2 of 40

My new therapist Rebecca whom I've seen three times after a year's worth of loved ones and health professionals asking me if I didn't think talk therapy might be helpful told me last week that I have a habit of making things happen with the force of my will. Yes, I said. That resonates.

Sort of like declaring that I would write daily in the weeks leading up to my 40th birthday, despite the fact that the words haven't been coming to me for months. Despite the fact that I feel so roiled up inside and raw outside that the idea of committing words to print has been making me feel naked. Despite the fact that I don't trust myself lately. Not to know what is true or how I feel. But if  I say it, I will do it. No.

Instead I got sick and fell into a deep depression and have spent the past almost two weeks tucked under my electric blanket who I named Maurice, binge-watching Scandal at a rate that is embarrassing to admit. I shut down everything. Hardly saw my kids. Barely interacted with my husband. Called in sick to work (I was, in truth, sick). I did what I could to numb myself, make my brain stop thinking, hide from the world.

It made me sad to not mother my kids very well, to choose to spend time away from them only to watch TV in bed. But it was what I needed.

It made me ashamed, of my privilege. That I am white and not immediately threatened by this administration. My silence felt like violence. I wasn't doing enough. I wasn't showing up when others were and others needed to. It was what I needed. But I knew and know full well that most people wouldn't have that option. It felt shameful to take it.

I feel bored of myself, of the things that bother me that I can't seem to get over. And that is where I have been. That is the truth of where I have been and what I needed.

Yesterday at an all-staff meeting we sat and listened to a survivor tell his story. The story of how he almost died from 4th degree burns on 40% of his body and all the things he is grateful for, all he has accomplished, his deep appreciation for the work we do and the tissue donors who saved his life. He started by telling us to think about our own lives as we listened to him. Think of the struggles we are facing and apply his story to our lives. He spoke of the power of our attitudes to determine our fates. I felt a little stirring inside of me, the call to snap myself out of it, shake it off and deal with things as they need to be dealt with.

And then I felt a quiet No in response. No. I will get there eventually but that is not where I am.

It feels gross to write this, to think about posting it. But I'm writing it and I'm posting. Not proudly, very honestly.

I showered today, I'm writing. I took care of preschool business and I'm taking care of some stuff for work. Next I will clean the house and go get some groceries, including cat food because the neighborhood stray who has been strutting in through the cat door and eating our cats out of house and home. My kids are with Stephanie. I don't feel good yet but I am on my way up. And if I keep waiting to have words to share that don't make me cringe, there won't be any words on this page for a long time.

Now to see if I can find a way to post 38 essays in the next 25 days. It won't be pretty but what is these days?