I woke up this morning after dreaming that I was trapped in a dark cavern with rushing rapids, the water sloshing around me, pushing me along as I fell over and over again to plummeting depths. I’m not someone who usually takes dreams too seriously or puts much stock in what they mean, but this one was abundantly clear. I am struggling to stay above the waterline and feel as if life and the people around me are rushing by while I am stuck, falling into a depth of despair.
My return to graduate school part-time has been more of a challenge than I anticipated, and the stress from the classes, one in particular, has been causing my body and symptoms to flare. I am back to living in survival mode, crying almost daily and wondering how on earth I will manage to do all of the reading and assignments for each week.
Lately, the most bothersome symptom I have been coping with is throat tightness, which usually worsens upon waking up, eating, or drinking. None of the specialists have answers for me about why this is happening, just that it does not seem to be allergy related. Some days it feels like a boa constrictor has wrapped itself around my throat, and it’s hard to have an appetite or desire to do much when this occurs. To ease my nerves, I often have to look in the mirror to assure myself that my lips and tongue are not swollen; they just hurt or feel “off.” Then, I put my pulse oximeter on my finger to check my blood oxygen levels to ease my worries that I cannot breathe. I started writing today to distract myself from the fact that lunch did not seem to agree with me, and it’s working to an extent.
Everything feels heavy: my legs, my heart, my chest, my head, my spirit, and my throat. I am moving too slowly, not wanting to get out of bed because I am too overwhelmed with the tasks of the day and sad that I am starting at the beginning again of my physical therapy regimen. I know I am in the grips of depression, and it is so hard being here again. I know I will experience the light again because I’ve seen glimmers of it throughout this past year plus since these symptoms first began, but the light is feeling fewer and far between lately.
I thought that going back to school would be a partial solution for the mental anguish I’d been experiencing, and in some ways, it has been empowering. Still, in other ways, it has served as a reminder of just how different I am from my classmates and people my age. Most of my classmates are working full-time jobs, something I was doing last October when my neurological reaction to the booster shot knocked me off my feet. Almost every class or assignment refers to our place of employment, and while I am still technically employed, I know deep down that I likely won’t be for long once I have the dreaded conversation about my return to work status.
The whole time I have been away from my students, I have continued to think about the curriculum I’d love to teach, the books I got approved, and the classroom library I proudly built for my students. I am filled with immense sadness and longing because I genuinely was at the top of my game as an educator when I got sick. Was teaching still challenging and hard? Of course. But I was confident, flexible, and adaptable, and I bonded with my students. I also had a whole arsenal of resources at my disposal after returning to the classroom after working at an educational non-profit organization. Now, five entire classes of students sit in my classroom whom I have never met and likely won’t ever meet. I think about how naively I walked out of my classroom on a Thursday afternoon on September 30th, 2021, thinking that I was going to take a day off, get my booster shot, catch up on some rest, and come back the following Monday, never to return. I think about how parts of my classroom are a time capsule of my hopes and dreams for that school year and that group of students. I think about how feverishly I continued to work for a month on lesson plans and grading until I realized that this was bigger than I could have imagined and wouldn’t return for a long while.
I have an appointment with my neurologist next Thursday, where we will talk about my return to work status. I know it’s highly likely he will not clear me because my body is not consistently holding up against the physical demands of ordinary life, much less a full-time job. And that is a type of pain that most people cannot imagine: losing a career, an identity, and a calling. I have wanted to be an educator since I was a freshman in college, well over sixteen years ago, and ever since then, I have dedicated myself to my studies and job. I know I am exceptional at my job because my colleagues and students have told me so, so it’s hard to let go. And yet, I know that it is time to call it, at least for now.
I think about the fact that a month before all of this happened, my husband and I bought our dream home and moved in. It has all these extra bedrooms we dreamed of filling with kids. In fact, we strategized about which rooms would be the nursery when the time came, and then, once we hopefully had another kid, where their room would be too. I think of all the hope and dreams that I was filled with just a short time ago, and it breaks me to think about how lately I wonder how I will make it down the stairs, through the day, or to my class. I think about the trauma of pregnancy and childbirth and how my body is not near ready for that, and yet, I’m about to turn thirty-five in four months. I worry that this home that has been such a sanctuary for me, even during the height of my pain, may not be affordable much longer if I can’t go back to work, and that breaks my heart too.
Tears stream down my face as I type, and I know I have been holding in these fears for so long. Perhaps I dreamed of rushing rapids last night because the dam is about to break. The only place I have truly allowed myself to come undone and voice these fears aloud is in therapy, and I’m grateful I have that safe space. Though even there, I feel like there isn’t enough time to uncover all of the pain and trauma I’ve experienced over the past year.
I listen to many people talking about going back to normal and how their lives are getting closer to where they were before COVID hit (ableist, I know), but for me, there is no going back to normal. There is only radical acceptance of my new reality, which I don’t like and often hate, but I have to contend with it because it’s the only one I have. I think about all the pivots I will have to make and how I am so sick of pivoting again and again. I am so exhausted from listening to people tell me how much they admire my resilience when I desperately wish I didn’t have to be so strong all the time. Zandashé L’orelia Brown said it best: “I dream of never being called resilient again in my life. I’m exhausted by strength. I want support. I want softness. I want ease. I want to be amongst kin. Not patted on the back for how well I take a hit. Or for how many.”
I want to stop being so scared all the time. I am terrified about how expensive it will be to lose my health insurance through work and how I will keep my supportive team of doctors. I am afraid I will not find a job that sees the value I can bring to their organization and does not see me as a liability or risk once I am well enough to work again. I am worried I will never have more than a string of several good weeks or days, making it all the more challenging to make plans or hold onto the hope that things will turn around.
I carry these thoughts, feelings, and fears with me all the time, and they are so heavy. I hope that by writing them down, I can let some of it go, or at the very least, have a few loved ones help me with the weight of it all.
spoonfuloflindsay 
Leave a comment