Friday, January 8, 2021…12:28pm
The end of week 43 As my sister-in-law said on Wednesday, 2021 said to 2020, “Hold my beer…”
What do we have to do to get ourselves out of the bad dystopian novel in which we are living? As if the 43 weeks of pandemic life weren’t bad and bizarre enough….this week included multiple anxiety induced angry meltdowns from my eldest child, COVID-19 case numbers and hospitalizations so high in Los Angeles County that ICU beds are near non-existent and emergency medical crews have been told to not transport a patient if there is any possibility that they will not survive, and the incitement to violence and treason by a sitting president that led to an attack on our democratic process with the storming of the capitol and the endangerment of our lawmakers.
Trauma, upon trauma, upon trauma – both personally and collectively.
I am exhausted and angry.
Exhausted because I am stretched so far emotionally, mentally, and physically that it feels as if I will never not be exhausted again. Bone deep, heart wrenching, mind numbing exhaustion. I know I am not alone in this space.
And angry? Angry because it did not have to be this way. None of it had to be this way. There were so many points in the days, weeks, months, years, decades, generations leading up to this week where choices based on common good over selfish entitlement could have changed the trajectory. It did not have to be this way, and yet as long as people live in ways that do not account for the fact that actions have consequences, this is where we remain.
When I am able to find the mental energy to peek out from beneath my exhaustion, I can see with enough and clarity and optimism to be hopeful that the events of this week (the past 43 weeks, the past 4 years) will be the catalyst we finally need as a society to move forward in a way that provides space and grace for everybody. Those moments are fleeting, but I’ve noticed them and there is some solace in those moments.
Hang in there my friends and be well.
We're All A Little Broken 