I am not okay. I am not just talking about my unnatural affection for my compost bin. I am stumbling in a dense fog, wondering where the hell I left my navigation system, my compass, my lantern. Just a couple of months ago, I was motoring along at top speed, maneuvering life’s twists and turns with the skill of a Formula One driver at the Monaco Grand Prix. Writing and editing and formatting my first self-published book. Embellishing postcard messages to far-flung voters with pink hearts and twinkly stars. Sporting my Chucks and pearls like a sports fanatic outfitted in all the lucky gear to ensure a win at the Big Game. Rubbing my hands and giggling with glee at the prospect of this country turning a new page.
The chasm between then and now yawns as vast as the Grand Canyon which boasts a maximum width of 18 miles, the largest in the world, if you were wondering. I am a facts nerd, which means I must keep my distance from the kitchen knife block in these fact-optional times. Tempted as I am to stab something when I hear yet another “alternate fact,” I remind myself that my friend severed a pinky finger ligament when she felt similarly outraged. Dear kindred spirit that she is.
Since the 2024 Presidential election in the U.S., I’ve sunk into a deep depression. I’m exhausted, mentally and emotionally depleted. I feel like an air traffic controller after a grueling 10-hour shift that involved a midair collision.
Now enshrouded in black, I’m mourning the world I thought I lived in. Mourning the days of joy-scrolling through the brief-but-invigorating candidacy of Kamala Harris. Mourning the lost trajectory of forward progress I thought we were forging. Mourning the mounting contempt for women, LGBT folks, immigrants, people of color, and all of Nature. Mourning the impending demise of Pop-Tarts. Oh, I know they are awful, full of high fructose corn syrup and food dyes banned in saner countries, but they remain a fond symbol of the carefree days of my youth. Which also passed long ago, so I guess I should just get over it.
Get over it. That’s what I see in online comments to posts by other folks in mourning. The election results are in; compassion, science, and truth lost.
Get over it. That’s the mantra in the so-called modern world, isn’t it? Hurry up and bury those hurts and losses because capitalism demands we remain productive. Gloss over and get over.
I know too well the emotional hazards of burying all those hard feelings, however. Believe me when I assure you that I’ve tried every means. But guess what? Like a dead body dumped in a lake, it all resurfaces, bloated and off gassing when you least expect it. Cue the waterfall when I hear the elevator version of my mom’s favorite song in the grocery store.
I’m in a dark place. And I, for one, believe it’s just where I need to be. In fact, I’m not sure pretending everything is fine would be healthy, given recent upsets and upheavals. Taking a breath, allowing a pause after a traumatic experience just might be crucial for mental health and well-being.
Many customs and religions establish a period of mourning when a loved one passes. The Jewish tradition calls for family members to sit shiva, or mourn together, for seven days, followed by Shloshim, a 30-day to gradually re-integrate into daily life. Per the Shijūkunichi tradition, Buddhists honor a 49-day mourning period, with memorial services every 7 days. Many Catholics observe the novena, including nine days of prayer and ritual after a death. Though I’m not bound by any religious tradition, I feel in good company.
In fact, I haven’t found any other tradition, except American Capitalism, that establishes a “just-get-over-it-and-get-back-to-work” period of mourning. Not that I’m an expert, and I expect no less than a slew of comments to the contrary.
My point, the one I’ve just discovered in my balled-up fist, is that I’m okay with not being okay right now. Pretending to be “okay” in the current circumstances would require an Academy-award winning performance I’m incapable of delivering.
Not that I don’t have my homework, doing All the Things that sustain me in times of crisis. Meditation, prayer, journaling, movement, prayer, and let-us-never-forget LAUGHTER comprise the glue that keeps me held together. Time with loved ones reminds me that I’m not alone—and why it is so vital to care so very much, even when it’s emotionally excruciating.
I am not okay. And that is A-OK. For now.
