Tag Archives: mental health

Struggling in the jolly season.

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‘Tis the season to be jolly. Whatever you celebrate, whether it be Solstice or Hanukah or Christmas, or anything else (including the arrival of so many extra cookies and treats) I hope you are able to find peace and contentment in the season. I’m struggling.

Maybe you are struggling too.

Many of us are keeping the holidays very differently than we used to. Some are back to big get togethers, but I suspect there is friction, a little cognitive dissonance gnawing at the edges of whatever is happening.

Me? We’re keeping a quiet holiday. Just the three of us. Daughter arrived a week ago before the storms made travel almost impossible and worked ”from home” from our home until Friday. She had been isolating the week before, tested negative (as did all of us) and we are all in it together now for another couple of days.

We are not joining the big family gathering 4000 miles away for two reasons: we were just there in November and my desire to be indoors in a large group is zero. So we had our visit in November and somehow, miraculously, managed to make it back without getting sick. We took all kinds of precautions, but we were also lucky. 

I’ve been called a fear-monger on the socials. Ok. Yes, I am fearful of catching a disease we still know hardly anything about. The likelihood of getting long covid is twice that of being hurt in a car accident. If anyone is really interested, I’ll try and find the source for that figure. It stuck with me. I’m not so good with the memory stuff right now because I have a brain injury. 

So yeah. I’m being careful. My ”recovery,” such as it is, has been too hard won. And incomplete, even now, almost seven years later. I can’t go back. And SARS-CoV-2 causes brain damage (among so many other things).

I miss entertaining. I used to have big parties. Big holiday things. Big non-holiday things. But those days are over for now. And I’m grieving. Much and all as I do not want to be at the family gathering, I miss the family gathering. If that makes any sense. I even miss shopping. And I hate shopping. I miss things I hated in the before times. I miss the before times.

And I’m worried about those who are gathering. Will it be another superspreader Christmas? I want to be wrong. You have no idea how much I want to be wrong.

And even though I’m safe and cozy here with my beloved husband and daughter, and so grateful, I feel a pall over everything. Sometimes I feel absolute fury. Other times I feel merely disappointed. Oh, how I’d love to be wrong. But I’m not. I want to yell from the rooftops about what it takes to keep safer, how it’s not actually that hard, how it’s worth it. But no one wants to hear that. Tonight they want to party like it’s 2019.

Ok.

So the jolly season is not so jolly for me. I’m grateful. I’m warm and loved and privileged to have a turkey in the oven as I write. But there’s an edge to it all. I’m worried sick about people who have had SARS-CoV-2 three times. Two times. Once. I’m worried about those who pretend that’s not what they have. Or had. Yeah, maybe it’s not. But maybe it is. I’m worried we aren’t testing, tracing, tracking, learning. I’m worried that public health officials have abandoned their posts and debased their positions. I’m worried.

Like all of you, I’m doing my best. So ’tis the season.

On Languishing in the Pandemic

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Month 13–or is it 14?–of the pandemic, and I am languishing. I did not have that particular word in mind until I read an article about languishing by Adam Grant in the NYT. I had been thinking maybe it was ennui, or maybe disinterest, and was sometimes even wondering if I had become hopelessly lazy.

That’s not it.

I told my husband I was unmotivated, which is true. Confessed it, actually. I am NOT normally an unmotivated person. In his article, Adam Grant says something about being indifferent to indifference and that feels right. I am indifferent to my indifference, disinterested in my disinterest. Maybe you feel the same.

I know I’m lucky. I can work from home and shelter where I am, relatively safe. I get groceries delivered. I am grateful to all of the workers who are keeping us all going and I advocate for their safety literally every day.

Part of it is certainly that while the world celebrates the arrival of vaccines (as do I), Ontario is worse off than ever because of a feckless provincial government. We have higher case numbers than ever and our ICUs are overflowing. Refrigerator morgue trucks are next. It didn’t have to be this way.

So, I try to focus on what I can control. I have a new project on the go. But I am not writing much now. My concentration is poor. It’s also my fifth crashiversary this week, which doesn’t help. Five years of brain injury. My lack of concentration isn’t just about the pandemic. I have been in some state of languishing for a while.

And even if my writing is stalled, there is other work to do. As two projects make their way through to publication, they need bits of my attention. I will get a galley to proof next week. There are questions about marketing. A plan must be made.

I have other projects I could pick up outside of work, things I would usually enjoy. I have wool enough to make six hats which I planned on giving as gifts next Christmas. I need to sew the collar on a summer shirt I am making (polka dots!) and then it will be done. Maybe ten minutes of work. It is sitting beside the sewing machine. Languishing. I could make an interesting dinner. Or I could just scramble a few eggs. I could go for a walk. There are people in my life to care for. Some of them are also languishing and how can I support them when I am too? A birthday cake must be baked. Doing things for others is usually something that cheers me up. The ingredients are all on my kitchen counter, waiting. My seedlings need replanting. The tomatoes are growing well, if a little spindly. Some of them are just lying down, like I want to. I have to stake them up with bamboo skewers.

Meh.

I need a bamboo skewer for me. What will that be? Sometimes, admitting you have a problem is the first step.

This is a “fake it till you make it” time if there ever was one. Time to fake some enthusiasm. Fake a sense of flourishing. As my character Alden often says to herself in Patterson House, “Buck up.” Wish me luck. I wish you luck too. We can do it.

Rosie the Riveter
Rosie the Riveter saying “We Can Do It”

Maybe I’ll have a nap first.

How to Get Up When You’re Down.

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  1. Pretend. Pretend you are a person who can manage some part of the day ahead. Just pretend.
  2. Pick something small that you want to do. Anything. If you don’t know what you want to do, make figuring that out your task. Maybe you’d like to get a library card or replace the broken button on your favourite shirt. Sometimes you don’t want to do something, but you want the outcome you would get if you did it. Maybe the dirty dishes in the kitchen are making you sad. You don’t want to do the dishes, but you do want to have a clean counter. Maybe start small. Empty the sink and stack the bowls. Fill the sink with water and soap and wash only the bowls. Then you can have some cereal in a clean bowl. Yay! Celebrate the cereal. The rest can wait. Or maybe the cereal helps, and you can move on to the mugs.
  3. Don’t worry about whether the thing you choose to do is the most important thing to do. You’ll get to those things. (Really, you will.) Do the thing.
  4. Treat yourself. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Don’t make it dependent on success unless that works for you. You might want to watch the first season of Community for the tenth time. You can say, After I do the thing I need to do, I can watch one episode. Or you can say, Watch an episode because laughing will cheer me up and help motivate me. Do what is right for you. Make room for joy.
  5. When you wake up, let yourself think. Think about something you are grateful for. One thing. Name it to yourself. Say it out loud. Say, I am grateful for cereal. I am grateful for a new day. I am grateful I am breathing.
  6. If you can get out of bed, make your bed. Making your bed is a gift your present self gives to your future self. Some day soon, you will have the energy to do the laundry. For now, just make the bed. If you have never made a bed, watch a YouTube video about it. Look at your made bed and feel satisfied.
  7. If you have a lot of things you have to do and they fill your head, try to pick one at a time. You can’t do everything at once. No one can. Your success in dealing with one thing or part of one thing will prove your competence to yourself and it will help you get to another task. Say, I can do that, and do it. Eventually, you will make a plan. Remember, a plan is just a plan. It can change. You can change it if it isn’t working or is unrealistic. Evaluate the plan regularly and change what needs to be changed. Don’t let the plan sabotage you. The plan is supposed to help you.
  8. Some days everything is challenging. That’s OK. You know what you have to do and there’s no getting out of those things. Work. Caring for loved ones. Do what you can do. Somethings can wait though. If you have 100 emails waiting, respond to 1. That is a start. Give yourself a pat on the back. There’s probably some that don’t need a response at all. Scan through them. Delete. Unsubscribe. Maybe it is hard for you to get out of bed, hard to walk, or get up the stairs. Try a few steps, one or two stairs. If you keep at it, some day you might be able to walk around the block, one step at a time. It might be reading a page. It might be writing a page. Go one word or one sentence at a time. Sound it out. Choose the thing. Do it. Revel in your success. Say to yourself, Look! I did that. Rest.
  9. Save your strength. Don’t use it all up on something that is too much for you right now. Be kind to yourself. Learn to say no, or at least, not right now.
  10. Do one thing to make your environment more calm. Maybe turn the TV off. Stay calm for the things you have to do. Stay calm so you can think.
  11. Focus on something natural. A tree outside. A bird. Your child’s beautiful curly hair. Something growing in the cracks of the pavement. See the beauty in it. Think about one way that you are growing too.
  12. Drink a glass of water. Enjoy it. Say to yourself, That was really good.
  13. Intertwine your fingers, face your palms out and raise them above your head if that’s something you can do and stretch. Stretch something. Anything. Enjoy the feeling of your body moving, whatever part of it can move.
  14. Take a deep breath. Feel the air entering and leaving your lungs. Know that your body is good at change. It changes with every breath. Know that you are alive and breathing, and changing all the time.
  15. Forget everything negative you ever believed about yourself. Try to learn about yourself again. What are you good at? What would you like to get better at? Don’t worry about what you used to be good at and lost. That was another person in another time. Focus on the here and now.
  16. Build on success. Pick another task. Don’t think it has to be bigger. Just do another thing. For example, maybe you have to apply for something. Maybe you need to get a divorce. (I’m sorry you have to get a divorce.) You’ve put it off forever because you dread it. But it has to be done. Maybe the first task is to find a form on line or a contact on line. That’s good enough. Bookmark it or jot it down. Congratulate yourself. Take a break for an hour or until the next day before you try to fill out that form or connect with that contact. If you run into a problem, take a minute to rest and think about what you need to do the next part. Maybe that is a tomorrow task. Put it on a list. Congratulate yourself for making a list.
  17. Keep a list. Cross things off. Give yourself a high five when you cross something off. Have a glass of water again.
  18. Help someone. Whoever you are, whatever your problem is, you can do something kind for someone else. If you’re stuck inside, be nice to someone online. Answer a question for them. Tell them they are doing well. If you’ve made it to the market, you can leave something on a neighbour’s doorstep. There are millions of ways to be kind. Being kind builds you up. Congratulate yourself. Do a little dance in your chair. Say, That was a good thing to do and it made me feel better. Don’t wait for a thank you. It might come and it might not. Either way, you’ve done something kind. Keep it to yourself. Treasure that little kindness. Let it build you up.
  19. Go to bed when you are tired. Think about the thing(s) you accomplished. You stayed alive. You breathed in and out. Good for you.
  20. Keep trying.

Out on a Ledge

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This week, I wandered the Bruce Trail overlooking Georgian Bay. Cedar, pine and fir smell like home. The rock of the Canadian Shield shows the marks of millennia; fissures and crevices, some large enough to fall into, focus my mind and keep me in the present moment. Step by step, I make my way over tree roots and rock. I’m careful. I walk softly. The trail features several outcrops and we stopped at every one to take in the view. My husband took this photo of me on one ledge while he stood on another.

That’s me, out on a ledge. 

As I stood there, I realized I’ve been feeling like I’m on a ledge since the car accident that left me concussed. Since the pandemic started, I know that many of you are also feeling like you are out on a ledge. Believe me, I feel no satisfaction in having your company out here. I would have preferred it if you all could have stayed innocent of the sense of isolation I have come to know so intimately.

But now, you know how it feels to be unable to see your people. You’re scared. You’re wondering when or if it will ever end. Your reasons for feeling this way are different than mine, but the result is the same. Sometimes we’re lonely. We miss our old lives, our friends, our old jobs, the old way of doing things. We rebel against the new restrictions.

We miss the simple pleasures of life and when we try to replicate them, they do not measure up. We miss big things like vacations and weddings and birthday parties, but mostly we miss the little things. I used to enjoy grocery shopping and then it became a gauntlet of light and noise and chaos. I used to have a lively social life, but then that same light and noise and chaos made seeing friends and going out difficult too. There is always an undercurrent of concern, of what if. The new conditions in which we must live suck the joy from everything. Or so it seems.

Because of my brain injury, I was already so accustomed to my life being smaller that the accommodations I had to make for the pandemic did not have the same impact on me as they did on you. Like you, I suddenly had to worry about germs and hand washing and finding Lysol wipes, but the shrinking of my social and work life had already happened. I already spent way more time in my home. I already couldn’t concentrate well enough to work consistently or even read. And now, you are in a similar spot.

I have watched you go through many of the same phases as I did, particularly the “this won’t last long” phase. I have waited for you to catch up, to be where I was about four years ago when the niggling thought, “this is not going away,” took root. Now you, some of you, are coming to realize that the two or three weeks of shut down we embarked upon way back in March might not be going away soon. No matter how much we wish it would and no matter what kind of schedule we try to impose on it, what happens is not in our control. Like me, you are figuring out your new life and negotiating this new you, the you that cannot control anything. It’s an ever-changing emotional landscape.

The mental health impact of dealing with trauma is real and overwhelming. I’m not a mental health expert, but I can tell you that what you are dealing with is a big deal. You’ve got to give yourself a break. You need time. You need compassion for yourself. Please, stop beating yourself up because you can’t be like you were.

Whoever you are, whatever cracks were in your life before the pandemic are now crevices big enough to fall into. You might feel like you’re out on a ledge. Alone. And that ledge isn’t feeling too stable.

There have been dark times for me in the past four years. Strangely, one of the worst was just last week. It had nothing to do with the pandemic, but just another layer of what happened to me revealing itself. You would think I would be used to everything by now. I don’t want to go into details, because it’s not necessary to add to your trauma by sharing mine. Suffice it to say, I was out on a ledge.

I can offer you this: one thing I have learned is that I have to feel my feelings. I have to sit with them and feel them and ask them what they are teaching me. I have to befriend them and stop pushing them away. I have to be grateful for them. It seems impossible, but it is possible. When I am awake at three in the morning, heart racing, frustration rising, dark thoughts taking over, I take a deep breath and accept that this is where I am. I know something now I didn’t know before the accident. I am more than what I do or how I feel. I am more than my successes, I am more than my failures. So are you. Those plans you had were just plans.

I understand now how notions of productivity and progress replaced true joy with a twisted capitalist version of success that made self love impossible because I could never be enough. I know now that the world can fall apart around me, I can fall apart within me, pieces of me can break and strain, my brain can struggle to find words or balance or memories, but I am still me. I am fine. Even out on the ledge, I can find the place of quiet inside of me and observe. Who is this observer? It is me. The calm centre of me.

You have a calm centre of you.

When I stood on that literal ledge this week, I looked around and felt gratitude. I felt immense joy. The ledge can be a beautiful place. The wind rushed and the clouds swept by. The water below was jade green and crystal clear, becoming dark blue as it deepened. A hawk soared high above the water, but eye level with me, circling, playing on the wind. We all belong here, right here, where we are. Me, the hawk, the water, the ledge, the trees. You. There is no other place to be. You are here. You’re okay. You’re not alone.