We’ve Been Here Before

I always want to make things beautiful, but in a subtle way. Not in a throw rainbows and confetti in your face and demand good vibes only, but in a nonchalant look at that pretty beam of light over there type of way. Though sometimes, shit is just shit and it’s as simple as that. No matter what light is on in the distance, no matter how many activities you create, no matter how many bows you add—it’s still just that. Smack in the middle of fun memories and hopes for the future is a pile of crap. And sometimes we simply have to admit that.

This morning I was talking to my kids, making them breakfast, smiling and laughing with them, and it reflected nothing that was going on inside. I woke up with that pit in my stomach and the pressure on my chest and the what-ifs piling on. As I’m smiling on the outside, I’m on my knees and screaming and sobbing on the inside. All the feelings I was battling so hard to quietly, internally sift through were thrashing against the surface of my body trying to break free. And as one child started to close their eyes for a nap and the other began drawing at the table, my jumbled brain that places a dense fog over every simple task began to ease up. My house was calm, my children were peaceful, and I was able to focus my mind enough to actually get into the shower, to not get distracted from point A to point B. I was able to turn up my music and let the hot water hit me. I didn’t know a good, hard shower cry was what was going to happen, but my body gave me no choice. And everything inside of me I was trying to conceal finally released itself. And it hurt and felt good all at once.

Unfortunately it hasn’t been too long since I’ve done something like that. I recognized it immediately. That foggy brain. I understood why those feelings were there and how to address them. We’ve been here before. And now, now the world has stopped for everyone. Somewhat. It’s slowed down. And people aren’t sure what day it is. They don’t know if they’ll have money for food and rent and maintenance issues. They don’t know if their children will be able to stay focused on school work. They don’t know what will smack them in their face next. They have no idea how long this will continue. If this is the “new normal” to their way of living.

And from my experience, when going through a major life change, presence is what matters. Even for people like me who tend to retreat inward. Being available to someone is important. Having someone you can quietly sit with helps wonders. And that’s the tricky part now. Presence isn’t possible in most situations, so we have to communicate in other ways. We have to get creative. We have to utilize technology. We have to verbalize how we’re feeling. And that’s a new concept for many of us—verbalizing our feelings and saving ourselves.

We have to get out of bed. We have to get in the shower and clean our bodies and wash our hair. We have to dab that eye cream and wash our face and maybe even brush our hair. And we have to do that for ourselves. Not for the person who might see us. Not for the people we’re trying so hard to impress. For ourselves. We can do it crying, but we have to make the effort. We can’t escape ourselves. We are the biggest influence in our lives right now. Even if we have kids. Even if we have a romantic partner. It’s only us. So get the fuck up and at the very least, brush your damn teeth.

I ask my kids almost everyday now that if we do nothing else can we at least have clean teeth and underwear? We can listen to good music. Read an inspiring or freeing or funny book. Draw a picture. Paint. Color. Make a paper airplane. Make a blanket fort. Open the window. Something.

In our home, we had already lived in survival mode. We already did what we could to keep up with the ever spinning world. While we were making progress in our new lives, we never lost sight that everything ends and changes in a second. Nothing is steady. The ground below you and the sky above you is always moving. It’s an eerily familiar feeling to be back to one day at a time. To be back to not really having any idea what will happen next, but hoping it doesn’t get much worse.

Our world had already ended. Their life changed forever when they were told their daddy was dead and never coming home. My world stopped when they called his time of death. Tunnel vision started almost immediately. For all of us. We know how it went when our world stopped, but the days kept going and the nights kept coming and people continued on living. I was prepared this time. We were prepared. We know to pace ourselves. So I was able to take that shower, wipe my eyes, and continue on. I got dressed and looked at the picture my son created and carried on with our day.

It’s our time to adapt again. To continue learning about this new world we live in. To take inventory of what’s working and what isn’t and make the necessary changes.

We already adjusted to making our Sundays no longer filled with errands and shopping and activities. Sundays were now rest days. No grocery shopping. No errands. That switch prepped us for being experienced grocery pick up people. We know the drill.

We’ve already been deep in house projects and rearranging. I’ve demolished old furniture and built new ones with the help of my husband’s tools. That’s made our home more comfortable and more spacious for the three of us to still spend time together, but also retreat to our own spaces during this time of isolation/social distancing.

After their dad died we adjusted to people leaving our lives. They all gather at the beginning, but then they’re done. Visits happen less. Calls happen less. That prepped them for being okay with our canceled plans. With maybe not taking our summer trip.

And while it was a shake up having to adjust to schooling at home and our gyms being closed (and, admittedly, we’re still adjusting but getting better), we each carry on as business as usual.

We may get overwhelmed and stressed. We may have sorrow-filled days. We do. But we figure it out. Because our life is weird. It’s out of order. It’s not ideal. But it’s our life and we take it and make the best of it. We build a stronger and stronger bond with every curveball thrown our way. We recognize that we miss the daddy of the house. We allow ourselves to feel his absence even more right now and also feel happy and content that we are safe at home with our little family we love and can be ourselves around. We give each other the benefit of the doubt. We show one another grace.

I would like to think everyone will begin to think twice about the demands they put on others enduring trauma after all of this. But I’ve learned better. The gaslights are already on. The illusion that the tragedy we’re living in isn’t “that bad” is all over the place, even from people you respect and admire. They hear that people are dying and families are falling apart, but what about their needs? What an inconvenience. The calls for fresh manuscripts, complete house renovations, and demands to excel in every aspect of your life are happening everyday. And if that’s what you want to do right now, go for it. But when all else fails, open the windows and turn up the music. Allow yourself to feel whatever you’re feeling. Allow yourself to move slowly. Have the shower cry. Take care of yourself. No one else will do this for you. The grieving know this. The widows get it. While this won’t last forever, if you’re paying attention it will change you.