loathing in the time of Covid

When the realization that the need for my hands-on mothering was no longer warranted or wanted by the youngest of my kids (at 15 and 13), I felt a jolt. All of a sudden there appeared a chasm between myself and what had essentially been my job for the last 23 years. In other words, the centerpiece of my identity had left the building. I felt raw, exposed, and utterly still. There is no chaos, no real child-driven crises to address. Now what? I felt contempt for myself. And that lasted a while. Then, as I’m prone to do, I felt defiant. Surely there must be more to me than just a mother and a wife! So I tore toward a tucked away, past version of myself. Guileful, reckless, and impatiently trying to fill a nameless, faceless internal void. Menopause showed up without a party gift and I started to drink too much. And the worst for me? I got fat.

I had the typical boundaries buffering my drinking from becoming something out of my control. I never drank during the day, never drove after a drink, and tried ever so hard to stay off of social media while buzzed. It was when I realized (thanks to my FitBit!) that I had only taken about 300-400 steps a day for about a week that I knew I was in trouble. I mean, you really have to actively commit yourself to remaining that sedentary! I was deeply ashamed yet I didn’t know how to yank myself out of the mental/emotional hole I’d dug myself. All of this was happening during the height of the Covid-19 pandemic and we, like the majority of humans, were locked down. I didn’t handle that well. Adding copious amounts of wine to a restrictive physical situation was, for me, a topographic map to a mental breakdown.

Over here we have menopause. Over there, behind the emptiness, are several glasses of wine each night, and to top it off, my kids no longer needed me. That map guided me smack into a mid-life crisis. I needed help.

It’s never easy for a career mother (or ANY mother, really) to admit or even quickly realize that she needs help. All of the hallmark signs of major depression were there, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy wallowing. I was tired all the time and let chores go undone for an unacceptable amount of time. I gained a lot of weight from the overuse of wine combined with my ass seemingly sewn into the couch. I felt hopeless, hammered, and profoundly sad. What is my purpose? Why haven’t I done anything with my life? Where’s the corkscrew?

Eventually I started to crave the simplest emotion inside of the human condition. Joy. The more I thought of that teeny tiny word, the larger it became to me. Joy. JOY. JOY. I knew, of course, how it felt to be joyful. The emotional fullness it presents makes a person feel high, even drunk. I simply had to find it. We all have inside of us a powerful tool that if we can access it, may shove us into taking action to help ourselves. It’s our survival mode. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s that whisper that becomes a shout: PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF ASS LADY! QUICKLY! That desire for joy and the acceptance that I needed help showed up and I called my doctor.

With the help of an anti-depressant and a wee bit of estrogen, I was able to clear off the moss and cobwebs that had taken over my mental and emotional health. I felt gratitude and gumption again. My indulgent sadness elevated to a livable level and exercise came back into my life. I was sleeping better, starting to lose weight and in general, kicking the shit out of menopause. Getting out of my own way I now saw the truth about my kids not needing me. They don’t need me as much because I raised them to not need me as much. It’s a badge of honor that I now can see. So if you find yourself unable to take showers, do the laundry or move off of the couch, do yourself a solid and get help. You don’t have to sit in misery. I promise. Also, EASE UP ON THE WINE WOMAN! You’ll thank me later. xoxo