Craziness and what to do about it (besides try to write through it) has occupied too much space in my head lately. I need that space for other things, so that leaves me no choice but to recognize craziness, wade right in, and hope to emerge on the other side.
It’s exhausting, like trying to wiggle through a giant Slinky with my arms pinned to my sides and my ankles tied together. That visual evokes a memory from my first time seeing a psychotherapist. After each session, I would go to a nearby pizza shop, load up on carbs, slowly shuffle home and immediately fall into a profound, peaceful ten-hour sleep.
Therapy helped me to recognize mental health issues, but it didn’t immunize me. This latest iteration has more than one source. It’s like cognitive quicksand—sneaky, shifting and sinking. For example, the pervasive anxiety and frustration of the pandemic doesn’t have its source in my internal landscape. But it inevitably seeps in, as if I were a teabag plopped into a cup of hot water.
For some, coping strategies involve a defense: alcohol, antidepressants, denial, forced emotional detachment, or other strong medicine. We need some kind of help, because we are all so very ill from this. We are suffering but numb to the deaths, chronic symptoms, uncertainty and isolation. Putting on armor makes sense, but in my case right now, it feels like kicking the can down the road.
My mental disarray is amplified by happenstance. In a way, that’s good. Otherwise, it would be easier for me to ignore certain fundamental issues that need attention. The pandemic forced me into a state of suspension, whereby I could notice transformations happening to the person I’ve been for most of my adult life. They’re big changes, but they occur within. It’s hard to talk about, because one thing that hasn’t changed is my pride and unwillingness to be visibly broken. That makes the work harder, but being a tough little soldier is something I know how to do.
What other familiarities can I cling to, in order to hide from the door to freedom? Drum roll, please: The List. I used to live and die by my caregiver to-do list, which grew and grew no matter how hard I tried to keep up. As the Red Queen said in Alice In Wonderland, “My dear, here we must run as fast as we can, just to stay in place. And if you wish to go anywhere you must run twice as fast as that.”
When my father died in March 2020, it was so freeing to say goodbye to The List. But it seemed I was (and still am) attached to the idea of structure and accomplishment as self-value. The List was gone, but there was a hole in my life. What could I fill it with? The fog of shutdown, grief and loss rolled in before I had a clear answer.
In late summer 2021, I decided to gather the facts of the past 18 months, which were unlike any I had experienced before. To keep this task from being too heavy, I wrote a satirical version of a holiday newsletter, all about myself and my events and accomplishments during the pandemic. This document took the shape of a timeline, like the ones in the appendices of The Lord of the Rings. It was factual, sparse and to the point. It made me laugh, it showed me that I hadn’t been idle, it cleared away the fog of isolation, and best of all, it took away the fear of answering that dreaded question: “What have you been doing lately?”
It’s hard for me to acknowledge and talk about self-transformation as an important task. Somehow I seem to feel that it doesn’t “count” as work, because I can’t measure it in terms of output and result. But the fatigue tells me that indeed, it is damn hard work, and that craziness seeps in when I don’t address my need for rest.
This is a fundamental that I emphasize with my tai chi students, but I also need to hear it for myself. Let the brain take a back seat. Take the path of least resistance. Be comfortable with the unfamiliar. Blah, blah, blah. Okay, teacher, your turn: breathe, be grateful for nature’s beauty, and maybe even sleep. At the end of this day, another healing opportunity is waiting for me. As Shakespeare said in Macbeth,
“Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.”
Thanks for all the words of wisdom. The idea of a time line- of good, productive, less productive, etc. I’m going to do that. I wirte my life in pencil- seldom in ink.
Thank you! I’m sure the timeline will change – along with everything else these days.