it has been two months since I’ve reached full inoculation.
This year and change has been a journey. For everyone. There are many ruminations like it; these are mine.
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We entered the pandemic inspired, thinking it would be a few months. I sang, did porch recitals, felt inspired to create during a brief time. I visited regularly with a friend close by, who had terminal cancer.
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Just weeks into the shutdown, on April 15, everything was upended. We rushed to Canada to be with Luke’s mother as she passed. The entire experience was surreal https://medium.com/@phreddiva/border-crossing-in-the-time-of-covid19-dfaea33b08f3, and we were incredibly fortunate. People were incredibly kind, both in Canada, and here. I left Luke and his brother for the final days, coming home to take care of the cat. Luke said “I can’t lose my mom and my cat in the same year” and sent me home. I said goodbye to the last person in my life with the title “mother”, knowing I would never see her again. I keep thinking I don’t have the fortitude to do this again, and then I do it again.
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I was alone with the cat for a few weeks. It was still so early in the pandemic, we didn’t have pods, and were still spraying down groceries. I sang a porch recital, which my mother-in-law attended virtually. She died two days later, on May 17. I found out via text – I had texted her a photo of a lady bug minutes earlier – she hadn’t responded.
My sister-in-law (my brother-in-law’s partner) came over that night. She came into the house and we cried, collapsing into each other. She was the first person I had touched since leaving Canada on the 4th. The trauma, devastation, and isolation of those weeks left what I believe is a permanent scar. Friends were kind; they dropped off food and sent flowers. But not being able to go into a home and feel love and family shattered something within me. Luke returned home a week later, and went almost immediately back to work.
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Construction was considered “essential” in terms of going back to work, but was never prioritized for vaccinations in California. A botched roll-out meant that he was scrambling for vaccination slots long after many people who had been isolated at home for a year received theirs.
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Summer came. I, who have never experienced depression (my mental illness landscape leans anxious), would awaken on a Saturday, eat my coddled egg, and go immediately back to bed. Luke saw this happen once and, the second time, collected me into the car (he drove my car – he rarely drives my car. It was that bad.) and drove. One weekend, North. Another weekend, South. Then North again. A plan hatched. We decided to purchase a beautiful snippet of the California coast, in the Banana belt (area of the South Mendocino coast with significantly less fog than the surrounding areas), close enough to do a rocket run if necessary, far enough to feel removed. Arty. Stunning. We ended up with more than we could have hoped; redwood trees, an ocean view. County (not well) water. Aerobic septic. Coast Development Permit. Deeded access through the neighbor’s property to the beach.
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During this time, Jasper got sick. Very sick. I illogically berated myself, with the “I had just one job this year (keep the cat alive), and I’m failing at it” refrain. We were devastated. For six horrific nights, we called OakVet at two in the morning, crying. Asking for photos. Through miracles beyond conceiving, he came home. A few weeks later, due to returning infection, he ended up in the hospital again; for three days this time. I barely mentioned it. People had, again, been so kind. It felt too much to tax everyone again.
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In between those two vet stays, my friend with terminal cancer died.
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I went into myself. We grieved. We all grieved.
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I isolated. more. More than that. Still more than that.
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I cultivated a murder of crows that brought me my first shiny rock last week.
I donated my trusty steed, Thor, after 20 years, 17 trips to Burning Man. I was sad, and it was time.
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I realized that I do not process information and inputs the way most people do. I realized the impact this has had on relationships, on work, the way I over-explain to strangers, the way I take people at their word. I’ve disassembled my relationships, looking at them through this lens, and everything is so much more clear now. Where there was turmoil before, I am left with clarity. Where there was caution before, I proceed with love.
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My friends have shown themselves. I spent a long time listening to words instead of following actions. I made a spreadsheet to remember actions. I’ve been told I shouldn’t tell people I have a spreadsheet, but I am evidence-based, and trauma erases memory, so here we are. What matters is… I know. I have evidence. I have evidence of love, and care, and I have ceased casting energy into voids. Besides, who’s even read this far?
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People asked me to speak. This was happening before the pandemic, and is happening more now. Speak to their kids about being realistic about going into the arts. About being a successful weirdo – and how we define success. Speak to girls about being realistic about going into tech. Speak about things just for fun! I can dive deep into my passions and there are others who do the same, and there is an audience. My authenticity is complimented, which is great, because I don’t know another way. My authenticity has also infuriated people. The right people, in most cases. Being a beacon and representing an untold perspective is not something I always find necessary but, speaking of voids, when I see one I feel quite literally honor-bound to speak to it. Those infuriated were hoping the void would remain unnoticed. Silent.
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Voids grow.
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I am seeking voids. Voids in my own knowledge, blind spots. I’m inhaling books and podcasts and articles about race and white privilege because my advantage is achingly unfair, and on the list of Things I Can’t Abide, imbalance and unfairness are showstoppers. It’s overwhelming, as it should be.
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The silence has been lovely. My misophonia, hatred of being interrupted, dislike of people in what I perceive to be “my personal space”, discomfort with unscheduled interactions, have all been quieted this year while my brain calms itself. I can observe myself, my reactions, my interactions, my emotions. I actually know what I want, what I like, now. I am not sorry, or apologetic, for my wants, for being clear about what I need to be comfortable. I’ll always over-explain it, but I am done apologizing for it. For the first time, instead of worrying constantly about how my desires might possibly inconvenience others and putting my desires and wants second to someone else’s, I am honoring what I want. What I desire. And realizing that most people do this. I’m not resentful that I spent years considering feelings of those who didn’t do the same for me… but I am definitely thankful to have finally figured out. I’ve realized that there is no bigger red flag to indicate an imbalanced relationship than “but I thought we were friends” as a refrain to stepping on boundaries. That people who constantly challenge boundaries will never relent, are not friends. That people who consider my feelings are friends, and they are rare and gorgeous.
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I love my home. My life. The world I’ve created. My love. This pause has given me time to really sit with what I’ve worked for; work on myself. The hurdle upon hurdle of the constant striving that is the tech industry. The deep investment in another human being that is marriage, true partnership, regardless of legal bonds. I paused for a moment to see how far I’ve come and it’s expansive and unexpected and I am exhausted and proud. I am ready to craft the next chapter, thoughtfully.
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This is a love letter. An unapologetic love letter. I am bruised and scarred, but so are we all. I like and love myself better than I did going in, and my likes and loves are wrapped around me. May I never mistake words for care, nor take you for granted, again.
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I am better than I was going in. Vastly. Better for myself, better to those who love me, better to those I love. The quiet moments on my porch, in my backyard, in another backyard, on the phone, runs and walks on the beach, texts upon texts, have been my lifeline. My deep, unbroken connection to myself, to who I am in the world. The footprints on my heart and the footprints left by others, I cherish. I won’t go back.
phreddiva 