A moderately rough time
There are a few notable markers on the timeline of my recent personal history that I think about fairly often.
In November of 2016 I ran the New York City Marathon, the culmination of several hard months of training, resulting in probably the best physical shape I’ve been in my life. Stopping to greet my family on the sidelines was one of my all-time favorite moments, ever, and that night I ate a room service cheeseburger with J by my side, the children sleeping, my heart alight and my muscles turning to stone.
A few days later Trump was elected. I stopped running so much because, obviously, I didn’t need to anymore. It was winter and we braved the typical Connecticut cold and resisted the new government regime, and went on a huge roadtrip to Arkansas then Florida, where I sat by the pool of a hotel in Vero beach and talked politics with my dad.
A few weeks later he experienced some concerning symptoms and we remained optimistic over and over again as the news got worse. He had stage 4 brain cancer and his particular case and associated complications meant treatment wasn’t a good option. Three months later he died and, where once there was nonstop conversation, there was silence.
Two weeks after that, J, who’d been doing a post-doc at Yale, learned that he’d gotten a job, news we’d been awaiting forever. We began the stressful process of selling our house and looking for a new one, closer to his new gig but still close to friends and family.
Time marched on. I left my job to pursue freelance writing full time, a decision that was professionally very much the right thing to do, but meant I went from working in a fun office with fun people to working at home. And while I’ve grown to love working on my own terms, it can be a lonely affair.
We began our life in a new town, the kids went to a new school and I reconnected with friends I hadn’t seen in several years. We joined a pool club and tried to maintain the lovely garden we’d inherited. The coming months were marked with the big and small things that constitute the sometimes dizzying human experience, most notably J’s dad, Jimmy, dying in April of last year, another huge loss; another amazing man to remember.
I’ve written about many of these feelings before…grief and memories and moving on. And I don’t think I need to revisit that all again. Instead, I wanted to write about something more subtle and insidious. Something more general, related to the past couple years and, more directly, the last several months.
Which is that somewhere during this time I started feeling - I don’t know quite how to explain it is the thing - sort of disinterested. Not depressed in the sense of a true depression. Not rage-filled. But unmotivated. Not all the time, not at all. But sort of as a default mood.
I’m an optimistic person by nature, I always have been. My mornings are often characterized by my need to prattle on about plans! and trips! and ideas! I’ve experienced plenty of daily annoyances, failures and losses, like we all do, but could normally look beyond them and, therefore, get through them no problem. Think about what’s upcoming, focus on the “next.” Or not and remain hopeful anyway.
And it’s not that those impulses totally disappeared or anything; in fact, after my father died I experienced some of greatest moments of joy I’ve ever felt. I remember looking back at my kids in the rearview mirror one random afternoon and being so struck by the very reality of their being - being filled so completely with utter happiness that we all exist (I know, I know, ridiculous!) that I had to reign it the happy tears threatening to erupt and avoid embarrassing the hell out of my near-teenage daughter. Those moments - seeing the best parts of the world - have been plentiful, and are much deeper than they were previously for me, when I hadn’t lived as much.
However. I also sank into this other feeling. Drudgery. Resentment. I would blink open my eyes in the morning, and for a second or two, the slate was blank. Then, instead of possibility, resignation. My thought process was often some version of, “I need some coffee and then I’ll get through this day.” Get through it.
This is tough to talk about for a few reasons. But not because I feel scared sharing these feelings. Happy or sad or confused or whatever emotion I’m experiencing at any given time, I’ve always been compelled to tell other people how I’m doing, and hear how they’re doing, too (I know this isn’t a natural impulse for everyone, by the way, and admire people who are more controlled in their communication style; I’ve tried to be more like them, and have always failed miserably).
That’s not why. It’s because when I admit that I have had a little bit of a rough time in recent years, I stop myself by thinking a) isn’t everyone having a rough time getting through these busy, challenging days, not to mention contending with serious political and cultural issues? I mean, raising children and figuring out your career while maintaining the general upkeep of ordinary life is often very monotonous and demanding, feelings made more glaringly obvious by the fact that it’s supposed to be “full of wonder” and whatnot. Deal with it. Maybe my situation wasn’t a “situation” at all.
And b) there are people having a much, much worse time of it than me, an incredibly lucky individual who shouldn’t be complaining in the slightest.
While “a” is possibly true - I think modern life is hard for a lot of people - that doesn’t mean that my feelings aren’t valid or worth sharing. Because what I’m talking about wasn’t “normal” for me. It was feeling different than I had felt before, and wanting to feel like some version of my old self again, while also realizing that life does change us, and that’s ok, too.
And “b” is totally true. But, for the same reasons I just listed, that doesn’t mean my condition didn’t warrant a remedy. I know intellectually that it’s healthy and right to want to feel like the best version of yourself - we should all get to feel like that! - even if it’s difficult (because of guilt or commitments or anything else) to justify or put into practice.
Also, I realize I have probably seemed, you know, just fine. What I’m talking about wasn’t a total lack of happiness though (the past few years have included some wonderful periods, like last summer, which was glorious). This was more like a long sigh, punctuated by the relief I felt when I was with people. I think one of the reasons I always come across as cheerful and happy to others is because I am so very cheerful and happy when I’m with others. People energize me (once again, I know this isn’t true for everyone).
This was low-level. A simmer, not a boil. I was never impossibly sad. I just struggled to find the momentum that used to come so easily to me.
I was listening to this podcast I like a lot recently and one of the hosts was describing the feeling of mild depression he’d been having lately as “everything is just a little bit hard,” and I think I screamed out loud in the car - because I am a person who screams out loud in the car now (sorry, Nora): “Yes! That’s it! Everything is just a little bit hard.” At times over the past couple years, things that had never been difficult for me before felt annoyingly strenuous, like choosing what to wear in the morning. Important routines - that may have even been fun if I’d let them - felt monotone and nagging. I had to figure out dinner every night, ensure my children started their bedtime routines at a decent hour and start flossing Adriana’s teeth because the dentist told me it was a good idea.
Nothing felt impossible. I could do these things, but I had to wage a fight to get myself to do them. The same tiny battles, over and over.
And the thing is, that’s what life is, right? These tiny battles. To keep ourselves and our loved ones alive. To make a difference in our work or personal life or, best of all, both. Some of them, like getting exercise to keep our brains and bodies healthy, are mundane, while others, like chipping away at a large professional project, seem more important.
But the thing that’s always belied the boredom sometimes inherent in this process, for me at least, has been that other feeling. The one where these repeated tasks serve some delightful purpose, even when the tasks aren’t delightful themselves. Maybe that purpose is maintaining the status quo and maybe it is achieving a future goal.
Even in my stress, I’ve always maintained a baseline positive vibe. And again, it didn’t disappear entirely, but it disappeared pretty significantly. I had to summon it. I had to “fake it til you make it.” But I didn’t feel the “make it” coming.
I think you could call what I was going through “feeling blue” or dispirited. Maybe you’d even call it being in a “mild depression.” I don’t know what the technical term is. For me, calling it a “rough time” worked. That’s what I called it in my head, and when I’d tell J that I felt like I was having a “rough time” lately. I can’t put a timeline on it but it definitely re-appeared this academic year and was quite noticeable this winter.
But the thing is - the crazy thing - is that for awhile I was ok with it not getting better. Not forever. But until it was done. I was strangely resigned to living in a semi-cloud, punctuated by the many good things happened. I had lots of meaningful writing work and new creative gigs, the kids thrived at their school and we had a ton of amazing adventures with friends. I was overloaded with joy at times. But when I wasn’t - during the more routine hours, days and weeks - I beat myself up over feeling “down,” telling myself that I had no right, as this healthy, fortunate, thriving invidual, with a family of the same descriptors, to feel the way I did.
I tried, even though I knew it wouldn’t work, to fight my way out of it. And it didn’t. That didn’t work. Fighting your feelings never does (a grown-up thing I have learned).
I knew what would work. I knew that eating well (no more chocolate chips as an afternoon mood booster, CARA, because that does not "serve you,” as they say) and regular exercise would work. That scheduling my days, even though that seems very lame and unnecessary, would work. That maintaining social activities with friends - the one thing that’s never been a problem for me - would continue to work. That gaining some emotional and physical distance from my kids’ insanity would work, so that when I was with them (which is PLENTY) I could try and soak up the good things and have energy to let the bad go more often. I knew that waking up and making plans right away would work even if I didn’t feel like it. That walking the dog would work.
This, you see, was the most notable characteristic of this moderately rough time. I knew what would work: all the methods that had worked my entire life. I just couldn’t make myself do them. Sometimes, yes. But regularly, definitely not. And regularly here is key. I still went to exercise class and on occasional runs and had coffee with friends and had wonderful talks and nights out and times, but the mornings were still greeting me like a doleful, gray companion more often than felt right.
And then a few weeks ago, I don’t know why or what happened - maybe nothing - I decided I would like for it to be over.
And I got in touch with the therapist I’d seen after my dad died, and told her I was having a “rough time” and could I come check back in with her? And she said that of course I could.
I immediately felt better, like the minute I sent the email. Not better like I’d felt on many occassions over the past year. But wholly better - better better. Like I knew the right thing and was finally ready to pull the trigger.
Again, I feel like I have to keep saying this - especially because I am by no means an expert on, well, anything really, and especially not this - this is how it worked for me. I am incredibly grateful that simply booking an appointment with a therapist created instant mental sunshine, but I realize this isn’t how it goes for everyone, not at all.
I think that signaling - to myself and to the world in general - that I wasn’t ok with that status quo anymore felt like a major win. Like a radical act, almost. And a radical act - whether it’s calling a therapist or joining a gym or admitting something to a friend or succumbing to the fact that things might feel rough or blue or sad for awhile, and that’s ok - can be both very tiny and very momentous.
I wanted to write this post because I think we all get lost in a sea of “whatever” like I was from time to time. There are reasons, and sometimes there aren’t. You might say that this rough period happened to me because my father died and I was really sad, and then a whole bunch of other life events happened and it was just a lot in a relatively short period. It feels helpful to explore a probable cause, and, on that note, I’m well aware that these feelings could come back, because life isn’t changeless.
What felt really good, however, was attempting to improve it all. I talked to the therapist about all those “should be” things. Uttering them aloud to someone was all it took for me to start doing them. And, I know this seems like a trite coda to this story, but doing them is working for me.
Wake up. Make the coffee. Make a plan for the day. Put it on the blank pages of my lovely datebook. Annoy J by interrupting him mid-paragraph and exclaim things like, “We should go to IRELAND!” or “Let’s put that mirror up in the living room!” or “I moved the hamper over here on the other side of the room, so that you can’t throw your socks over my head anymore at night when we are lying in bed, trying to make a basket, and often missing.” I’ve written about all these routines before, but lately I’ve been making actually - well - routine, and that’s made a huge difference.
The therapist also suggested I might have a little bit of “seasonal affective disorder” in the winter. Anyone who has heard me curse about Connecticut in January and February and even March for the love of god what is UP with the northeast is probably nodding their head at right now and saying, “Um, yeah, obviously.” I’ve been trying to get outside more, which I have frequent chances to do: walking the kids to school, running or just taking a stroll through our neighborhood. It is undoubtedly helpful.
I’m worried that in writing this it’s going to sound like: I was fine, but I wanted to be great. I’m worried this is going to sound naive and simplistic and I know that you guys aren’t either of these things. Neither is the world at large.
Because wanting to feel “great” again is sort of what it was, and that seems very self-indulgent when you consider, you know…everything else happening out there, much of which is not great in the slightest.
Another grown-up thing I’ve learned, though, is that coping with life and - yes - feeling great, isn’t self-indulgent. It’s pragmatic. It allows us to give, instead of just exist.
Rough times can be productive, too, by the way. Very. But I think what I’m saying is that it’s also important to take the small steps necessary to try and climb your way out of them, or if they aren’t climb-able, admit that they’re happening. It is fine, even if you have always considered yourself the optimistic one, in need of no help, to say: Hey! I want to feel more like myself again and I guess I need to set aside some time to try and make that happen. We all know this, but maybe we don’t talk about it as much as we should.
There’s a song by Jason Isbell and The 400 Unit called “Hope the High Road.” It was released in 2017 (notably, the year after the election), although I just discovered it. J is a fan of his, which turned me onto his music. His lyrics are magic and the chorus of this song goes:
“I know you’re tired
And you ain’t sleeping well
Uninspired
And likely mad as hell
But wherever you are
I hope the high road leads you home again
To a world you want to live in.”
I don’t think it previously would have occurred to me to think about myself while belting out these lyrics in the past, because I coudln’t imagine myself as “uninspired.” Until I realized I had been. Now, I’m like, “Hell yes, Jason, that IS exactly how I was feeling!”
(Seriously, it’s such a good song. Listen. Just really excellent and therapeutic, especially if you’re harboring political resentment, which, aren’t we all?)
One more thing if you’re still there, and good god, this is long, so thank you for sticking around if you are. There was this time I was home from college and hanging out with my friends Matt and Max at an apartment (due to the whimsy and seemingly endless passages of waste-able time that are associated with youth, it’s hard to say exactly when or where this was). We were looking out the balcony window and Max pointed at an airplane and said something like, “When I see a plane fly in front of a city skyline, I think to myself, ‘progress.’”
We all carried that quote with us from that day forward, because, first of all, it was such a Max thing to say in the best way possible. But also because that’s a useful sentiment. I may have even written about this moment before, and I’ve definitely thought about it a lot. It pops up when applicable.
Max was talking about industry and modernity and mankind’s ability to do once unimaginable things (right, Max? something like this?) but smaller-scale progress is happening all around us all the time, and it is significant, even in its everyday varieties. I didn’t really have the space to notice it properly for awhile. Now, I can’t stop noticing it.
Just this morning I was on a short run after dropping the kids off from school, the bright sun doing an important job on my psyche.
As I turned the last corner towards home, I saw a neighbor who often stands outside his house and makes phone calls. I often give a quick wave if I’m out with the dog or on a run, which is what I did then. This time, though, I thought about the comfort of these little routines in this lovely community we get to call home. These weren’t the static markers of a dreary winter, quite the opposite. Potential all around.
“Progress,” I thought. What a wonderful truth, that we can look at the same world and feel differently.
