i’ve always felt admirably calm in crises. trained in first aid + cpr, i handled my own kid’s ER trips with urgency + an unruffled air, despite pooling blood or a backward arm. but how i fell apart then – both slowly depleting as i read read read plus the immediate surfeit of fear + dread – felt new. sorrowful. and its been difficult to creep back from its many edges.
i have read myself into a frenzy of “should” and “need to” and “why am i not,” and i’ve realized that it’s because i haven’t given myself any down time to process the input. a continuous diet of new fare does not result in an automatic new life; it results in discomfort, and a bit of mental crises, honestly.
the thing is, i don’t always want to do my own thing. if we went out for the day, sure. if we didn’t, if we lingered mostly indoors and worked on a project, or listened to books, then sometimes i am too bored to do my own thing.
If I was saying no to the candy while we grocery shopped, no to the terrible toys at Target, no to most of our friends’ kids’ birthday parties, I had some clear boundaries. Declining things didn’t bother me. I was raised in a world of nos. I needed to learn how to yes.
most of me has been waiting for a return to our former life, and it’s not coming.
And yes, I am currently writing about this in January because the grieving process, left alone, is a meandering one. I’ve grieved people and pets aplenty, but not without having to pretend, to play-act my life.
I don’t know what it’s like for everyone to have COVID, only for me, and our family. This is our COVID diary. You’re welcome?
In retrospect, it felt like nobody wanted to see the real me anyway and were grateful I’d covered her up. Aside from the topical beauty aesthetic, I have trouble with taking the mental space to deal with this fake life. It takes longer, more energy to work for the ever-changing outsider opinion.
you see, i do have intentions. i do have expectations. i am the crafter of magic around here + that needs some planning.