untamed #1 - surviving a pandemic

{these are a series of posts i started writing mid-pandemic while reading “untamed” by glennon doyle and learning that she used to lock herself in a closet every morning before her kids got up to write and write and write and then she’d just post them without looking back}

November 2020

this pandemic has turned me into a petulant child.

emotionally, i am a mess. i feel ricocheted back into emotional spaces i thought left in the past. it's so hard to see it as a gift, though i know it is. i just keep repeating... "first the pain, then the rising" over and over again.

it's so hard to remember that this will pass. i went through and read through old thoughts and feelings, and i was shocked to see that i was feeling blissfully happy and whole just last fall. you know, pre-fucking-pandemic. it sounds crazy, but i had actually forgotten i had ever felt happiness until i read my own writing talking about it. so that's been a huge relief.

i've been telling myself stories about how nothing has changed. how all the progress i've made over the last decade has been a waste. how i'm still a self-deprecating, self-conscious, manipulative child on the inside and always will be. but if i look closer, if i can find a semblance of compassion for myself (which is quite literally the most difficult thing i've ever tried, every single time i try it), i can see that we are 8 months into a pandemic and my life is very tough right now and it's okay to feel like painted on dog shit for the time being. most would probably say it's normal.

the problem is, though, even if it's okay and normal and will eventually pass, and even though i have years and years and years of experience gathering tools into my survival tool box that helps me get through periods like this, it still feels terrifying and new each time. it's like i get amnesia between depressive episodes. even when i leave myself written breadcrumbs like this, i'll stumble upon them again during a good episode and be so shocked by my words that i'll delete the evidence in horror. i am so ashamed of these cycles and i am trying so hard not to be. what kind of message does that send? we shouldn't be ashamed of our feelings. they are just... feelings.

i like thinking of moods like weather. i live in new england. it's early november. in the last week, we got several inches of snow and then a slew of 70* days. the week prior, it rained for 6 days straight. we never know what we're in for, but we have gear that prepares us for anythng. we have umbrellas for rain, boots for the snow, warm jackets and scarves for when the temperatures drop. the weather is unpredictable, but we adapt.

a rainstorm during our picnic ruins our plans, but it doesn't have to ruin our day. we could pick a park with sheltered areas so we're safe regardless. we don't get mad at mother nature when it rains for a week straight -- even if it's frustrating, there are plants and soil someplace that are desperate for it. sometimes i think the parts of me that are in a drought are what beckon these storms to come in the first place.

life hands us gifts we don't want all the time. they're still gifts.

i imagine i'm sent each storm for a reason. this one feels particularly bad and long, but my logical brain tells me this makes sense. for the last 2.5 years, i have been home in this house with my toddler. just about every single day. i've been working full-time. i've been participating in 3+ hours of early intervention appointments for my son. i've had to become a teacher and a speech-language-pathologist and an occupational therapist overnight to make up for the services my son lost to COVID. i'm alone with a tiny human for about 12 hours a day, who fills my heart full to bursting and also pushes every button and boundary that i have. i have never had more freedom and safety and brevity to finally get to know myself, but also so many triggers coming at me at once.

i've cried most days. i did not grow up in spaces where i was taught to honor or express my feelings and emotions, and many aspects of my life were incredibly tumultuous. i turned 30 before i found myself in a space -- the home i own with my husband -- where my brain even feels safe enough to allow me to access some of these feelings i've been avoiding my whole life. learning how to parent and mother in a way that causes as little harm as possible to my child is difficult when your own inner child is still struggling. it's almost like parenting 2 children at once, where the make-believe one screams the loudest and makes the most mess. it makes a lot of sense really that i often feel overwhelmed and need a sec, but i show myself absolutely no mercy. i literally berate myself for this.

for... what exactly, you crazyperson? for having feelings? for having feelings that do not always feel like sunshine? looking over past things i've written, i see a theme repeated over and over again: i should be "over" feeling "like this." like WHAT?! for feeling sad? honeybear, no one is ever promised that. the most medicated people on the planet still have bad weeks. rich, glamorous people have bad weeks. the moms on instagram have bad weeks, even if their filters and poses are trying so hard to convince us otherwise.

i have to stop berating myself for having difficult feelings. what matters is how i weather the storms. how i clean up the wreckage. how i prepare better for the next one. i am doing all those things. again and again and again. the recovery times are so much shorter. the time between storms is so much longer. we're IN A FUCKING PANDEMIC, also, so "weathering the storm" can mean hiding in a closet with wine or sneaking into the backyard with your vape pen. this is survival mode and i'm berating myself for being too bloody while my wounds are just trying to heal.

"first the pain, then the rising"

this pain feels so familiar because it's been living in me all this time. it feels just like it did when i was 8 and 14 and 19 because all that pain is still... here. hiding away because i'm so ashamed of it. i carry around my closet full of skeletons and throw some lace and candles over it and hope you don't ask what's inside. i've been dressing up my pain into something invisible or cute or small and it's nearly eaten me alive.

it makes sense why i'm bursting. it makes sense why i'm desperate to connect and share and build and grow and heal. there is no need for me to be ashamed. i should be proud. i should feel blessed that this sludge is working its way to the surface, that it wants to come out. i should welcome it. the last thing i should do is judge it.

no one judges mother nature for making it rain in a drought.