Stuck

I feel stuck, and it’s just a weird place from my other stuck moments. It’s probably a testament to the times, though I don’t hear others complaining of stuckedness in the way I’m referring…but maybe my world is too small at this particular juncture.

Before this pandemic business I was on the cusp of several exciting things beginning. I was looking to start or move along with a literacy program at a federal prison, getting closer at returning to our men’s maximum with my creative writing program. I was just about to start another round of the same program in a men’s medium and begin work in a men’s minimum. I was midway through my first round of a second creative writing program at our women’s facility. My solitary confinement creative writing program was approved and just about to be implemented.

Our prisons were the first entity to shut down non essential personnel from entering when the pandemic hit. Just a very abrupt thing before anyone was spending time talking about it as though it was a sensation seeping through our pores. It was jarring and disorienting in the way that seems almost quaint now.

I’d also been speaking with my leftie State Senator’s office about my solitary confinement work. I don’t know where that would have ended up, but it seemed like it might be an interesting thing at some point if I keep nurturing the effort. Part of his constituency are the incarcerated in a few prison facilities.

I also started dabbling in expanding my work to other states…making state selections and deciding the level of program content I wanted to have completed before beginning the process. On some level that piece has not been interrupted, but life is too convoluted and intense for me to realistically have luck cold calling facility administrations that would have no reason to know me or care what I offer. In the best of times it takes a while to get through. Right now people are getting infected and dying in a way that is similar to what’s happening in nursing homes, long-term care facilities, and anywhere else where vulnerable people are stuck in a place breathing the same breached air. Once something like COVID is in; it’s in. The basics of the situation is more or less inevitable. The response to the situation is the variable.

Hindsight is always a quirky thing. In the winter I’d spent weeks battling this mild sick yuck. No fever, no cough; but I was struggling to breathe and my nose wouldn’t quit running. It was nothing. Almost my entire family was sick, everyone having different symptoms. I was better for two days before my breathing became labored again and wasn’t getting better. The story is now becoming a predictable one…COVID with a side of blood clots. It was actually quite serious; I almost died. Even as I’m recovering well, my physical stamina is not that high and my cognition took a hit with oxygen deprivation brain damage. I don’t want to make this result so dramatic, but I probably shouldn’t minimize it either; my default reaction to most big events in my life. That’s a hard thing to cease…minimizing is what I do, and I do it well.

I was disabled going into this health situation. I have some pretty significant learning issues, some of that are language processing problems. They are exaggerated now. Combined with the day-to-day of my mental health shtick, it can be hard to think. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume the term “pregnant pause” was designed to describe conversations with me. And, nothing underscores legitimacy of a professional opinion when mid sentence I can’t remember the name of the person I’ve been serving on a nonprofit Board with for the past three years. Names were a problem before. They are super duper a problem now. I went to write an email to a friend I’ve had for about twenty years…couldn’t remember his name either.

And, then there is just the task of writing. Words don’t make a whole lot of sense these days, especially if I’m tired…I have kids and irrational fears and stress, so tired has set-up a seemingly permanent residence in my body. By late afternoon I’ve accepted that coherent, much less deep thoughts and activities won’t happen. I’m misspelling all over the place, and it’s a struggle to correct the errors. It’s all getting better, and this isn’t a complaint. I feel lucky to be alive. But, I feel like I need to provide some context for the stuck I’m in.

I’ve always had my brain shtick…the shtick became shtickier in my mid-twenties. As frustrating as some of my regression and deficits are now, they are nothing like the limitations I experienced when my world broke around me during that time. I’m neurodivergent, and I’m proud of that…most of the time. I’ve managed a good amount of cool things because of it, even if I end up alienating or overwhelming people more than I don’t. But, here I am somewhere in the pandemic on a day of the week I long since lost track of. I’m taking care of my four- and six-year-olds because I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for the duration of my kids’ lives. And, just trying to find my way in mud.

I want to do something, but I don’t know what exactly. It took too much time, but I finished a year’s worth of content for my solitary confinement program. I can now focus on a second solitary confinement program that will be a remote book group type thing. After that I’ll be working on remote social-emotional programs. Who am I kidding? I probably won’t wait until the other program is finished…I never do. Consequently, I’ll spend that period of time feeling frustrated by what I can’t do as easily anymore, while trying to remind myself of all the things I’ve finished, just slower. Maybe that is what’s stuck? It’s good, right? Sure, it’s a slower pace, but I’m doing stuff even if it isn’t that gratifying at the moment. If I had things implemented and I was interacting with students, I’d probably feel differently. Maybe that’s the problem?

I was assigned my first prison mentee through PEN, which is very exciting. But, even with that starting, there is this absence of progression, and I can’t place it. Everything just feels stagnant in a way.

Before the blood clot thing I was phonebanking and textbanking. I can’t think that quickly at the moment, which has been hard for me. For the longest time…decades…my brain has been a jittery clicking of movement and a cacophony of everything in beautiful vibrancy…until it wasn’t, but managing those flows with attempted precision has been who I am for the longest time. As my mind squints I can’t remember my before with any clarity. I wouldn’t say my mind is slow at the moment, but maybe better explained as parts feel like atrophy. But, I’m not coherent enough to fully feel the absence, though I’m acutely aware it’s there. I’m improving, but I’m not at a high enough level to function for the kind of tasks that phone- and textbanking require. Calling Congress weekly is the most complicated effort I can handle in that vague realm. Those poor staffers that need to listen to me fumble though a voicemail recording of not remembering terms or what it is I’m trying to say. I could write it all down in a script, but I can’t read something like that much better. Besides, it’s good for me to practice retrieving things like that, but it’s ugly. I’m not necessarily embarrassed about that, but I don’t feel good about it either. I’m somewhere floating in the space of realizing and grieving what I’ve lost and have to work to regain…if I can.

I think I need a very specific type of human connection, but it’s hard to describe what it is. I might be one of the few on the planet who can claim a legitimate neurological benefit from Twitter political arguments and exchanges with strangers. I’m getting better at that too…a little helpless, but mostly people are patient. I can’t do what I could. I can’t take action like I could…not that I could ever manage the awesomeness of so many I follow. But, there is something to be said for attempting to read sources that are a little confusing for me, feeling overwhelmed, and asking a mutual for clarification. And, unlike Facebook, the words are in short bursts. I read and process a comment, and respond to the context of whatever issue. I feel this routine has best impacted my concentration to a task. I wonder if there is some kind of study about this phenomenon; there should be.

But, as much as the forum helps, it also pokes at the something need. That something missing from my experience that I can’t shake, and is troubling and a little anxiety provoking. I’m focusing on the need for masks in nursing homes and similar contained places. I feel so powerless about that. I’m nudging my way into a new project to connect specific facilities to people who can make masks…I cannot do such glorious crafty things like that.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out what this stuck itch is that I can’t scratch. I’m used to doing. I’m used to participating in whatever that could be managed with two small kids and no childcare. At the time it was hard to accept that change to my life as it crashed in on me and evolved. This is a different feeling than finding a purpose outside of my kids. This is like feeling an internal crave for forward momentum, overpowering in its urge to be fulfilled and standing in front of a brick wall looking up. The physical need to move, but the simultaneous stop.

I don’t have an answer. I suspect that won’t change anytime soon. But, maybe if I say it enough into the wind, the feeling will cease to consume me.

Routine

I’ve always been a creature of habit…always. I need my routines or I will not be in a good place. Sometimes I try to convince myself otherwise, but it will be a bad day and I will be grumpy.

I’m home from the hospital, and was immediately out of sorts with the new pandemic normal. The kids out of school…me out of the prison and at a reduced physical and mental capacity. I worried most about what to do with the kids. My parents are here to help, but that isn’t an easy answer.

I have grace with this process. Warrior Queen is not quite four and Little Man is not quite six. Sure, there are throngs of parents that have kids that will feel the lack of schooling; ramifications persistent long after we are out of the woods, but I am not burdened with such a situation. And, while I worry for those kids, in the grand scheme of my mind’s heaviness, I only have so much felt worry. Another grace is that I’m in a suburb with the space to take distanced walks.

My first night I was overwhelmed with this current life. I continued to feel overwhelmed the next day, even as I let go of what I couldn’t manage. But, routine floats to the surface with me. It’s my persistent friend. No matter how far I travel or how lost I am, we join together somehow.

I don’t have a schedule. Things don’t happen at set times. I have my list…of course, I have my lists…with all things. Some things I’ve found necessary to be time sensitive. My first walk of the day insists on first thing. I’ve always had my first exercise session first thing. I never really wake or feel grounded unless it happens. Curious I thought it would be different now that I’m out of the hospital. Maybe because I haven’t thought of it as exercise. I’m just managing a normal pace for fifteen minutes. My heart feels it; not desperately, but it feels it. After having a couple days over the weekend feeling anxious all day without reprieve, I naturally gravitated to my other old friend, morning exercise routine. It’s transformed my day with this simple return to normalcy that isn’t so normal. If my kids join me, then it’s an extra bonus of accomplishment.

But, even if they don’t partake…the distance a bit too far for them to be comfortable, there are other routines that have settled. I more or less get the cats herded with a change of clothing and brushed teeth…though the latter doesn’t always happen as we all meander our way well into the afternoon. At one point it occurs to me that I’ve forgotten and am haunted for hours at my slip in memory. I never used to be that way so consistently.

I usually need to sit with my feet up after my walk. The kids gravitate to me with books. Warrior Queen has her pile…Little Man has the chapter book series second he’d been requesting for months. I’d ordered it before my lungs had their thing…and the pandemic had its thing. I don’t know how long it lasts, but we read. Another list item checked.

My son likes the Mo Willems sessions…that’s maybe an hour of activity between time occupation book ends. My discombobulated Autistic son has thrived with these morning rituals. He watches the show for about twenty to thirty minutes and completes the art project. Yet, another check. He is peaceful, and I sort of rest, but not really.

Eventually my parents take the kids for a little while. We’ve made a social distancing calculation. None of us are going anywhere except the once a week trip to the store. We are relatively low risk, and I can’t manage child care all day while my husband is working, even though he’s at home. We are getting to a stretch, though, where my parents are struggling with the child care. Next week I’ll be taking the kids for a longer span, which I hope will be fine…It’ll be fine.

If it’s reasonably decent weather…cool or not, we go outside, check. We watch a FB zoo clip, check. The television watching hasn’t been as prominent as I feared, but it’s definitely happening more than pre-pandemic life.

For my part, I write a paragraph or two of fiction almost daily, check…important check, even if I’m not well enough to proof read. I have to read through a little of my last session. It’s coherent, which is all I ask at this moment. I sit to write a post for this site periodically…not quite a check. For some reason it isn’t really on my list formally. I don’t know if I need to change that or let things ride. I read a little…not much, but a little, check.

I had a goal this week to start working on another solitary confinement program that is geared around book discussions. I’m not sure the exact format of this thing, but I started to read the first of my three books I had delivered pre-pandemic…pre-lungs. Beyond my expectations I’ve been able to take notes about questions to ask my future students in the event this is approved…tearful check. I’ve been able to expand the packets for the creative writing solitary confinement program that is approved, but not implemented yet. My hope is that it will be this month…hard to say who is an essential employee in the prison. I will manage this remotely once it’s set-up, but for all I can predict this could be next month or the month after. I want to have a year of programming prepared. That’s twelve packets. I have seven-and-a-half complete now. They will need to be proofed, but the basics of the content is complete, ongoing gradual check.

From soup to nuts this is maybe twenty or twenty-five minutes of mental exertion each day. I’m trying to push for thirty minutes. The easier reading I do is another thirty or so. I don’t have much cognitive tenacity with these things, but I’m better than I was, and for that I’m grateful.

Little Man’s counselor manged to figure a Skype download. We coordinated a test run, and set an appointment. I haven’t told my son about this, but I know he will be thrilled. I hope it helps him. Even though he had a video chat with his school friend yesterday that seemed to diffuse some of his struggle, this is hard for him. I’m grateful to have his counselor to add to our routine; little by little we muddle through.