GRIEF
Sorry, I Can’t Write Right Now–I’m Doing Sad Girl Shit
I am mourning the way I thought my life would be and trying to come to terms with the way it all turned out.
It’s late at night. Well, actually, it’s just after 9 PM. I turned off my television about twelve minutes into Bye Bye Birdie and opened my laptop so that I could stream Frasier, one of the shows I love to let put me to sleep. Every night, I turn the volume down so low that I can’t make out the words and dim the light on my laptop until there is no light at all. I don’t watch or listen, but knowing my favorite show is there helps me fall asleep.
Frasier is my emotional support show.
It’s time for bed, but it’s also time to write. If you’ve become familiar with me over the past year, you may have noticed that I’m writing a lot less these days––once every two weeks, to be exact. That’s when I turn in my sex and relationship column for LEVEL, a Medium publication for men. There, I get to write fun stuff like this:
There’s been a lot happening in my brain lately, and it’s stunted my creativity. First, I’d have to sort through some of it and then find the release valve for the pressure that’s been building in my head. Plus, my body aches from bracing myself, from holding myself upright when I really want to crumble. From the top of my shoulders to the bottom of my feet, it all hurts. I keep saying I’ll get a massage today or tomorrow, but something's stopping me. I’m going to cry. As soon as someone touches me, I’m going to lose my shit, and all the pain, fear, loss, and frustration from the past eighteen-plus months is going to pour from my eyes like so many rainstorms.
Shit. I’m crying just writing about it.
It all started when I got vaccinated. For the past year and a half, like you, I’ve been overwhelmed and preoccupied with staying alive. I’ve been hyper-focused on keeping my family safe and healthy and making sure we come out of this pandemic better than we went in. Like you, I went into survival mode, into a fight or flight response, and believe-you-me, I’ve been fighting like hell, determined not to fail.
Determined not to die.
Once my family and I were fully vaccinated, however, the chances of that happening decreased by 98%, which meant I didn’t have to fight so hard anymore. I didn’t have to worry about my family every second of every day. I didn’t have to symptom-watch nearly as much or be certain we were dying once or twice every week. Fully vaccinated, I could put my guard down a bit. What I didn’t realize was that that guard was actually a set of floodgates, holding back months and months of tears.
Depression swooped in like a vulture to a carcass.
When we left the hospital, after receiving our second dose of the vaccine, I did what any woman with Generalized Anxiety Disorder would do; I over-prepared and pre-panicked. I had Tylenol and ice packs at the ready. I kept checking on everyone every ten minutes, asking if they were having symptoms from the jab. I watched the clock and counted the minutes until I fell asleep ten hours later without experiencing any of the symptoms I’d been forewarned about. What I couldn't have prepared for, however, were the emotional symptoms, the proverbial bloodletting that would follow.
It all came rushing from the back of my mind to the front, and all I could do was let it wash over me. So much has happened over the past couple of years and even before. Politics and social injustice, murders and deaths, sickness, and disease. I have lost so much and gave away plenty. I walked away from some of the closest people to me in search of healing and peace at a time when the world offers so little of both. I am mourning the way I thought my life would be and trying to come to terms with the way it all turned out. I am graciously accepting the blessings I’ve been given while aching for the ones I couldn’t have. But every time I tried to cry that ugly cry that gets it all out, my face froze. A tear or two would fall, and the rest would gather in my throat before being swallowed whole––Jonah to my whale…to my wail.
I couldn’t write about it. I could barely think about it. These feelings I’ve been shoving down have now gathered in my chest, in my bones and muscles, stiffening and aching them, burning my throat, and clouding my mind. My breathing has been shallow as if inhaling too deeply will loosen the mass and awaken an avalanche of tears. I haven’t been able to meditate or work out regularly. My eating habits have changed, and I find it hard to get back into my routines. Meanwhile, the pressure mounts day after day, week after week, until today, something shook loose and it brought me back to DMX.
Spinning is my thing. I fell in love with it a few years ago after joining a local spin class for a few months. Eventually, I bought my own bike and parked it in my bedroom, where it wouldn’t be overlooked. Thanks to that bike, I stayed in great shape during the pandemic, and I look and feel better than I have in years. Still, I hadn’t ridden since being vaccinated about a month ago. Tired of feeling unmotivated to do so, I decided today would be the day I climbed back into the saddle. But, I felt too lazy to put on workout clothes and almost used that as an excuse to skip the exercise for one more day. Defiantly, however, I slipped on my sneakers and hopped onto the bike in my underwear. This ride felt like a matter of life or death, and I couldn't give myself one more reason not to do it.
With the curtains drawn and the lights out, I searched Apple Music for my usual playlist and stumbled across a list of essential DMX songs instead. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of his face. I could feel the tears welling behind my eyes as I remembered him. I still can’t believe he left us. He was the sort of man who could never die; you know, the way you think about your dad when you’re a kid. X always seemed so superhuman to me, but there is nothing addiction won’t take.
And suddenly, the ride wasn’t just for me.
I pressed play on DMX’s playlist, locked into my bike’s pedals, looked at myself in the mirror, and I rode for him too. I rode for all the people we’ve lost. I took care of my body for those who couldn’t take care of theirs because of illness or addiction. I rode because I’m still here by the grace of God and because so many people didn’t make it to this day. I turned up the volume, released a wail from the pit of my stomach, and I pedaled until I was dripping in sweat and tears. I cried on that bike, and it was the ugliest, most beautiful release of the sorrow I’ve been carrying for so very long. I cried for all I’ve lost and all I had to give away. I cried rivers of tears into oceans of sweat, and I let it drown me. I pedaled past the point of exhaustion, and then, I kept going. Crying, sweating, and pedaling until I saw stars, until I felt relieved, until I surrendered to my pain.
It’s late at night.
