To future generations and those questioning Life, The Universe, and Everything, I dedicate this, my requiem for days rather forgotten. May it be of use to you as you navigate the creation and protection of your own Pandora’s Boxes.
Picture me if you will, as the wizened Storyteller, sat back in a leather armchair in a dark, moody study or personal library, sipping on a snifter of scotch neat. Or maybe it would be more helpful to see me as the frazzled 23-year-old woman hunched over a computer keyboard in a fluorescent-lit hole in the wall, trying to chug damn-near-boiling thermos coffee and struggling to find the right words (any words, really) for what needs to be said.
I suppose I must start somewhere and this seems as good a place as any: Anyone who knows me, knows that I struggle with anxiety; it's unavoidable. I hide my anxiety only marginally better than I hide my bright red hair. The thing that nobody knows, and up until you read this, I truly meant nobody, is that for the last 10+ years I have also struggled with, at times crippling, depression.
Considering what I just told you, you might have an idea of how I responded when I received an email from my college on March 13th, 2020 (which, haha, happened to be a Friday) containing this passage:
In light of the current recommendations from the office of Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer, Adrian College intends to limit the risk of COVID-19 exposure by reducing in-person events scheduled on campus. [...] Following the recommendations and guidelines from the State of Michigan, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the World Health Organization and other agencies, as of noon on Thursday, March 12, Adrian College canceled all face-to-face classes through Friday, March 13. Classes will resume on Monday, March 16 in an online format. Face-to-face classes will resume on Monday, March 30 unless otherwise notified.
Now, let's see if you were right about my response. I was indignant. I was put out that the school was interrupting, nay, interfering with my freshman year of college. I believe I actually said the words, “As a diabetic, the flu is potentially deadly for me and yet you don't see me freaking out every flu season.” Yes, I know. In retrospect, that was an incredibly stupid sentiment, and believe me, it circled around and took a nice chunk out of my posterior. But I was young and significantly less wise and one of the endlessly cool things about being human is that you can change your mind. You can reevaluate your stance on something once you gain a better understanding of the issue. Anyway, bet you didn’t see that twist coming any more than I foresaw the outcome of the next three years.
Over the next few weeks, several things happened: on March 23, 2020, Governor Whitmer issued Executive Order 2020-21, otherwise known as the “Stay At Home Order,” my sister-in-law started freezing our mail, the world ran out of bananas and toilet paper, people started drinking fish-bowl cleaner, and I had the first sustained mental health relapse in almost seven years. I’d had “bad days” before this, obviously, but this marked the beginning of 11 months of absolute hell. See, about 12 years ago some things happened and I learned that the people around me couldn’t provide the care that my mental health required. So, I built a box. A strongbox of ugly things, if you will. I shoved my ugly experiences and ugly emotions into that box and welded it shut. Over the years, I added more and more ugly things to that box, one or two things spilled out, but for the most part, my box did its job. Then, March 2020 rolled around and my box started to crack.
There were five of us living in one house: my mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law, and myself. Five people with, it turns out, clashing personalities and clashing coping mechanisms trying to navigate a world that seemed to be self-destructing. Every day it seemed like some new nightmare: the Australian wildfires, the civil unrest, the damn murder hornets. And as, every day, I had to keep my mouth shut in order to “keep the peace,” more and more things were added to my box and more and more cracks started to form. Growing up, I’d always been told, “you’ll feel better if you get more exercise.” So, I took up running. Like, compulsively. I exercised for hours at a time, I pushed myself to my absolute limit, and I counted every single calorie that I put in my mouth. It gave me something to focus on, something I could control, which I felt I needed since I wasn’t able to go back to school in the fall, due to the diabetes I was previously so nonchalant about and my quickly developed respect for COVID-19.
Time passed, in a strange, twisted, carnival room-of-mirrors kind of way, but pass it did. For a while, I felt better. I lost 50 pounds, my brother and sister-in-law moved out, and the world seemed to be settling down into something of a “new normal.” My family was still careful; we had any “gatherings” either on Zoom or outside, we visited my grandpa through the window of his apartment, we wore masks anytime we went out, but things were looking hopeful. And most importantly, I was still able to deny the cracks in that stupid box.
Then, June 2021, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. At some point (I don’t know when), maybe during the two weeks following the diagnosis, or the 9 days in the hospital post-surgery, or the resultant months of recovery, my box exploded. I didn’t know it, I didn’t feel it. I was numb. After my mom’s diagnosis, I didn’t just build a box, I built a fucking wall. It took about two days, but after that wall was up, I didn’t feel a thing. I had to. I became my mom’s caregiver; I went to her appointments and took notes so she wasn’t overwhelmed with all the information that was being thrown at her, I did my best to make our home feel as “normal” as possible, I took care of her in the hospital after her surgery, I memorized her list of medications and allergies, I struggled to connect with the half-face people passing in and out of the room as the minutes ticked by like hours. I stayed awake most nights, on the two-seater couch in the hospital room, listening to her breathing in case it stopped. And when we finally got to go home, I learned her dietary restrictions, I learned how to make bone broth from scratch, I learned what things to look for in ingredient lists, I made sure that she did her exercises and drank enough water, even when she didn’t want to, I made her laugh (which she said was mean), and I didn’t feel a thing.
I went back to school that August and I went back more afraid of COVID than I had ever been before. I was terrified that I would bring an illness home to my mom, so I started wearing KN-95s everywhere I went, I sat away from people as much as I could, and I started taking immune-support vitamins (something I never thought I would do). It was in that first month or two of school that my wall started to come down. And as the wall came down, I once again found need for that box, but it wasn’t there. All that remained were scraps of metal and a black hole that seemed to fill my entire mind. I hid things pretty well, for months. On the outside, I laughed and smiled and did all the things that the humans do, but the inside was a mass of swirling, disorienting, black fog. I continued this way for almost a year, a broken girl in a fracturing china-doll mask, smiling with vacant eyes and armored with denial.
Christmas 2022. The dam finally burst in that house with five people and an atmosphere eerily similar to those 11 months of greyscale hell that began my downward spiral. So you know what I did? I got a tattoo, well two actually. That’s right kiddies, I had a breakdown and I got a tattoo and it was the best solution I could come up with. Some people might consider that behavior irresponsible. I think that it was brave. For 12 years I denied having a problem. For 12 years I pretended that everything was fine and you know what resulted? Bruised knuckles, insomnia, eating disorders, and more that I will spare you from. My point is that getting those tattoos forced me to accept that I have a past, but showed me that I made choices that allowed me to have a future. Those tattoos were the first step in accepting myself, and all of my issues, and deciding to get help. I’m not going to stand here, well sit here, and tell you that I am some mental health guru that has all the answers. I’m not even going to tell you that I had to go through all of that crap to get to where I am today. This stuff sucks. It hurts, it’s alienating, it’s hard to talk about it, but it is real. If COVID had never happened I think I would be a significantly different person, but it did happen and the person that I am isn’t totally okay yet. But you know what? It’s okay to not be okay.
