An Important Distinction

My husband and I are sitting in bed, recounting the day. I jump straight to the point.

“So, I was thinking it would be fun for the girls, if we fostered some kittens during lockdown.”

Faster and more reactionary than a sneeze, “No. No, no way.”

“But it would be temporary and the girls would love it so much.”

In his defense, we have a dog who chases cats, 2 growing tadpoles, 10 newly-hatched butterflies, and 3 daughters under 6.

We went back and forth for a while. But one of his points made me pause.

“I’m worried that you are losing it a little bit. The fact that you think this is a good idea, is actually worrying me.”

Early on during shelter-in-place, a friend of mine with 4 kids under 7 adopted a puppy. I asked her why she felt the urge to add more feces into her life. She immediately played the insanity card.

I didn’t get it then, but I do now.

There is an important distinction to be made:

You cannot be placed in the insanity pool, if you willingly dive in.

I posted the following on a Mom’s Group Facebook page—being in AA, I’m no stranger to the healing nature of seeking support through strangers with similar struggles. Yes, I have a network of family and friends I am able to reach out to—however what’s exceptionally challenging about this time, is our inability to embrace one another. I stand just over 6-feet tall. Never did I ever think I’d have to use my own body as a measuring device to keep me separated from those I love. I have kept this distance from my own mom, even after the passing of my grandad, her father. Kneeled 6-feet from my best friend, as she endured a miscarriage. I am rendered helpless; unable to comfort either of them with anything but words. Even for me, words aren’t enough.

Sometimes by sharing out into the void, we can let down our defenses without expectation or agenda.

And so I shared this:

There were 3.8K likes and over 800 comments from women sharing the ways they are overwhelmed and various locations they choose to cry regularly, unabashedly or alone.

The explanation is simple:

Right now, mothers everywhere are not OK.

There, I said it.

We aren’t throwing in the towel, complaining, or presenting a problem asking for a solution—this too is an important distinction. The raw sentiments shared, had nothing to do with comparing war wounds; labeling someone’s experience or ranking sacrifices. Simply hundreds upon hundreds of mothers acknowledging their pain with no place to put it.

These past months have presented us with uncomfortable feelings of powerlessness and relinquishing control. Our lives are already upside down—whether it’s fostering kittens or crying in my car alone; these are at least things I am choosing. And right now, I am intentionally choosing to bring some joy into our house.  

There is power in admitting vulnerability and strength in solidarity.

As a collective we said,

“I know these feelings—we share them. We can carry this load together.”

These beautiful strangers and I, we didn’t try to solve this unsolvable problem, we simply acknowledged its existence, in order to allow ourselves grace.

Of course, we will rise from the closet floor and probably grab a laundry basket on our way out, because mothers are capable of all things, that’s just what we do.

Uncanny: The Likeness Between Early Recovery and Lockdown

As a writer, I have been intentionally quiet about this subject. Once it’s said, it cannot be unsaid. Once I’m labeled, it cannot be peeled off. It is not the label that bothers me, everyone that knows me, knows I’m a recovering alcoholic. I just celebrated 7 years of sobriety. It’s here, on this platform, I haven’t ever shared before. In this world, there is another shelf for sober mothers, and while that is what I am, it is not all I am. It would be easy to dismiss me now as unrelatable. But I’ve found a window into what will ring true for everyone.

My sister forwarded me a letter a teacher wrote to his students. He said,

“We don’t get to choose when we were born. We don’t choose what natural disasters, epidemiological emergencies, stock market crashes, tyrannical regimes, or wars our generations face. We only get to choose how we react. If you love literature, write. If you are an artist, make art. Make art filled with whatever you have, even if that art comes from anguish.”

I have something I’d like to contribute—because if not now, when?

The experience of early sobriety and sheltering-in-place during a pandemic are so parallel it’s uncanny. The feelings spark something in my brain which says, I have been here before. I’ve sat in this discomfort already. How can I be here again? Like a relapse, except there is no bottle in my hand.

Maybe you, yourself are in recovery, have grappled with the idea of quitting, or love someone who is struggling. Those of us lucky enough to survive each day overcoming addiction have tried to explain these feelings to family and friends—but it has fallen short, because there wasn’t anything similar worth comparing. Until now.  

These two webs--early sobriety and the pandemic, are so intertwined in fact, they can be read as one.

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It came out of nowhere. Except, it didn’t. It had been building all around me, it was just easier to ignore the signs. They were much too terrifying, and now this will change my whole life’s trajectory. The door has been shut and nothing will ever be what it was. There will only ever be a before and after.

In early days there is just so much optimism. I’ve been given the gift of time. A rush of adrenaline.

Ok, this is not so bad. I can totally do this.

The cloud is pink and fluffy like cotton candy—perhaps I can sit atop and float through, unscathed. I say things in this time, that will embarrass me later. I’ve exposed my soft underbelly, too soon in the process. But my defenses were down.

I will go through the motions of perceived thriving, since image is everything at this point.

Look how well I’m doing.

You can look, but you won’t see.

My senses are heightened during the shift. I’m learning to appreciate something I could have easily passed right by. Maybe I could do this, I’m learning more about myself.

The pink cloud lasts as long as it lasts. It doesn’t slowly dissipate, as I’d expect. It leaves and I feel completely ridiculous for believing any of its lies.

There has been a mistake and I have been wronged. I feel like a toddler stomping heavy feet up and down in protest.

I don’t want to!

Don’t make me!

I don’t like being told what to do and I will resent everyone and everything. Every space of my mind I go for an escape, there is none.

Oh, I’ll just.

What about?

But what about?

No.

I want to look for the loopholes. But the answer is always no.

I awake with a feeling of dread. Something dangling just outside my reach. I want to crawl back into bed and sleep until it’s over, but there is no end date. It would be impossible to pinpoint at the moment, but the unidentified object in all its heaviness is helplessness. I want to change this reality, but I cannot. I have nowhere to put this thought, so I immediately shove it aside, but it will rot in a corner of my brain, a forgotten portion of a garden where no one tends. The loneliness is palpable.  

I miss the idea of what was. But that reality starts to fracture and I know so many things have to change within.

People are dying and they die from this every day. Shouldn’t death be the ultimate reminder to stick it out? One would think. But we can convince ourselves of anything these days. Continuing on the way that I was is Russian Roulette with my life, or someone else’s life. It couldn’t happen to me. I resent the idea and this space I’m in.  

I try and say, “Ha Ha! Make this fun. It shouldn’t be so serious.”

If I don’t laugh, I will scream and cry and cry until it kills me. Gallows humor at its finest. No matter what light trickles in, there is something darker looming in the background. I am constantly reminded of what’s out there, waiting for me.

I am attempting to live in a new reality, where so much is off limits. I need so much help, but no one can do the heavy lifting, it is placed squarely on my shoulders. I contemplate more destructive behaviors to get out of these feelings. They are like wearing the skin of someone else. I’m so uncomfortable it’s almost repulsive.

I am angry now. Yes, rage, this feels productive. Finger pointing, name calling, and blame. Anything, but looking to solve the problem. Loved ones have rallied around me, symbolically of course, because they don’t know, they couldn’t possibly understand this house of madness I live in.

More time passes and this isn’t what I thought it would be. I have experienced so much fear and I don’t like fear as much as I liked anger. Fear doesn’t have a taste, so much as a smell.

I have circled back to helplessness, because it still lingers, like smoke and I’m grabbing and grabbing only to realize its nothingness.

This is what it is. What could that even mean? This thought feels important. But I can’t yet reach it.

Within the fractures, tiny miracles are occurring. Small sprouts along the cracks in sidewalks, so forceful the effort is admirable. Goodness. I’ve missed you.

The wreckage is still there, and the reality is that this is out of my control. I can only do the next right thing. These steps are so small, but monumental in their own right.

I need to place this in hands that are not my own. The weight, is too heavy to carry alone. There is still so much unknown. But I can feel relief in the serenity of turning over control. I have fought against, refused, and blamed—but now I have ceased fighting, everyone and everything.

And this feels like the easier, softer way--to believe in something bigger than myself. I need to accept this. In order to survive this, I need to accept it.

Acceptance. As it turns out, has been the answer all along.

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