I'm not OK.
It's super likely that you are not OK, either.
We are in week number whatever of this thing. My kiddo hasn't seen any of his friends since March 14, when we had a pretty good little birthday party. I'm very grateful for that. And then, it just all blew up.
I created a solid little routine coming to the home office every day. Working a regular schedule. Not taking it "home" (into another room) with me. Keeping up a brave face.
The shiny veneer is starting to wear thin. I am, quite likely, going to crack.
Every interview I start these days, we look at each other through our pixels and laugh awkwardly, "How are you DOING?" we say. And I laugh and say, "Oh, ya know, I'm surviving!" And they laugh. We both look a little crazy. I don't say, "I cried at my desk for 30 minutes today. I think my body is shutting down. My child is on the verge of emotional collapse, and my husband is so exhausted from being everyone else's emotional punching bag that after bedtime, he's basically an empty shell."
I don't say that. Because we hold this steadfast belief that we need to Be Strong in the face of crisis. And I certainly know how to play that game. But be real: That approach only works when there are other, stronger, mentally healthy people around to bolster you. When we can take turns having crisis. When everyone is in crisis all at once, where do you go? Where can you turn? How can you fathom burdening someone else with your feelings, when they're in the same sinking ship as you? We've hit the ice-burg. Everyone is trying to find a lifeboat. No one has time to talk to you about your concerns about the fit of your safety vest.
And so I don't have a deep answer today. I don't know where to put my stress. All I can do is keep waking up, fall into the pattern of my routine, hope it's enough to get us through. Pray I'll have a job when this is over. Pray my stress won't make me so neurotic that I get fired anyway. Pray my heart will stop pounding like this all the time. Pray for sleep. No dreams. Just an abyss of eight hours a night where my brain can rest in darkness and silence.
Pray that I can keep managing to not collapse in a ball on the floor and sob in front of my son. Pray that he comes out of this remembering the fun stuff, and not the trauma. Pray that we don't all get sick anyway, and make all of this for nothing.
Pray the schools reopen.
Pray for normal. Realize that I don't know what "normal" is anymore.
So today I just want to take a moment and say: I see you. I see that you're not OK, too. It's OK to stop pretending. And if you need someone to unload your emotional burdens on, I'm here. And I may give you some of mine. At least, if we're all holding them up together, it may not feel so much like we're about to collapse.
