Transitioning
Letter no 108 — April 18, 2022
I didn’t schedule this newsletter on the right day. It was supposed to be yesterday, I know. Then, I set it for 3 pm instead of 3 am. Now here we are, one day too late, on Easter Monday – for all the folks out there who have grown up with the Catholic church breathing over your shoulder, intermittently asking you, from age 6 and up, which “sins” you wanted to confess, I see you...
Although I became a secular human as soon as I gained some willpower, I still like the parabolic meaning of Easter: what was once dead rises; hope resumes, and so do new mythologies.
Easter also signifies another kind of resurrection for me, as it was during that weekend that I landed in the psychiatric ward at UNC in 2017. Five years already. A lifetime.
At the time, every doctor was out for the long weekend. I was told by the nurse who checked me in that I wouldn’t be able to see someone and start the “real” work until three days after my arrival. So instead of group or therapy, I floated around, ordering bacon omelets, watching hours of telenovelas with the other moms. A true vacation for the suicidal soul I was.
Sure, meeting with the docs was hard, but the “real” work truly began when I transitioned back to my real life after a week spent sleeping under observation, free of any responsibility. I went home with my five-month-old, a little more equipped but with a husband who went on to puke for three days straight – from stress, anxiety, and worries. Not quite as restful as prescribed.
Nothing ever goes according to plan in life, even the most well-intentioned and premeditated roadmap.
Speaking of which: I got a new job.
