3/26/2020
I’d intended, since I went into social isolation about twelve
days ago, to write a few blog posts. Funny, uplifting stories and perspectives
was the goal, because I think now more than ever, we need the ability to find
joy and laughter.
And I might still do that. All bets are off.
But I haven’t yet been able to access that part of me that can
pop off a funny anecdote like it’s nothing. The inside of my head is usually a
ticker tape parade, colorful and chaotic and overwhelming, and often joyous. Now,
though, it’s more like a funeral procession. My brain mechanics feel
rusty and worn, slow and heavy, like maybe one of the gears fell out altogether
and the others are having to compensate, but aren’t quite up to snuff. Like
maybe the whole machine is about to go kaput.
The era of COVID-19 isn’t easy for anyone, so I’m not trying
to say my mental distress is special. It’s not. I’m floundering in a completely
foreign situation just like everyone around me is. Problem is, I’ve got people looking
to me for help, too. I’m still a therapist, even if the world is upside down
and inside out. Especially because the world is upside down and inside
out.
It’s been a weird road, these past two weeks. The week leading
up to Friday the 13th of March, I was still in a state of heavy denial.
The virus was just another flu. I was going to Jamaica on March 21, as planned
for over a year. Over that week, I started the process of acknowledging and
grieving what my losses were shaping up to be. And on Saturday the 14th,
I woke up and was like “waiiiit holy shit, hold the phone, what are you doing?”
It was a strange experience, like all of these new and very real thoughts had
infiltrated me and I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been there all along.
I accepted the reality and gravity of Coronavirus in a new way, and grasped my responsibility
in flattening the curve. I cancelled my vacation. I got a telehealth platform set
up for my practice. I emailed every client to tell them there would be changes
in my service delivery. I created consent documentation and consulted consulted
consulted. Between Saturday and Monday, I transformed my practice completely.
It was exhausting, but exhilarating. I love learning, and I had to—and fast.
Fueled by caffeine, novelty, and optimism, I marched into
last week. I saw twenty clients over telehealth, and the process went beautifully.
No tech issues, and the whole videoconferencing thing felt a lot less interpersonally
weird than I thought it might be. It felt empowering to be able to offer hope and
guidance in bleak times. I ended the week with a sense of relief that I could
still be a steady presence for my clients, put some good into the world, and
also bring in some income for my family.
Enter this week. Now, I was supposed to be on vacation this
week, so I opted to keep my caseload light. I scheduled nine people. I had hoped
for a restorative week, filled with mostly reading and junk TV and personal
stay-at-home projects. It has turned out to be a week of battling with insurance
companies, intense client stress, and coming to grips with the mortality of my world.
It has turned out to be a week of increasingly horrifying news, a week where I
had conflict with family and friends about what “social distance” means in terms
of how to enact it successfully, a week of fear and frustration and almost constant
anger and anxiety. I’m trudging into Friday feeling like I’ve been steamrolled.
Today I held the sadness of a senior who will likely not
celebrate the end of her high school career elbow-to-elbow with her friends. I
held the desperation of a refugee who is running out of food with no apparent
means of getting more, and whose children have fallen ill, possibly with Coronavirus.
I held the anxiety of a pregnant mother who is unsure her partner will get to
be in the delivery room with her when she labors. I witnessed the fear of my
colleagues as we wonder if and how we will be reimbursed fairly for the
important services we provide to others, in the age of telehealth, and I went to
bat with and for them in the ways that I could.
Today I had my first panic attack in years.
Because the trauma of my clients is different than mine, but
the same. I hold for them the very things I fear myself. Scarcity,
financial ruin, loss, and death.
I assume tomorrow, if operating on a better night’s sleep, I
will wake with a sunnier disposition. Optimism is my default, to the extent to which
clients have described sessions with me as “hope infusions.”
But euthymic mood notwithstanding, I have no delusions of the
next few weeks being easy. On me, on anyone. I think we’re in for some real shit,
people.
And I guess until my funny bone kicks back in, I’m going to
document it.
