Back in August or September we realized and accepted that this year’s holidays would not be what we would have liked. Without some drastic changes in the reality in which we were living, we knew we would spend Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years on our own, as we’ve spent the majority of 2020. It was disappointing, but not the worst possible thing.
The fall has been a challenge for all of us, adapting to teaching and learning virtually and without all of social interactions we clearly need. As a family of four we are immensely fortunate for many different reasons. We have plenty of space to be together or apart at home. We have outdoor areas to enjoy. We have, for nine months now, gotten along far better than anticipated. For all of that I am truly grateful.
At the end of Christmas Day I broke. Completely. For three days now I’ve been broken.
Final revisions on my book manuscript are due in a few weeks and I keep opening and closing drafts. There are piles of stuff in our kitchen area left from reorganizing and cleaning cabinets and I look at them and walk away. When I sleep I have strange dreams that feel almost like hallucinations.
For three days I have been unable to do the basic things. I’ve had trouble even interacting with my family (who, I’m sure, feel lost just as I do about this).
A part of me is frustrated because I know how much worse this time could have been for me and for all of my family. I know all the ways things are good for us.
Writing this has been hard. Writing is a coping strategy for me. It is a way of processing and working through things. I don’t feel processed. I don’t feel less lost. How much longer that will be true, I do not know.
Writing this has been for me because writing, typically, helps me. It is also for anyone else who may be feeling this way.