recently, after a series of slips and the panic that comes with trying to get back on track, and has even inspired another similar concept, which is the idea of “getting over the brain hump”. What I mean by that is: when you are triggered by something – and maybe you are also seeing red with anger or rage – it is very difficult to get your mind over the hump to the other side, away from wanting to drink or use your substance of choice.
On a Saturday in early December, I was extremely PMS and dealing with my relentless PMDD + related depression – and the Noisy Neighbors were having a particularly loud day with their cabinets, doors, and of course, their dog, aka “the yap”. My boyfriend, M, had left for a social obligation and I had yet to figure out where I was going to run (I frequently go on “field trips” on the weekends to get in my long training runs and escape to the solitude of the trails). I was so overwhelmed by my depression; inability to make a decision about where to run; life; the irritation of living next to to the noisiest people on the planet; and the feeling that none of the aforementioned will ever resolve themselves, that I was naturally very triggered to drink and started having those scary thoughts of acting on it.
Miraculously, I was able to put together an “emergency plan” and eventually get my brain over the hump of feeling like I needed to drink. The first step is letting a loved one know how you’re feeling: I texted M to tell him that I was very triggered and desperately needed to get out of the house in the afternoon and/or as soon as he returned. He is extremely supportive of my recovery and naturally agreed that we needed to get away for a bit. We ended up at a creamery in the countryside (of course!) – and removing myself from (most of) the triggers was exactly what I needed. Sometimes taking yourself out of the situation is the answer. While it doesn’t necessarily fix or resolve what initially triggered you, I do find that a change of scenery can do a lot of good.
The other crucial piece of advice (what has worked for me, at least), is finding something that you can indulge in, that isn’t self-destructive and doesn’t compromise your sobriety. For me, that is ice cream – and lots of it! I am very fortunate to be in a relationship with someone who also has a sweet tooth and appreciates frozen treats as much as I do – and will drive all over the state with me to find new creameries and ice cream joints for us to enjoy together.
As we, in recovery, continue on our quest for peace from the past and endeavor to recover from our active addiction, we will always face triggering situations. That is simply a fact of life, unfortunately. But there is great pride in overcoming these triggers, in living to see another sober day; in getting over the “brain hump” and in figuring out what works in those moments of extreme panic. When we fall down or slip, there is always hope to get back on track: the person you have become in your sobriety, on your path towards healing, is still there, no matter how terrible the day was or how insurmountable the triggers were. For me, it’s about being a better version of myself and continuing to build on my sobriety success – and it’s also about using my struggle for good. Triggers are all temporary: if you can get through that which used to push you over the edge and lead you to self-medicate, you can do anything! Change is possible – and may we all continue to learn as we go and ultimately triumph over our triggers.
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Recovery Reflections
Happy New Year, dear readers! It is absolutely mind-bending to think that 2024 is upon us. Where did last year go? I’ve been looking for her all over, to no avail.
2023 was a real doozy for me, to say the least. As you may have read in this post, I took the biggest leap of faith to date and moved to a new state, without knowing a single person. I thought the move would kill me; little did I know what other challenges lay ahead.
As I reflect on my recovery, which is something I think about every single day, I’m filled with a wide range of emotions, as is to be expected. On the one hand, I am not the person I was when I initially broke up with the bottle in 2020. You can read more about that here. But on the other, I worry that my series of slips in “Augtember” and late 2023 set me back; I tend to dwell on my mistakes and failures rather than focusing on how far I’ve come and how amazing it is that I can go out to a fancy dinner with my boyfriend and make it through without ordering an enormous goblet of wine, for example. The old me could never!
I recently returned from my annual trip across the pond to visit my family in Terra Germania (aka Germany). This was a particularly triggering visit, although I tried to remind myself of all the things that were different this time: my boyfriend was taking care of our cat, Basil, as well as our house; I am working from home once again (praise be!) for a much, much more relaxed and understanding boss; aside from putting in the requisite hours and logging my daily miles, I could just relax during the visit; and last but certainly not least, I was reunited with my sibling, Em, who is my world and whom I had not seen in almost a year. But I just could not relax – and I suffered greatly during the night, for the entirety of my visit, which was extremely triggering. Real talk: some nights, I considered going downstairs and taking a swig of gin out of one of the bottles on my family’s bar table. But then I would “play it forward” and think about what would come next – and that was enough to put me in my place. Cravings are temporary; it’s imperative that we, as recovering alcoholics, remind ourselves of this. “The only way out is through” was my mantra during my Big Move – and it applies to moments like these, as well.
Perhaps one of the most triggering aspects of the trip, besides the insomnia, was my continued inability to get along with my mother. We have been struggling to communicate and understand each other for years – and she was a huge trigger for me when I was still actively addicted. I can’t blame another person for the times that I’ve drank post-sobriety, however she continues to get under my skin in a way that I cannot possibly articulate. One of my old therapists, with whom I met when I was initially getting sober in late 2020, had suggested that I needed to mourn the loss of the mother I wish I had. I think this is true for many of us: we yearn for people to be a certain way, especially those that are closest to us. Perhaps you can relate to this and also have a similar complicated relationship with a family member, relative, close friend, or significant other. The amount of anxiety this creates for us, especially in recovery, feels insurmountable. When you add the lack of unconditional love to the equation, it’s even more impossible to think that you will ever move past this feeling. I struggle with the way forward or where we go from here, as it’s difficult to imagine that we will ever see eye-to-eye, or that she will be able to finally treat me like an adult. This is of course very much something I need to continue to work on in therapy, but I know I’m not the only person in recovery who struggles with contentious relationships and how much they affect our sobriety.
As I settle back into life in the new year and endeavor to get unpacked and decorate the house for Valentine’s Day (only one of my favorite pastimes ever!), I am making a concerted effort to congratulate myself for getting through my annual international trip without giving into any of my cravings or moments of extreme triggers. This is an enormous accomplishment and it should be celebrated: in my previous life, I would have drank copious amounts of whatever poison I could get my hands on, which would have made the situation(s) at hand far more untenable. To be able to make it through a 4-hour delay in Frankfurt or getting hassled in security for “explosive” materials in my makeup bag (ooookay) or any of the aforementioned contentious conversations with my mother WITHOUT turning to the bottle is incredible. I want nothing more than to be able to use this strength and progress to help other people – and that is part of this blog’s purpose. I hope that the words of this blog reach the right person or people – and may you know that you are not alone in your challenges, but that there is always hope for persevering through difficult times and triggers. As we all consider our goals for 2024, may you find the time to reflect on your own recovery, whether that be also from alcohol or perhaps a different substance of choice. And may you always believe in yourself, that change is possible; that you will find your purpose and calling in life; and that there is strength in the struggle.
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All An Adjustment
A little over eight months ago, I packed up my life and my cat, and moved 132 miles to a state where I knew not a single person. This is is, to date, the craziest thing I’ve ever done – but I had to do it, in order to get the fresh start that I have wanted (and needed) for far too long. These past few months have spanned the whole gamut of emotions and lessons. I will start off by saying that I never considered the mental and emotional ramifications of moving; I was far too focused first, on finding a house, and then, on the logistics of packing up, medicating my anxious cat (it runs in the family…), and actually physically getting here, that I failed to think about what it would be like once I was living somewhere new, with zero support network, significant other, family, or friends. What follows are some of the impressions from the early daze and months in my new digs, as I navigated unfamiliar territory, tried to be brave, surprised myself, and effectively made it all up along the way.
1. *I* am definitely the problem
It didn’t take too long before I was fairly miserable in the new neighborhood. I wish more than anything that weren’t the case, but it’s true – and the whole point of this blog is to be brutally honest, not only for the sake of catharsis but also to hopefully be relatable to someone else who might be going through something similar. I can’t remember the exact moment I started (routinely and daily) having “What the f- was I thinking…?” pop into my head. Some of it has been more recent, such as when I started (another) new job and had to begin battling traffic to get out of the “f*ckerhood” in the mornings. But some of it was right away, e.g. the Noisy Neighbors and their inability to close cabinets correctly, or EVER be quiet and respectful of their duplex neighbor. It also doesn’t help that they have an extremely yappy dog – or an “overgrown rat”, as my dad calls them. Now, I’m getting off-topic per usual, but I quickly realized that *I* am the problem: I was miserable dealing with the noise pollution and assholes of Northern Virginia – and now I am dealing with a different type of misery, here in Pennsylvania. But this brings me to the second point…
2. Life is a series of trade-offs
You really only ever trade one problem for another. Sometimes you trade multiple problems at the same time; in other instances, it might be more gradual. But it’s always, always something. And it’s always going to be. Which now leads me to the next point…
3. Ice cream is the answer, no matter the question
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention ice cream towards the beginning of this list. And when I mention everyone’s favorite frozen treat, I don’t mean from the carton, although that works, too. No, I mean that Amish Country is chock-full of creameries: in fact, the state of Pennsylvania has around 5,000 dairy farms, which equates to a wealth of delicious creameries, ice cream shops, and old school custard stands. When I met my boyfriend and future husband (we’re getting to that soon!), we bonded over our mutual love of ice cream – and eating our way through the state has become one of the central parts of our relationship. Plus, it almost always cheers us up, when we need a little comforting. Kind of hard to stay glum when you’re eating a scoop (or several) of frozen cream, sugar, and vanilla with your better half!
4. Acceptance is a muscle
I don’t know if I spent much time thinking about this when I was still living in Virginia, but I really, really struggle with acceptance. I struggle to accept things like my mental health (or sometimes lack thereof); I struggle to accept that I’m not where I want to be in life (frankly, geographically or otherwise); I struggle with all of it. And this is very difficult, because I feel like I am constantly experiencing cognitive dissonance as a result. I WANT to be able to accept my reality and try to make the best of it, especially since I do know how richly blessed I am. But I feel as though I am constantly going over and over the same thought or topic in my brain, as I grapple with the reality of it and as I endeavor to try to accept it as fact and as reality. And so, it occurred to me that acceptance is a muscle of sorts: we have to train ourselves, like we do with our actual muscles, to embrace our situation in the hopes of full acceptance.
6. A fresh start does not indicate continued sobriety success
The events of “Augtember”, as I’ve dubbed it, deserve their own post – but I will say that, as with most things related to my fresh start, I thought new surroundings would automatically equate to continued success in sobriety. Unfortunately a slap in the face came in the form of a series of slips – but what I’ve realized is that I am the only one who can forgive myself; recovery is not linear – and don’t let anyone tell you differently; and it’s okay to fall down as long as you get up in a spectacular fashion. My sobriety doesn’t define me – and I think I’m still coming to terms with that.
7. It’s stupidly difficult to make friends in your early- to mid-30’s
I don’t think I need to elaborate too much on this one: it’s unreal how hard it is making friends as an adult! I’m incredibly grateful for technology, as it has allowed me to keep in touch with my best friends back in Virginia and elsewhere, but I am seriously in need of some estrogen in my life.
8. The obsession with grass is unfortunately NOT unique to Northern Virginia
This one makes me sad AND angry. I always tell people one of the reasons I left the DC suburbs was to escape the noise pollution. What I didn’t account for was the fact that I would be near enough to other suburbs in my new dwellings – and that even people with small yards are obsessed with running their noisy lawn equipment in all seasons, at all hours of the day. I’m working on going deaf via whichever set of AirPods or earbuds is fully charged – and I’m so thankful for ambient music like this one.
9. You’ll find love when you least expect it, but…
This story deserves its own post (which I will soon link here), but the single greatest thing to come from my Big Move was meeting my person – and fairly straight away, I should add. In fact, I sometimes beat myself up for not focusing more on the positives (of course, this is true in ALL areas of my life, not just related to the good fortune of meeting my boyfriend!) but just because you found love…
10. …doesn’t mean that suddenly everything is perfect!
In the early days of falling in love (or fighting the flu!) everything truly seemed perfect: we were both in this delightful little bubble of love and sheer bliss, reveling in the fact that we had finally met our person and now we would never let each other go. Meeting in the 3rd quarter, as we say, means that we can do things on our own timeline, like getting married on the anniversary of our first date. Yes, our love does make me delirious on a daily basis – and yes, I will do my best never to take him for granted or the fact that moving to Pennsylvania was written in the stars, since it meant I would meet him – but life still comes at you from all angles. I think the beauty of finding your person means that you no longer have to walk through life alone: you finally have someone there for you, no matter the day or the circumstances, and you’re there for them, too. This is everything I’ve ever wanted – and yes, it was worth every stressful moment of Moving Mania to find him!
In sum, am I glad I moved? ABSOLUTELY. Have I had a lot of harsh realities about being the problem and needing to learn how to cope? YES. Am I stronger because of what I’ve gone through and the times that I’ve had to put myself out there and be brave? Also yes. Am I looking forward to moving again? Yes – but I’ll probably still be unpacking and getting settled up until the movers come…
Have you had a similar moving experience or had to adjust to a new life outside of your comfort zone? Drop me a comment below!
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Disappointment Dealings
Note: I first started this post in January and then got caught up in Moving Mania, so I am only now getting around to publishing it. Hopefully it will wake up the part of my brain that has been sleeping on so much content lately.
I haven’t blogged in far too long, mainly because I couldn’t find the words to properly describe the month of December, nor could I summon the strength or energy to write about the events that have transpired.
I tend to overuse the term “rollercoaster”, but it really was – and I suffered extreme whiplash as a result.
In an effort to maintain some level of privacy and not eat more crow than I already have, I will share the high-level overview, which is that I gained a lot and promptly lost it. It was one disappointment after another: finding out I need to be far, far more careful whom I trust; learning that there can be plenty of snags in the home-buying process; and being reminded for the 974793th time that just because you think you met someone lasting and special does not mean that they see you that way. If I had a dime for every instance in which I have been friend-zoned or dismissed for some completely asinine reason, I would probably be able to comfortably retire right now.
I made it through the holidaze (and my visit abroad) sober by some miracle, though there were plenty of stressful moments, due to aforementioned losses, unnecessary drama, and contentious conversations that definitely could have waited. I’m reminded all the time why I drank: because I have too many emotions and I never knew (and sometimes present tense) how to deal with them. And because life is hard; it doesn’t come with a manual and for those of us who are recovering addicts, we have to learn everything for the first time, it seems. But I try to dig deep into that marathon mentality and get through it as best I can. Because I know that I have everything to lose – and for as convoluted as my life feels at the moment, it would be exponentially more so were I to ever drink again.
Most recently, I lost three people who were very dear to me in the span of one week – and when I say “lost”, I don’t mean to death but to other unfortunate circumstances (starting to date someone new; a very silly fight; the friend-zoning nonsense of “I don’t see a future with you,” and so forth). I’m telling myself this is simply the season I’m going through. There were some high points previously, so the pendulum must swing in the other direction. And it will swing back again, eventually. I’ve certainly been in the desert plenty of times before and I always get through it. People (especially men) come and go; they are either in our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. I will say there have been a wealth of seasonal folks lately, that’s for sure.
I watch other people in my life getting the things that they want and certainly have worked hard to gain – and while I am of course happy for them, I am also incredibly envious. Every time I’ve been truly happy and thought that everything was falling into place, there has been some catch. “But wait – there’s more!”, to quote that meme from 2020 I referenced in a previous post. That makes me laugh but it’s sadly so true. And of course I know I am probably being somewhat melodramatic, because I have all of the basics in life plus a family that loves me – and much more. Not being able to live up to my full potential and not feeling like I’m making any progress on my goals – not to mention being alone/single and having a corner on the market for the worst luck with men – is making me a little insane, though, and unbelievably depressed. When am I finally going to get it right? Maybe never. And that’s a sobering thought but it’s entirely possible. I have had an immense amount of anxiety about the impending move, thinking that perhaps the things I want in life – not to mention the person – won’t be there. They could be anywhere, I just don’t know WHERE – or if they exist at all.
I’m never quite sure what lessons life is trying to teach me, especially because I can’t seem to find a way to look at the past month or so without being angry. I’m watching myself become more and more jaded and cynical with each passing day. And if I’m already this hardened and filled with rage at age 33, what am I going to be like in 10 years? Or 15? Or more? Will the darkness of my soul eventually be my demise? Life is hard – and there are no guarantees. Nothing was promised to me; nothing that I thought I had gained was actually mine for the taking. So perhaps the first lesson in disappointment dealings is that you have to take the losses, chalk it up to experience, and keep moving. I’ve wasted too much of my precious time and (limited) sanity, not to mention expended far too much energy, on the most recent losses and changes in the status quo. The ability to let things roll off my back does not come easily to me. I think part of the problem is that it was a string of events, one right after another, and they came on the tail-end of 2022, which deserves a post of its own. Had they been spaced out more, perhaps that would have made it feel less personal, less like the odds are stacked against me specifically. The second lesson (and perhaps issue) is that I’m equating success with finding my person and settling down. It doesn’t make me any less successful because I’m single/unmarried. Northern Hellville and the greater D.C. area is not known for its dating successes; just take a moment to read through one of those “Overheard in DC” Instagram accounts and you’ll see what I mean. Or if you live here, you know what I’m talking about, probably only all too well. So I should not take it as a slight on me as a person that I have not been able to find Mr. Right, especially given where I’ve spent the majority of my adult life. Having a change of scenery will do me good, for a myriad of reasons, though I am in such a fragile state of mind that this is probably not the best time to give dating another shot.
Enough time has passed that I’m starting to be able to view these disappointment dealings and the month of December as reminders that there are no guarantees – and never to take anything for granted. Did those disappointments and losses make me stronger? Maybe. They definitely made me more cynical. But I think the greatest reminder from this series of setbacks is that I can get through anything – after all, I finally looked myself in the mirror and said “I can’t do this anymore”, and so I got sober. And if I can do that, all on my own, I can handle whatever life throws my way, however disappointing it might be.
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Manic Mondaze
This past Monday was a literal Monday. If you had opened up a dictionary, gone to the letter M, and found the word “Monday”, there would have been a picture of me with my seasonal dress caught in the waistband of my hunter green ribbed tights; the very picture of mortified after my boss ran into my office to advise me on this little situation. And then further down, there would have been a picture of me screaming on the phone with Papa Z about my “unsat” ob/gyn appointment and the latest drama with Kaiser Permabullshit. But you know what? Still we persist and still we stay sober. Because, as I was thinking before my eventual evening nap, drinking would have made the crazy-dramatic day that I had even worse. I cannot fathom waking up at 2 or 4 AM with a headache and all of the shame and hangxiety that I would have been shrouded in, had I drank after the day that I’d had. No. It is never an option. And I am so thankful for the growth I’ve experienced, even over the last few months and weeks, that allows me to truly believe this to my very core; to know that drinking will not improve anything; to find other ways to cope. Sometimes that involves venting to my sibling or dad; it often involves a nap, because sleep does soften the edges of whatever it is we are going through; it frequently entails a trip to Target; and of course, sometimes I have to go for a first or second run of the day at 8 PM. (Thank goodness for reflective gear + headlamps!) But it never involves alcohol. And as the daze are flying by and my international flight is looming, I hope that I can continue reminding myself of this and continue building upon my successes, so that no matter what happens at Dulles Airport or how anxious I am feeling on the flight, I will resort to watching one of the holiday movies I downloaded on Netflix or blogging or taking another piece of the carefully rationed Ativan or eating a bag of SmartSweets. But NOT asking the flight attendant for a glass of wine. That is going to make the flight worse; it would be flushing 26 months of sobriety down the drain. (That said, if I ever did relapse for some reason, I would very quickly get back on track and not dwell on aforementioned statement about the amount of time during which I had successfully stayed sober. But the preference is NOT to ever fall off the wagon ever again, of course!)
Back to Monday. I should have known it was gon’ be some bullshit, to quote Kalen Allen – whose hilarious mac and cheese video reviews always make me feel a little better when I’ve had a day like this – when the ob/gyn I saw called me out for being late. Well, Linda, it was a busy morning – and oh, by the way, I always have to wait when I come here to waste my time, so maybe it’s time I flipped the script and made YOU people wait? Just a thought. Also, I was only 5 minutes late – and that was partially because I had to stand in line to talk to the receptionist about the co-pay. So technically I was punctual. I am really getting sick of the absurdity of not only having a uterus, but of the so-called “care” that people with uteruses receive and the ludicrous responses and “solutions” we are given to the pain we are in. *Legitimate* pain, I should add. I have been told before – as I am sure you have as well, if you have a uterus – to (direct quote), “Start taking ibuprofen the day before your cramps begin.” Wait, what? THAT is your solution? To take more NSAIDs and pain killers? How is that good for our livers…? As I said to Papa Z, the real MVP for putting up with all of this, “That is an incredibly unsat response.” This judgmental Judy continued to, yes, pass judgment when I told her about all of the 900 herbs, supplements, and vitamins that I take to try and remedy some of this pain, discomfort, and of course, my insanely volatile PMS moods. Later on, I read in the notes she posted in my account on their online portal: “Patient notes she is taking ‘200’ supplements.” Okay, so first of all, I exaggerate a lot – and obviously she didn’t pick up on that, nor does she have a sense of humor. To be fair, though, in all of my years of dealing with various health issues and assorted ailments, I have never met a doctor with a sense of humor. Therapists, yes – and thank goodness I got back in touch with mine, because it is about time. But doctors, absolutely not. Maybe there is a medical professional in this world who is funny, but I have yet to meet them. The appointment really was such a colossal waste of not only my time but also hers, since the only thing we seemed to accomplish and agree on was that she could write me a prescription for anti-nausea medication for day 1 of my period, which is probably a lot like being pregnant and having morning sickness, if I had to guess. I’ve never been pregnant and no plans to ever go through that, but I can only imagine… Of course, I was so angry about the interactions and sheer judgment during the appointment that I raced out of the building and forgot to pick up the new medication. So that is yet another thing on my growing pre-trip to-do lists now.
I would like to add how immensely grateful I am to have such a close relationship with my dad (unfortunately not geographically – but one day, hopefully!) that I can vent to him about things like this. I know not everyone can tell their father about their painful periods or about the b*tches who work at their current insurance provider/HMO. But Papa Z is the best; he is so patient and I know he is just as aware as I am that better days are coming and that this particular insurance was just a stepping stone – and a lesson learned. I will be writing a separate post about womanly woes, because there is far, far more to cover – but the sum of it is that it is incredibly “unsat”, borderline ludicrous, to go see a doctor about your hormonal issues and pain – and to only receive judgment, ridicule, and shitty advice, like “Take more ibuprofen!”, instead of actual solutions or remedies. One final thing on the subject: she did offer to write me a prescription for Zoloft or Prozac (yes, please) to be taken whilst I am PMS – but then she reneged on it and said “Why don’t you try St. John’s Wort first??” Insert multiple expletives here, as I will NOT be adding another supplement to my Amazon cart or to my stomach. I think I’m taking enough already as it is. Let me tell you: IT IS A WILD TIME BEING A WOMAN. And quite frankly, I am over it. But what is the solution? I don’t really think there IS one. Doctors only (and always) want to push birth control on their patients who have severe periods and PMS. I have yet to hear of another “solution” in all of my years of dealing with this, which is insane and just plain wrong.
I then had to scoot into the office, since Monday is my “office day”, to get to three meetings aka Wastes of Time. Now, the one meeting I was looking forward to, since we were going to get coffee (field trip!) and it was with a woman I really like and admire. But the other two meetings were with white men, so I needn’t say more. Everything went more or less fine with aforementioned meetings, except that one of the men with whom we are currently working on some Comms initiatives decided it was a good time to say some sexist, harassment-laden things to me. See below meme that I saved from years ago when I was suffering through the corporate world to properly convey how I was feeling in that moment. I handled it with as much grace and poise as I could, given the day that I’d already had, and told him that it was not appropriate to say that. (I think the direct quote was, “Ha, no, you can’t say that.” Maybe not harsh enough – but I am still getting my voice with regards to calling men out on their BS. It shouldn’t be hard but for whatever reason it is. But that’s what this blog is for, in the meantime). After that whole ordeal, I went back into my office to finish up a few things, already drained by this point. And that is when the dress drama occurred. I still cannot believe I used the bathroom at the coffee shop without taking my coat off or without checking to make sure my dress was smoothed out and not caught in my tights. I am so thankful I have a very close relationship with my boss – I really consider him a friend – because otherwise, I cannot imagine how much worse this could have been. I was plenty mortified as it was. So now my boss has seen my butt. Not many people can say that. I, of course, find a great deal of humor in this, now that several days have passed. “It’s terrific fodder for the blog!”, as I said to one of my best friends at dinner the other night. Stories usually become funnier with the more time and distance that we put between ourselves and the situation that occurred.
I finally escaped the office, not before taking a call from one of the people on our #EndlichesExodus team who was calling about the title, and made it home to Basil and a lorge amount of snacking, both for the Hooman and the cat. My best Bob aka my sibling fielded my second vent call of the day and “Woooow”-ed at all the appropriate moments and as always, made me feel so much better about everything. Again I say: how lucky am I to have such a wonderful family and support system? I know this blog tends to err on the side of ventations and frustrations, but holy goodness, do I ever feel fortunate to have so many loving people in my life. I think my sobriety has enabled me to see this much more clearly, since I can now truly appreciate all that I have. That doesn’t make everything easier, but on the whole, it does make life more manageable, having people to whom I can freely vent, who will always offer advice, help, relevant memes, snacks, assistance and groceries when sick, etc. After dealing with some more work and thinking about the above drinking dilemma but knowing full well that it wouldn’t solve anything, I took a tiny piece of Ativan and then napped for an hour. GLORIOUS. I then proceeded to putter for a few hours, since I was feeling a lot peppier as the day began to fade into the background, and eventually put the day down, per my man Emerson. Yes, friends, it was a manic Monday – but you know what manic Mondays often bring? Terrific Tuesdays. And the following day was truly spectacular. More on that in a coming post.
The takeaway is that the days of the week are essentially analogous to life, at the risk of sounding corny: a manic Monday is known to bring a terrific Tuesday (although not every week), just as the low times we go through make us appreciate the joyous times all the more. And I will say that my active addiction and the misery of that chapter of my life has made me immensely appreciative of what I have now. I never thought it was possible to get through a day like this past Monday without drinking. “She could never!” But now, she does – and she is so proud of herself.
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Concurrent COVID Crises
This has been a rough week. And interestingly it all started with last week, which set the tone for this week. (We will get to that in a minute or 10). But to put it in broader terms, this has been a rather rough year. And of course, I think about this daily: that it could always be so much worse and I do have a great deal for which I am thankful. However, it could also be so much BETTER… I definitely tend to be a “glass half empty” gal, especially within the last few years of my life. Which I realize is quite ironic considering I fought my demons and emerged victoriously sober, so I should be riding high from that major win. Of course I am very grateful each and every day for the absolute gift of my sobriety – but the initial “pink cloud” has evaporated, leaving me with all of my unsolved problems laid bare; my past trauma rearing its ugly head at the most inopportune times; and deep, deep cynicism and rage after all of the utter shit that I have been through at the hands of these “irresponsible white men”, to quote my sibling – 100% accurate, Bob, per usual.
Even before the beginning of what I am sharing with you in today’s tale, it has felt like one little thing – one irritant, one headache – after another lately. Again: yes, of course, it could be much worse. I always try to focus on one thing to the next: for example, getting home safely (after fighting all of Northern Hellville on the roads) from errands or my office day; parking Tobias next to his cousin in the garage; thanking the universe for my reliable transportation modes and my warm, cuddly, and usually irritated son waiting for me upon my return; a spacious roof over my head, thanks to my parents’ generosity and forethought; my sobriety; the ability to run each and every day – one of the greatest joys of my life; my amazing, insanely thoughtful, loving, always-there-for-my-emergency-FaceTime-calls, and magnanimous Z Clan; and all of the other small-but-actually-big blessings I have and my new personal favorite, “First World Privileges™ “. (Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it? You may borrow it but I will get the royalties.)
This past week commenced with a super fun (no, not really) virtual appointment with a white male psychiatrist (my first mistake), with the innocuous intent of procuring another Ativan refill for my annual escape to the homeland aka Terra Germania for the holidaze. This man had the literal audacity to put me on blast for “needing” a little white 1-milligram pill to be able to get on a plane to go see my family (or frankly, get through a triggering situation, stave off an oncoming panic attack, etc.) I would just like to reiterate: ONE MILLIGRAM. And this fucking HMO, Kaiser Permabullshit, expects me to make a container of 10 1-mg pills last for three to four months before needing another refill – but not before going through a ridiculously lengthy process to get in with a psychiatrist (after the last one left their bullshittery for greener pastures, unsurprisingly), and then having to justify why I need more Ativan. This is 2022 in America. Seriously: do you people not have other far more important battles to fight? Needless to say, I got feisty fast and was incredibly defensive towards this judgmental lunatic who essentially put me on trial for taking a drug that helps me to stay sober. And I told him that, too – you know I did. It took me 20 minutes to actually get him to fill the prescription, not before him “educating” me (cringe-vomit) about the “other resources available to me” (I need a barf tray) like meditation, CBT therapy or whatever the acronym is, and additional – quite frankly – asinine suggestions that maaaybe would work for situations other than flying, but puh-lease. This is a full-on phobia; this is also my anxiety and panic and sadness over leaving Basil (with a sitter); and it is oneeeee milligram. I promise I’m not going to punch a wall right now – but I’d like to.
I managed to escape very much scathed from that whole situation and went about my afternoon, making the mistake of texting a flash in the pan whom you will learn about later on as well as in the subsequent post, to tell him about the “psychiatric” encounter through which I had just suffered. Now, in hindsight, a couple of lessons learned: 1. I should maybe not have used that word – because the more I thought about it, it does sort of have more of a mental institution vibe to it and I certainly was not about to get in a straight jacket (please know this is a joke and I am not attempting to make fun of anyone in need of a psychiatric facility! Merely my attempt to cope through the use of sarcasm and dark humor…) 2. I should probably have texted anyone other than him, since we had JUST met and he was “needing space” already – my God, I cannot wait to blog about this asshole in his own separate post. Little did I know that this would be the last time I heard from him – and truly, this might be the final straw with men. I say that – and I love to joke about joining a convent – but we alllllll know I’ll be back for more. My most fatal flaw.
The short work week was over as quickly as it began (hallelujah) and I thought I would have a nice, quiet, relaxing Thanksgiving to myself, after going to my first-ever Caps game on Wednesday night with one of my best bros (aka guy friends) and his BFF. Hahahaha, was I ever wrong! Shortly after 8 AM, the commercial leafblowers began. And believe me when I say they did not cease until after 3 PM. ON THANKSGIVING DAY. Who the literal fuck is hiring these crews to come out on a major holiday?!?! I actually do hope some of my neighbors read this, because I would genuinely like to have a polite, civilized conversation in which they explain to me why on earth their leaves needed to be blown into smithereens on what was supposed to be everyone’s only day off until the December holidaze. Please see the below photo showing no less than FOUR of those satanic noise machines going at once in my neighbor’s yard. My ears were ring-a-ding-ding-ing from Spotify blaring Enya at the absolute max volume to drown out the eternal banes of my existence, that have now continued into the first day of December… At this rate, I suppose they’ll be blowing snow here in a few weeks, which will be just as productive (not) as what they’ve been doing.
I was so drained from the stress of it all and “babysitting” them, waiting for them to leave the fucking neighborhood, and then not being able to enjoy my run, that I honestly cannot tell you what I did on Black Friday, other than some work/getting rid of emails and making progress on my Christmas decorations. Photos follow, because I think we all need a little joy after reading through this miserable recap. My apologies, but writing = therapy. We are now coming up on a somewhat “exciting” turn in my concurrent crises, that would soon be joined by another C-word. Saturday I was feeling a little weird, so I masked up when I went to Michaels for a few additional crafts/decor items. By Sunday, I was experiencing chills, a slight fever, achy joints, a sore throat, general malaise, and I knew I was sick – “Probably just the flu“, I thought, since I have taken upwards of 9ish COVID tests over the past year or so, only for all of them to be negative. And I am about as fully vaxxed and double-boosted as a person can be, after dating my Republican ex. So naturally, I was exempt from getting COVID until now…
I spent most of Sunday in bed – and ditto Monday. This is extremely rare for me. If you know me in “real life”, you know that I am a million miles a minute, all the time. There is no rest in my world, which – quite frankly – is probably how this all happened to begin with. If it’s not running/training, it’s laundry; dishes; decorating/projects; more laundry; house hunting; sending my resume into the black abyss of companies’ hiring portals; writing/blogging – but never enough; trying in vain to keep Basil satiated; errands; endeavoring to fill the void in my soul at Target; fighting with white men constantly; balking at the price of groceries… By Monday night, I was feeling so miserable mentally, not to mention physically, that I had basically “wasted” half of my weekend when I had so many other things to accomplish around the house. As a result, I really pushed myself on Tuesday, and although I was super drugged up, I did feel better-ish on Wednesday morning. But my plans to go back to sleep for a bit around 7:30 AM were thwarted by an incoming article from my dad about the differences between RSV, flu, and COVID symptoms (linked here.) I was about halfway finished reading it when I had this thought, “Uh, huuuuh. You know, I should probably go straight to my bathroom and take a test…” In hindsight, of course I am quite irritated with myself that I didn’t test right away on Sunday or even Saturday, but as I mentioned, I have literally wasted tests, or so it felt like at the time, during all of the other instances when it was merely a bad cold-flu.
When I dipped this little guy in the solution and set my 10-minute timer, I can tell you that I absolutely did not think I would come back in and find those two pastel lines. But alas, “Your girl has COVID *grimace face emoji*”, I texted the Z Clan. I proceeded to let my boss know, although I’ve been mostly working straaaight through, as well as do some research on how long I need to isolate and whether I should contact my favorite team of doctors at Kaiser Perma-BS… and then I placed my first-ever Amazon Fresh order! And thus, the birth of “First World Privileges™“.
Now it is approaching 10 PM a full 24 hours after the last test I took (also positive, ugh – I guess I was hoping it would miraculously go away?!) and I am just… so utterly spent and drained. If you can believe it (yes, you can), this isn’t even everything! (Do you remember that clever little meme from the beginning of this whole pandemic mess, wherein the caption said, “But wait! There’s more!” – because that is genuinely how I feel at present. And it is honestly becoming amusing). We have yet to get into the absolute mess of a day at the Richmond Marathon on November 12, OR the asshole who helped me get to the finish line and then ghosted me two-ish weeks later after one of the best dates of my life, OR my raging insomnia the past two nights as a result of some weird unbeknownst-to-me agitation and restlessness symptom of COVID – but I am afraid we will have to save that for subsequent posts because it is late and I need to attempt to get into a much better frame of mind for sleeping tonight. So I will leave you with this parting salvo: I have never been more grateful for this blog; for those of you who follow me; for the ability to articulate what I am going through; or for the innate gift to come up with alliterative titles for these vent-y volumes. Good night to all – please take your vitamins and always, always test if you think you have COVID. Don’t wait three whole business days to shove a swab up your cute little nostrils!
