I’ve heard therapists and psychologists speak talk about the “window of tolerance” in anxiety disorders. The idea is that we all have this particular sized window through which the stresses of our life flow. When the window is wide open, it’s easy breezy. Minor issues have so much space to pass through that they remain just that – minor inconveniences. Yet, when those minor shards keep coming and are accompanied by larger ones, the window opening narrows, and narrows, and narrows further. The ever-decreasing flow of air makes breathing harder and harder, until all that’s left is gasping.
So, we sit there, gasping at the little air that reaches our lungs, hoping and praying that something or someone can help widen that window a bit. And it does happen. Small inconveniences float away and the window widens ever so slightly. Yet, in the Time of COVID, the pressure of those shards is greater than it’s ever been, and the minor ones that float away are quickly replaced with other, more jagged shards. This continues as we slowly begin to suffocate.
It’s drowning without water.
A couple weeks ago, my son’s daycare had a case of COVID. Since they’re all two years old in his class, and thus unvaccinated, the daycare closed down for ten days. Then, last week, my daughter got COVID – and she was home for five days, my son for ten. Now, today, we found out that there was another positive case of COVID at daycare and they’ll be closing for another ten days.
Out of the first thirty-five business days of the year, I’ll be without childcare for thirteen of them. And, if when the childcare center reopens, there’s another case of COVID, it’ll be another ten day shut-down.
My window is nearly closed.
My son had a runny nose yesterday. After his sister having COVID, and despite him constantly testing negative and being isolated from her this entire time (after school activities were a blessing since his isolation started sooner by happenstance), I am panicking. I gave him three tests between last night and today, and, while I was hoping today the faucet would stop, it hasn’t. Or, it has, but just a little bit.
My daughter won’t get COVID again for a while, if at all. She’s fully vaccinated for her age, and now has a prior infection. It’s 99% most likely the Omicron variant, which means some protection from reinfection for about ninety days at least.
But my son… Nope. Neither he, nor I, nor his dad got COVID. We did everything right. Got boosted, kept my daughter isolated for her entire quarantine at home (her choice too). Cleaned. Lysol-ed. Opened the windows and kept to ourselves.
I’m not disappointed that he wasn’t infected. On the contrary, it’s a very good thing because dealing with a sick kid is not something I want to manage, and I would like him to get vaccinated before he has to negotiate this horrible virus, mild or not. That’s a way away. Even if he can start his vaccine regimen in March, it’ll be two months after the second shot plus two weeks when he’s fully vaccinated. So, let’s say early June – after cold and flu season has subsided and probably after mask mandates have ended.
I work from home. I have a wonderful agency that contracts with me and wonderful people that are kind and compassionate. But the truth is, having missed so much work, I’m hopelessly behind.
And yes, dear reader, I recognize that writing this is cutting into time that I could be working, but let me explain.
You see, I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and ADHD (well, ADD is more descriptive of my version). That means that my time is consumed by stress and worry and that the ability of my brain to do any one particular thing at any one particular moment is governed by both how anxious I am and how interested I am.
Right now, I’m interested in working. Right now, I’m writing to avoid the impending panic attack that I feel coming on and to get through the tears streaming down my face right now. I have no ability to do creative work when my brain has effectively closed off that portion of itself in favor of fight, flight, or, in my case, freeze.
My window is nearly closed.
I’m exhausted in ways that I haven’t been in a long time. Yes, last year was tough – especially when we were trying to sell the house and I was driving the kids around for hours in the car so people could come view it. But that stress was temporary. It was in the moment of the car ride and the time that came after. Once the kids were in bed, even if it was coming the next day too, I had some reprieve. And they both went to school or daycare, so again, I had some reprieve.
Right now, everyday is riddled with anxiety (and I know I’m not alone). Panic. Sheer and utter hopelessness and darkness so close that I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck quivering. The darkness that I have held off, fought off constantly, for the last good while… it’s at my door and it doesn’t need a key to get in.
I’m using all the tools that are available to me. But you know the one that I need the most?
Either will do, but childcare is more realistic, as elusive as it is.
We have a massive childcare crisis on our hands and have for a long time. The incredible amount of stress that finding, paying for, and managing childcare is overwhelming for parents of young children. And the two bits of assistance we got during the pandemic – the child tax credit payments and the refundable child care tax credits? Those are gone. G. O. N. E. Gone.
So, here I am. Typing to avoid falling down this deep, dark, and hard-to-escape-from well of stress and hopelessness. Trying to make sense of the challenges ahead and figure out plans that, well, are physically impossible to exist. Who wants to watch a kid who’s potentially been exposed to COVID? No one I know. Though, if you do, it’d be a super crazy lucrative business right now.
I’m tired. I’m so, so incredibly tired. And there’s not much flexibility on my husband’s front. He’s facing his own exhaustion and demons after discovering issues that I won’t discuss here (none of his own fault, thank you Navy).
But the truth is, the brunt of the panic and the loss and the worry and the exhaustion falls to me. Even when he helps to lighten the load, it’s still my load to carry, and it’s still my job and my mental health and my physical health that gets compromised for both our country’s inability to follow the evidence and provide numerous supports for parents and the needs of the Navy.
When the darkness overtakes me, I become numb. I function much better because I focus on survival needs and must-do’s. I can focus in because a switch has gone off on my emotional self. You’d think this a good thing, right? Yeah, not really.
Not at all.
If I hit that wall. If the darkness comes and settles in, then that’s it. It’s here for a while. It’s settled in and no amount of therapy or medication is going to get it to pack its bags quickly. New pits of pain open up and all of the years of healing that’s been done unravels. I don’t know why this happens to me. I don’t know why falling down this well means I go deeper every time it happens. But it does, and there’s no escaping that.
So, here I am again. Typing. To stop myself from falling into that hole and losing myself for a while. I have kids now, two of them, and a life that really is pretty content, even if it is painfully monotonous. Outside of this, I have the ability to understand, to completely comprehend that those fleeing moments of sadness are a chemical reaction to the challenges I have, and that doing some work in therapy or with additional meds can help me through. And, eventually, once the kids are older, more joy will fill those holes (as it really has with my daughter).
But today is today. And today is horrible.
Today is laden with stress and anxiety and overwhelm. Today I am defeated, though I haven’t yet lost the war.
I’m hanging in there, even if by a thread, and with my face right up to the edge of the window, fighting to breathe. Fighting for my life.
Please, God, or whatever out there has some hold on the universe and the course of events… Please. We’re so tired. Please, let this vaccine work. Let us get back to somewhat of a normal life again. I know it’ll never look the way it did before, but if daycare could be open more than 50% of the time, it would go a long way for many of us.
I can see hope amid the darkness, and that’s what I’m holding onto.
`O ka hali`a aloha i hiki mai 