Lately, I have woken up countless mornings to make sure that my duct tape is still holding all my bits and pieces together; that would be my outside and inside pieces. I have learned that you can only keep adjusting duct tape for so long. Eventually it wears out and leaves a very sticky residue that is quite messy.
No one likes messy; I certainly don’t. COVID 19 has created chaos with my life. It all seems surreal. One day I had a full agenda with plenty of appointments and meetings and the next day, I’m drinking wine in my track pants while ordering pigs!
In a blink of an eye, life as we knew it was quickly undone. Reality TV had nothing on this reality. Across the world, media images peppered us with horrible and graphic stories of people dying in hallways because hospitals were full. Social media pleas were made for everyone to take this virus seriously. Our efforts would protect our front line health care workers and ensure space in our hospitals who were ready for the pandemic flood of people who would need care. It was grim and terrifying. Death was knocking on any door and so life as we knew, came to a grinding halt.
We watched daily news updates and our anxiety grew with the visuals of graphs and lines that kept stretching upwards. We rallied behind “bend the curve” which then morphed to “crush the curve”. When we got to “hold the line”, my duct tape broke.
For me, it all fell apart in the third week of March. In that week, my work and career of 25 years in the travel trade was gone. A difficult business to manage with closed borders; so I turned off lights and locked the door. It felt like someone lit a match and torched my life, burning it to the ground. I watched the ashes toss in the wind.
My breaking point was losing my career; the structure that I had built to create a life for the family. It just ended and I have no idea when it might have Act II. I didn’t realize how much of “me” was attached to all of that. In the torching, I am empty and shattered in more than a few pieces.
It’s like being in mourning. I feel a deep loss that life will never be the same again and I don’t know what to fill it with. My family loves it. They love having me home more often. Owen, my 14 year old, asked me “why do you like being busy?”. Good question Owen. And here’s the answer. I like being busy because I like what I do and what I contribute. I know you all like me having home but that is likely because the fridge is now clean, dinner is ready before it gets dark, cookies are baked, the bathroom sparkles and the floors are no longer toxic and sticky. After 25 years with a career I didn’t expect to transition to a full time cook and cleaner. This might be fun, except it’s not. Even the perks of living in my PJ’s is not enough. I miss my other life.
There is light at the end of the tunnel. As much as my family loves this brief interlude of me as June Cleaver, I am starting to drive them crazy. My husband came home the other day and started talking about a project that he has to do at work. Ooooo. A project! I love projects! “Can I help? I am good at projects. Does it need a spreadsheet and a chart?”. Wayne looked at me like I was crazy. In what universe did I think I knew anything about forestry and the impacts of Fir Beetle in the TFL. Well, I didn’t know anything about pigs either but that didn’t stop me. I felt I could have been very helpful.
Owen was sympathetic. “Dad, I understand. Remember, I had to do school at home with her.” OK Owen. I hear you but I thought our work in English 8 was outstanding and I was very proud of our A.
Living in BC, we all worked hard to fight off COVID. We cheered for all the front line workers and celebrated their dedication and yes, that was real and needed and it was essential but here is my reflection. While we needed our front line workers; their bravery, compassion and dedication, it also became a stark reality of the cost of “crushing the curve” and “holding the line” was people who lost their companies, careers, jobs, income and more. I don’t hear the same amount of cheering or celebrating. In fact, I don’t hear much at all about those who have been left broken in the wake of COVID. Crushing the curve was a collective, national effort to ensure that our hospitals did not get overwhelmed and our citizens could be safe. I look around and wonder if many of our heroes are those that are left financially broken and emotionally spent.
Maybe I am wrong. Maybe because I live in a small town, I don’t get the full picture and our news outlets are talking about the other costs to fighting COVID. I do hear about all the government support and the financial aid and that is terrific. As Canadians, we are so fortunate to have these financial measures but while they are helpful, I also see it as a bit of of duct tape. I am embarrassed that I don’t feel more grateful but as I said, I am in mourning and out of sorts.
Am I the only one that feels wounded and broken by COVID? I feel I shouldn’t even speak of my pain; that I should keep my composure and keep my thoughts to myself but I don’t feel the same anymore. I feel broken, adrift, uncertain and vulnerable and definitely not secure. I am scared that I don’t have it in me to rise again. I loathe going out to the shops and not wanting to make eye contact for fear of making connection. I hate feeling guilty for being out shopping. I feel this darkness with dual messaging “restart the economy but only if you are confident you won’t unknowingly spread COVID“. Which is it? Restart or recoil? We need a consistent collective message to pull us together. Physical distance is very different than socially distanced. We need space, not emotional separation.
I worry about the COVID casualties. People who are being forced to start again, to change their business model or way of thinking and being. The financial support from government is helpful but people are going to have to dig deep and draw upon reserves of creativity to move forward. It’s exhausting to have to think of starting again or how to pivot and bounce back. COVID has casualties and I might be one. Not the person that was killed in the crash but the one that got hit by glass. Broken.
A very dear friend of mine said to me a couple of years back “But I don’t see you like that. I see you as so much more“. I try to hold her vision of me, but my mirror must have come from a carnival because my view is distorted. My cancer is my absolute “hate” of myself and my inability to feel that I did enough to prepare for the storm. These feelings have grown more acute throughout COVID 19 which has led to my sense of unraveling and now to my confession.
My confession is that I feel I am a failure. I know I should see my mishaps as stepping stones and believe me, I want to. I know on an intellectual level that failure is an event, not a descriptive but yet, I am not there yet. I want this to be purged from my deepest core to finally feel free. Unfortunately, the more I focus on failure, the deeper the concept inbeds itself into my psyche.
So. I berate myself as I watch finances dwindle. Brene Brown would call this “shame”. If I had managed things differently, maybe COVID wouldn’t have had such a strong wind to blow out my candle of hope leaving just darkness. It’s shame that shackles me and keeps me prisoner.
I know I should look around and rather than feel despair, I could choose to be grateful. I have three lovely children, a kind husband, an amazing sister and extended family as well as beautiful friends but I am in the dark and when in the dark, it is hard to see.
My tooth is aching, my heart is broken. COVID19 is incredibly unsettling. It is giving me pause to wonder if I matter or if perhaps my place in life is somewhat misguided. These are the questions of those who struggle with mental well being. I now understand the fog that exists in a state of imbalanced being. I also understand the fear of saying it out loud. If I say it, then my husband hears it, my children hear it and do they want to hear that the one who gives structure is starting to crack? How does that lend anyone a sense of safety amidst uncertain times?
I turn back to my new traveling companion, author Glennon Doyle. She tells it like this. We are passengers on a plane. I am the flight attendant. If we hit turbulence and I panic as the flight attendant, that doesn’t help the passengers. So yes, I am cracking up but I am also putting on my life vest and passing out the peanuts. I am going to be ok and so will my family. I just need them to know that right now, life jackets are probably a good idea because there is a small chance we might crash in order to land.
I don’t want to leave my family or anyone with the impression that this is the end. It’s not. The potential to “crash and burn” is an admission of honesty and the gateway to new beginnings. I can’t change my beginning, but I can start where I am. I didn’t feel that I could be that wife, mother, sister or friend in an authentic way unless I confessed that I have been falling apart. To smile, laugh and say “yes, I’m doing great” have been my means of coping during COVID. My truth is that I have been distraught and uncomfortable with how much has changed and how much has been lost.
I look around and it’s no wonder I feel somewhat bruised and beat up. This new world includes waiting in long line ups while standing 2 metres apart. Plexiglass shields divide us, masks protect us but what is the impact of all this change? When we have to “disinfect” after every interaction, it’s no wonder my box of wine goes quickly. Alcohol has always been used to clean the wound.
We didn’t ask for the world to change but so it has and so must I. We all are making change. For me, it’s getting back in the arena. Dusting off my bloodied knees and brushing the tears and sweat from eyes. I will work to restart. I will refocus my goals and rethink who I want to be and let go of who I think I “should” be. I will risk genuine authenticity for potential rejection. I will trust that maybe a new found confidence will provide structure for a new life with new opportunities, ideas and beginnings. I tentatively think that perhaps the unraveling is a fresh start.
I have a toothache, my heart is broken but I am ready to rise. It doesn’t matter what happened, it only matters what happens next. I promised a blog about bravery and this post is my deepest confession of pain. I write this for me and for anyone else who might feel adrift. COVID has not been kind; but maybe we can be kind to ourselves and to each other. Perhaps, my heart can touch yours. COVID has changed our reality but let’s not give it the power to break us apart or even at all.
With love,
Shelley
And Then I Jumped...... 