all my life, so to have her physically absent as well didn’t seem like that much of a difference to me. When I would act out, as I had become accustomed to doing, my father would tiptoe around me as though I might scream or shatter at any time. In many ways, that was pretty accurate. Back then I was a walking live wire at all times, so no one could ever predict my emotional outbursts or severe mood swings.
So now here I was years later, glued to the TV at 4:00 p.m. each day like an obsessed evangelist watching The 700 Club, waiting for my daily dose of scripture. In early recovery, people are like sponges; we soak up everything around us. I would go to my daily meeting and share my newfound Oprah enlightenment, which would always rouse a chuckle out of everyone. In fact, it earned me the nickname “Oprah Jen” for my first year at meetings in Center Hall.
Instead of laughing at me, though, those people understood what I was saying and going through. They understood how new to all this I was and how, in early recovery, everything is a deep and new revelation.
I was starting to go stir-crazy being in the house and not working, so I went to the local hobby store and looked around. Being alone for eight hours or more was too much for me, and I needed something to occupy my mind and my time. I looked around the shop at various art projects, stitch work, needlepoint, and paint-by-number kits. I had tried all these activities at different points of my life, but never finished any of them. I learned in rehab and in therapy that I had an issue with finishing things. I am inherently a perfectionist, and in therapy I discovered that once I had started using, I stopped tasks completely. I was afraid they wouldn’t live up to the enormous expectations I had in my mind, so it was easier to make excuses as to why I never finished them.
That fear of imperfection kept me from finishing various things in my life. I barely graduated high school because I skipped so many classes and so many days that the administrators said I was too delinquent to attend graduation. The ceremony was seen as a privilege, and I didn’t quite earn mine. After that I attempted to take some college-level classes, but stopped attending the classes midway through the semester because I just didn’t feel like going. I was only twenty-two years old, but during my time in the workforce I’d had more than thirty-six jobs in almost as many fields: waitress, hostess, bartender, insurance claims adjuster, travel agent, receptionist, shampoo girl, medical assistant. You name it, and I had tried it—but never finished it. I would decide one day that I wanted to go to college and would start filling out applications, and then toss them aside to collect dust on my desk. Another day I would decide I wanted to be a flight attendant, call the agency, get the application, and tell everyone I was going to pursue this career, only to find the application months later sitting on top of the unfinished college applications. I was never committed to anything, so it was easy to abandon things. As I left for rehab, my former counselor looked at me and said, “Well, you are going to rehab for thirty days. Finish that.” I did finish rehab, so that was my first completed task to date.
My new therapist was also big on getting me to finish at least one simple task. So as I stood in front of this wall of crafts, my eyes were drawn to a paint-by-number kit that showed two wolves and beautiful moonlit scenery. I picked it up and looked it over. It seemed easy enough; it came with the canvas labeled with numbers to show you where to paint each color, a plastic row of paints with coinciding numbers on them, and a cheap paintbrush with hard, plastic bristles. I decided if I was going to do this paint-by-number thing, I was going to take this work of art seriously, so I moved over to the paintbrush aisle to pick out a real paintbrush. I found a nice brush and went to the counter to pay for my new project. I didn’t have a ton of money at the time, but my living expenses were zero under Matt’s roof, I was able to collect a little bit of unemployment from my last job as a waitress, and my parents would send me some money every now and then.
When I arrived home, I pulled my purchase out of the bag and opened it with excitement, mainly because I was just happy to have something different to do with my time. I was fine when at therapy and meetings, but that only took up at the max three hours of my day. I was left to fill the other hours, which at this point was making me nutty. So with much anticipation, I set up a little painting studio in Matthew’s living room, right in front of the TV, because it was close to 4:00 p.m. and Oprah was coming on. I began my hobby and became quite enthralled with this new activity.
I found painting very calming, which was exactly what I needed. I carefully filled in each numbered space with the corresponding paint color from the box. This became part of my daily routine. Wake up, drink coffee, avoid Matthew’s advances, go to a meeting, on some days go to therapy, come home, eat lunch, paint and watch Oprah, wait for Matthew to come home, go to a meeting with him, usually just come home afterward, spend some time watching TV with his dad, and go to bed. The painting became the highlight of my daily life. Realizing that saddened me. I really was starting to feel as though I needed a job or some type of purpose.
By the way, I did finish the painting, and it was quite brilliant if I may say so myself. I framed that bad boy and gave it to my oldest brother, Jimmy, for a Christmas present. To this day, he still has it hanging on his wall. It is my one-piece ongoing art exhibit, and I am damn proud.
After finishing that artwork, and as a result of continual attendance in therapy, it was clear to me that I needed to get a job, get out of Matthew’s house, and get out of the relationship, for that matter. I had been discussing the relationship in therapy, and, although my therapist never told me what to do, the day I mentioned it might be healthy for me to move out and end it, she was elated. It was becoming more and more difficult to pretend to be his girlfriend anyway. We never spent much time alone; we didn’t interact as a couple in terms of kissing or having sex. Eventually, one night when he came into my room and attempted to slip into bed with me while his father was out, I had had enough, sat him down, and told him I was just not ready to be in a relationship—that I needed to focus on my recovery. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that was only half true.
I just felt nothing for him sexually or romantically. It wasn’t him— he was a sweetheart. It was me. There is a really good reason that counselors and others advise you to not be in a relationship during the first year of recovery. Everything is so raw and new, and the focus really needs to be on yourself and your program. However, this is not an easy concept for newcomers, especially us young ones, when we are finally feeling alive again in our bodies and hormones are raging. The sexual energy in a room full of young people in recovery can be a whole other type of intoxicating. It is quite surprising that on any given day you don’t walk into a young people’s meeting and see them all dry-humping each other like dogs in heat.
Matt did not take it very well when I told him, so I knew I needed to get the hell out of his house ASAP.
BY BREAKING UP WITH MATT, I HAD JUST THROWN my newfound routine and stability into upheaval. It was clear after dumping him that I had worn out my welcome and needed to move on. Even though I knew it was the right thing to do, I found myself very emotional after it all. I was sad for hurting him, but I also immediately missed the attention and “love” I thought I had received from him. I cried a lot about it—not so much over him but more for myself and the void I felt inside me. It was confusing, because I also found myself ecstatic about my new ability to vocalize my needs and actually follow through with them. So much change was going on inside me that I felt like I was on a daily roller coaster, and the ups and downs were making my head spin.
My sponsor, Tina, offered to let me live with her while I searched for an apartment. So I moved into her condo, closer to downtown State College, which was where I wanted to be anyway. Everything was new—my room, the coffee maker, my surroundings, the neighborhood, everything. It freaked
