There is always a choice between denial and possibility, resignation and acceptance.
My middle-class, very pale, skin-cancer prone white life doesn’t lend itself to heroic stories about how I’ve been all the way down into the depths of despair and rose out of the ashes to change the world. I’ve had difficult life moments and some minor life victories, but nothing compared to many.
I imagine when god sent me here, (s)he had labeled the outside of my mother’s uterus as “fragile” to let the world understand that no one should plummet me to any sort of bottom, but to place me gently down so I don’t end up bruised and broken. My life’s “rock-bottom” is more of a soft carpet with extra padding. I am grateful for and won’t deny both the privilege and the blessing of this life, which has come with such easy terms.
I’ve never had an alcohol or drug addiction rock bottom. Although I’ve struggled with depression over the years, I’ve never experienced a severe depression type rock bottom that has led to suicide or an attempt at such. I do whine about my life from time to time, but the book Man’s Search for Meaning kicked my arse into gear these past few months, reminding me I AM NOT LIVING IN A CONCENTRATION CAMP right now, nor a refugee camp. I’m not at the border infected with COVID-19 with little to no medical care awaiting my asylum fate. I’m also not escaping Saddam Hussein’s regime through the icy cold mountains as a dear friend of mine experienced with her family when she was a mere 4 years old.
I am living through a pandemic. Yet, I am free to make choices for myself and my family. I have shelter, clothing, access to health care and loving friends and family by my side. Although the pandemic has brought on some emotional and financial turmoil to our lives, I am fully blessed.
Today’s boring, non-heroic story begins with my hitting a new low point when I told my kids I was going to take a nap. I closed the bedroom door, opened my laptop, and plugged in headphones in order to begin a Netflix binge session. I had changed my mind about the napping part the second I closed the door. Or possibly as I was closing the door. Or even slightly before that, so I wasn’t really lying to my children. It doesn’t matter.
The point is, I could no longer function, and I did not want to feel anything. The combination of failed Thanksgiving plans and the sustained stress of running a school during pandemic had gotten to me. Six days later, I still wanted to lie/not-lie to my kids and hole up in my bedroom for hours on end. I didn’t end up doing so because it would have caused a familial war of sorts. Upon learning of my deception the cries of “it’s not fair you get to watch as many shows as you want and you only let us watch shows one time a week,” would commence. Their cries would be a gross exaggeration, I might add. Either way, I had to assess the cost of such a war.
The good part about hitting a low point (or rock bottom) is there is only one way out and that is getting high. I mean going up. I’ve struggled with some form of depression for most of my life. I knew after six days of feeling really, really sad, I wouldn’t be there forever, but I also understood I needed help to remember this.
I didn’t end up binging on Netflix. Instead, I recognized my sadness and kept doing the bare minimum. I also recognized the familiar feeling of wanting to QUIT and to go back to Plan A: move to Omaha, Nebraska (read about that here). Over those six days, I stole moments of solitude to look up 3 bedroom, 2 bath homes, fireplace non-negotiable, bathrooms semi-negotiable on Realtor.com in Omaha, and in Maine. Why Maine? I have no idea.
Why did I want to quit? Because having to be the one who tells her staff and families to please quarantine for two weeks if they chose not to play it safe for Thanksgiving sucks. Having to face rebuke for such a request sucks, too. Returning to school for one day before having to close again also sucks. Watching my husband look at the financials of the restaurant and wonder how the heck any restaurant will make it through any of this sucks as well. Things were sucky. That is why.
Moving equaled a bit of F-R-E-E-D-O-M, both with both our finances and from all the excruciating decisions we are having to make each day. I had a job offer to teach at a Montessori school. The director would call the shots, send the difficult emails, be in charge of deciding if school was online or in person, and be the one to decide if the school would make it, financially or otherwise.
I could wake up, go to school, teach some kids and go home to work more, because teaching doesn’t stop at the end of a school day. But, I wouldn’t be the one frustrating families or staff or the one staring at Quickbooks for hours on end. And my husband wouldn’t be looking at anything that brought up the persistent fears of financial devastation.
Most importantly, though, was my children wouldn’t have me as their teacher, nor deem it necessary to send me a chat while I was a giving a lesson on zoom such as
“hey mom. I already did the math review book five, do I still half to do it? I left cause [my son’s name] spilled my supplies and said he cleaned it all up but LIED and my hair chalk spilled and smushed on the floor and I talled him to clean It up but we got into a fight and he yelled at me I HAVE MY OWN WORK TO DO AND NOT DO THAT! that’s why im sort of behind and he hasn’t apoligised.”
Nevermind that I was not at home with them during this so-called fight. Their father was. (He texted me later and said it was rough.)
Out of the bedroom and into the garage making snowflake prints with the daughter who knows HOW TO YELL via zoom chat. She is more my teacher than I hers. Always has been always will be.
Anyway. A different teacher would also be better at teaching them grammar, spelling and punctuation. Although, I am thoroughly impressed with he expressiveness (yelling via the written word).
Omaha had a lot of perks, less the cold and endless snow. But I knew I didn’t want to quit. I simply wanted to escape for a bit. I’ve been here before, in different times and in different places.
It’s never been about “fight” for me when things get tough and scary. It’s been about abort and abandon (a.k.a. flight). I don’t escape through drugs or alcohol, but through staying in my bedroom, ignoring my family, friends and basic life responsibilities. It’s like drug and alcohol overuse in that the end-result is the same if sustained over the long term: I not only abort and abandon myself but also everyone I care about.
Alcohol, and albeit some drugs, aren’t bad in and of themselves. Neither is the life experience of depression that leads to binging Netflix. It is the abuse of such that causes harm. Depression can be an addiction, just like any other. If I choose to deny its existence, I will only fall further into its depths that lead to making crazy choices like packing up and moving far away.
I reached out to my sponsor (a.k.a therapist) because I needed some sense talked into me. Even though I knew I wasn’t in a concentration or refugee camp or at the border in a holding station, my soul couldn’t remember that for six plus days.* All I could remember is the sadness this pandemic has stirred up within me. Location and situation unimportant.
My therapist reminded me there’s always a choice between denial and possibility.
If I deny the fact I am depressed, I close off the possibility of coming out of it.
If I deny medication is necessary for my level of depression, I close off the possibility of living a fuller life.
If I deny the fact that I still love my job, despite the challenges this year has brought, I close off the possibility of experiencing the connection to others it provides.
If I deny the existence of Jeni’s darkest chocolate ice cream in the freezer, I close off the possibility of enjoying its amazingness. However, if I don’t deny the existence of the ice cream to my children, they will eat it all and I’ll still not be able to enjoy any. This is a tough one. I won’t deny that.
If I deny I am living through a pandemic and that it weighs me down no matter how blessed or privileged I am, I close off the possibility of the good it has brought, like the bringing together of my husband and I in a way we’ve not experienced in all our 15 plus years of marriage (more on that later).
She also reminded me of the difference between resignation and acceptance. Moving to Omaha? Resignation. Staying here and allowing the grief and the joy: acceptance of that which is true, painful as it may be. I am right where I need to be in this moment and in this lifetime. Right now that is not in Nebraska, or Maine, but in Nashville, Tennessee.
So here I am, not lying to my children about napping (or ice cream) or perusing Realtor.com, but writing my non-heroic story, which also provides me with a feeling of meaning and purpose. I don’t fully understand it, but I cannot deny the experience of utter relief once I’ve let it all out for the universe to do with it what it will. No one may read any of this, but that’s not the point. I don’t need to understand why this provides me with a sense of purpose, I only need to stop denying the very existence of it in order to allow for the possibility of where it may lead me next.
“I tossed some beef jerky to the alligators that were following the boat. Don complained about that too.” (p.64)
During this time, with the sun going down sooner, and the covid numbers rising higher, I recommend eating Jeni’s ice cream and hiding said ice cream from your children and significant other, while reading Man’s search for Meaning by Vicktor E. Frankl and The Stench of Honolulu by Jack Handey. One book is to help remember it is possible to have purpose during this troublesome time. The other is for hysterical laughter when you desire a temporary escape. It’s a better and easier alternative to moving 800 miles away from your current life.
Thanks for reading. Until the next day like this.
*I had a psychiatrist once tell me that everyone experiences depression and anxiety from time to time. Being depressed for a day or 3, for example, is normal. Once it hits 7 or more days, it’s time to call for help. I now live by this “rule of thumb” and it has saved me more than once.
P.S. I am doing a-okay, and possibly better than. Often when I write about something I have already walked through it to the other side.
Rock “bottoms” can also be a beautiful place to build something new.
