it's really just hard right now.

When you click on this blog, you want to see how it is going; and I want you to know how I am doing. I have tried to be honest about this process. Like all things, there are brighter and darker days.

 Lately, it has been very hard. While I am physically improving, and I gain a sense of future, it is joined by worry. I wonder "Will I always be tied to a hospital?," "Will I ever travel again?" "Am I trapped in the cold forever?" "Will I ever swim in the ocean again?" "Will I be able to have a family?" 

My foreshortened sense of the future makes me think that nothing is possible. There is only what exists in front of me, and I feel a desperate sadness at the state of things.    

I find myself sitting alone in the dark a lot lately, unmoving. There does not seem to be much joy anywhere. 

The news is very grim. The past four years allowed racist hatred and horror to blossom and seed. It is utterly terrifying. 

The world is dying of covid; we are all paralyzed and trapped in our respective spaces. We are not allowed to visit. We are not allowed to travel. If you are sick or old, you will die without ever seeing your family again. If you aren't yet there, you fear it. 

There is little to look forward to. The phrase "there is always next year" is absurd. Remember when you said that last year? There is NOT always next year. Things change. People get sick. People die.

School is beholden to the annual cycle, and that phrase pops up a lot. Perhaps my irritation at this cheery pablum is why I do not find much joy there lately. Well that, and, to vanish any lasting happiness, snow days are out, and Zoom is in.  This really does snatch the only ounce of joy in the bitter winter forecast and leave nothing but the icy mounds of dirty, graying snow behind. 

On mornings when it is safe to drive there, I sit silently in a hyperbaric chamber for hours. At the end, a misogynistic egomaniac makes some comment that either makes me seethe, or simply reeks of condescension. He must be the smartest man in the room at all times. 

On Friday, while I was trapped in the chamber, I was forced to close my eyes or watch a horror film with near-constant torture scenes. What a lovely way to start the morning.

Lately, I have been grieving the loss of the family I imagined. It is harder and harder to authentically join in others' ecstatic joy. I am usually an expert at being happy for others while separating my own grief. Unfortunately, instead, I am mired in a swamp of jealousy, despair, dashed-hopes, and a life I never imagined. (I swear I will get there; because I love you, and I will love your little nugget too. I will probably hand-sew some delightful thing for them, and it will be made with love. It is just epically hard right now.) 

I've tried to make it better. I tried making eclairs. I tried going to the gym. 

I fear I am also making Chris miserable too. He asked if I wanted to go to Virginia. For a brief moment he forgot that the travel restrictions make going places impossible. We are confined to the cold, northeastern winter for every minute of it without reprieve. I can't escape, and he can't escape me. Knowing this breaks my heart.

I thought getting the vaccine would matter and mean something. It doesn't. I might still carry covid and spread it. I can still get the disease. I must continue to wear a mask. I must continue to social distance. It wasn't a suit of armor injected into my arm. It was a false hope for things to get better. Like so many other things.

So, things are hard. I know there will be light. But right now, things are really hard.