My husband reminded me that I need to write things down. I tend to circle around the same conversation with him over and over, but maybe that is a reflection of the Groundhog Day we are all living in at the moment. The same four walls in our small, Pasadena bungalow, the same two dogs looking out the window as our masked neighbors return from yet another evening walk, and the same face to have the same talks with night after night. It is hard to separate the days now—let alone the conversations.
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that before.”
That has become a common phrase in our 2020 vernacular. A phrase that has led to misunderstandings, defensiveness, and boredom. In order for me to come to terms with my experience over the last 6 months, I had to identify the series of spirals:
First, the panic spiral. The week before spring break, I met with my students on a rainy and overcast morning. We sat in the classroom for what would be our final meeting and they finished their midterm. We got the email a week later that classes were pushed to online and I rushed to record podcasts and change lessons to better suite digital learning, but also what do I know because I have only been teaching for a little over a year. Each week felt like a load of bricks off my back (and the student’s too). The school year ended in May and I was relieved to make it through the semester, but then I stared at my empty bank account and a new wave of panic swept me away.
The second spiral was the heartbreak spiral. We started marriage counseling after our already fragile marriage couldn’t protect us from the debris left from untreated addictions. We cleared out our alcohol cabinets and committed to a life of recovery for my husband. Learning to support someone you love who has hurt you by their addictions is…complicated. More than complicated. There are millions of words in the English language and not one of them can describe the feeling of care, frustration, understanding, anger, sadness, support. Maybe one word…love. It’s easy to understand these new feelings in your head, but it’s harder to memorize them into your heart.
The control spiral picks up where my last paycheck left off—in the endless void of applications into a soulless computer screen. Who knew I would grow to hate that Apply button so much?
To the hiring manager, here is the story about why I care about this career but you’ll never read it. Here are my qualifications that are word for word from your job posting, but you won’t see this either. Here is a list of references who can vouch for those qualities and would be happy to talk with you, but you’ll never see their names.
I crave control. Control has become a safety net for me in order to not be hurt by the people around me. Applying for jobs during the middle of a pandemic is out of my control. Enter—stage left—the spiral. The need to be in control is paralyzing, but it is also paralyzing to budget out your expenses for the month and only hope you’ll be able to pay next months rent. So back to the job listings and writing cover letters and hitting send because the only way to find agency is to feed the system.
Those spirals led me to this one.
This spiral doesn’t have a name. It’s a feeling that lives in my chest and in my stomach—it’s hard to breathe, and feel, and remember the privilege I have that I am alive. It feels likes pain, fear, frustration, silence, loneliness. It’s the loss of control. It looks like crying myself to sleep or sitting in a fetal position on the couch—rocking back and forth slowly in order to feel my body again. The outbursts, the tears—those are apart of this spiral.
When does the spiral finally end?
That’s what I usually ask my husband during those circle conversations. When will COVID be done? When can we travel again? When will we be able to pay our bills? Will we ever be friends again? Did I bring you to LA for nothing? Are we happy? What are we doing?
The spiral continues.
I don’t know where to put this constant ache in my chest, but I know it will…end. It has to end because if we have watching anything in the last few months we should have seen that in the midst of everyone’s spirals, we are resilient. Our bodies have looked square into the face of oppression, sickness, loss, violence, fear, anxiety, and injustice and said, not f***** today.
We are here in the spiral or in between them—we are here.