Guest Submission By Jackie
I quit my high school English teaching job the first week of January, 2023. I clung to the idea that the space and rest I got during winter break was what I needed to finish the school year, but I knew deep down that I needed to quit. Just take it one day at a time until June, I thought.
But after getting ready for school the morning of January 4th, I physically could not get myself out of my apartment door. I tried to figure out what I needed to do to just get myself on the subway, but my mind kept coming to one conclusion: stay home.
The same exact thing happened Thursday the 5th. That afternoon, I called my coteacher. She somehow knew what I needed to say without me saying it. “I knew this was going to happen… I just didn’t think it would be this fast,” she said. “But your health comes first, and we’ll be okay.”
My school wasn’t a safe place for me, physically and mentally. I’ll leave it at that for now. I tried my best to control what I could, and it wasn’t enough.
I called my supervisor next and tried to explain what was going on in my mind and body. After ten minutes of rambling, she stopped me. “Is it fair for me to say that you need to quit?” I said yes, and began to sob. “Okay. Next question — it sounds like you’re past the point of giving two weeks. If today is your last day, do not feel guilty; we’ve got it covered. That being said, are you coming in again?”
My shoulders loosened in a way they hadn’t in a year in a half. “No, I don’t think so,” I sniffed.
“Okay. Remember, no guilt,” she repeated over and over as I continued to cry into the phone.
When people say “listen to your body,” it’s usually implied that we have a choice not to. But I truly believe I didn’t have a choice in quitting my job that week, whether that was a result of divine intervention or a collaborative highjacking mission between my brain and body.
My body knew that quitting my job would mean quitting the poisonous cocktail of habits and survival tactics that would literally kill me if they continued. Now, five months later, I can’t possibly imagine taking a sip of that cocktail again.
I’ve always been a box-checker. It’s so satisfying having a to-do list that gives me a reliable dopamine rush at the end of each day.
This is part of what drew me to getting Reframe, an alcohol habit-changing app, in the spring of 2022. I loved that the app immediately gave me daily tasks, gentle reminders, and bouts of wisdom to center me each morning as I tried to finish a tumultous school year. But with the daily motivation came daily shame and embarassment as I logged the drinks I’d had the night before.
I averaged about 20 drinks a week up through August 2022. Each time I came to the end of a week, I made a plan for cutting back for the following week. Instead of following through, though, I created a new habit of allowing my excuses to take the reins.
I stopped tracking my drinks altogether in the fall of 2022, but I know I was averaging 25–30 drinks a week. I’d hoped for 12 drinks or less each week throughout the fall, but my excuse-following habit was amplified by taking a coaching position, being given a special education caseload, and reviving a club at school.
If I could summarize why I drank as much as I did as a teacher, it was to stop thinking.
They say teachers make approximately 1,500 decisions a day, and ask an average of 400 questions a day. So each day, when I finally got home after 8–10 hours of deciding and questioning, I wanted nothing else than to watch shows I’d already watched and drink my mind into silence.
What’s ironic is that, on paper, I was doing great in the fall. I was on top of it with my work. I had started coaching Girls’ Soccer, and they grew tremendously, from not knowing how to kick a ball to winning their last two games. I had just started becoming a more involved and prominent staff member.
I went to grab a few beers after work one day in December and spotted one of my coworkers, who was the STEM department chair. He told me, “You know, at our last department chair meeting with admin, we talked about you, and everyone agreed that you’re kicking ass.”
You know when you start playing with the idea of something—say, quitting—and a single event makes you question everything? (Or is that just how teachers are trained to think, since we’re told it’s normal to have a horrific day-to-day experience, with the occasional silver-lining moment that “makes it all worth it”? …I digress.)
My coworker’s comment made me think, Wow, maybe I am kicking ass; maybe I’ve been overthinking and just need to keep doing what I’m doing.
Right before winter break, I was in the same bar, grading papers over a beer. Two coworkers came in and I sat with them for a few minutes before I headed home. One of them complained about various events from the day, as per her usual, and concluded, “I just keep telling myself, it could be worse.”
She had been at the school for about six years. In my year and a half as her coworker, there were at least five times that I held her while she cried at that bar.
I got on the train knowing I had a choice to make over the break.
The first few months after quitting consisted of scrolling through TikTok and Instagram; drinking; smoking & eating edibles; and taking naps for the entire afternoon. I had no idea what to do with myself; numbing was the only way I knew how to operate in my free time, but now I had all the time in the world for anxiety, depression, and a lack of direction to fester.
Sure, I also started writing more frequently, continued training for my upcoming half-marathons, spent a lot of time with my partner, and went on various adventures throughout the city—but I didn’t know how to have a relationship with myself outside of cyclically working and numbing.
Counting drinks and ticking boxes was never going to fix my dependence on alcohol, although I’d held on to hope for years. The turning point for me was realizing that I was numbing — and finding the courage to explore why I was numbing. We can’t help ourselves if we don’t know what we’re doing and why.
But more than anything, I can attribute my personal motivation for cutting back to being so. fucking. tired. of being a shell of a human. It’s simply gotten too old feeling shitty every morning, checking texts and posts to see if I said anything stupid, and sleeping the sunshine away. I know I’m very lucky to be burnt out on substance abuse, as many people want to drink themselves to this point but can’t.
So, if I’ve learned anything about myself in the past five months, it’s that I know I want to live well. I don’t know what thriving looks like yet, but I’ve known numbing, surviving, and pretending, and I won’t be going back.
About the author. Jackie was born & raised in Southern California and is now a Brooklyn-based writer, an ex-teacher, and a coffee shop enthusiast. You can find her in her writing journey at @jackiehubbardwrites on Instagram, or eating sushi in Prospect Park.
Submissions:
To submit your own blog piece about your journey, email Jessica at jessica@bottomlesstosober.com
Resources Mentioned:
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