September is scary
by Michelle Read DeGarmo
Today, on September-eve, I feel unsettled. September is scary. Here’s why.
Six months ago the world as we knew it ended and everything changed. That’s just the beginning of the story. I eventually adapted by creating lovely outdoor spaces in which to socialize with my loved ones. Yesterday I shopped online for a patio heater, my attempt to extend outside social distance friend time. I know it’s going to be temporary. Someday soon it will be ten degrees with six inches of snow on the ground and we’ll be back to Zoom happy hours and waving from our heated cars across a parking lot.
We know so much more now, about exposure and viral load and how long we can be in a room with another person with a mask before things get dicey, how large that room needs to be and how many air changes per hour* it needs to even begin to mimic the outdoors.
What the science doesn’t tell us is how to survive a long winter without close contact with our people. Three months at home was difficult for me, even surrounded by family. Despite our incredible luck – continued health, safety, and employment – the thought of going back into that dark place makes my fingertips numb and my chest hurt.
When the morning temperatures dip into the 40s it’s hard to not think about all the adaptations to come. Acclimating to no vacation or family day at the county fair was easy. But what about Thanksgiving and Christmas? Will my sister be able to visit? Will our parents be lonely when we can only stand outside for a few minutes? What about the special reindeer mugs my mother uses for homemade hot chocolate on Christmas Eve – will she bring them to us in the driveway? Will we feel safe enough to let her?
I tell myself nothing happens the same way twice. We fail differently every single time. There’s no going back, good or bad. All these words should be comforting. Today they are not. So what’s next?
I am doing my best to be mindful about spending quality time with people I love right now. When I feel like I need to cry, I just let it happen. In the shower, in the car, in my office with the door closed. Sometimes a dozen times a day, I cry for the things I can’t control and loss I won’t see coming until it happens, because even my anxiety can’t predict everything. It all just seems like too much.
And then, after sitting with all those uncomfortable feelings, I move on with my day. My newly developing superpower seems to be falling apart and shaking it off. This is my new normal, and it’s not at all uncommon. Sustained exposure to chaos does things to our brains. We’re not losing our minds, it’s just science, and it’s only for now.
My point is that September isn’t a monster, it’s just another month. I’ll tell myself this every day until my covid-trauma addled brain chooses a new monster. Whatever your monster is today, it’s only for now, just like everything else. Cry and breathe and drink enough water and eat real food and survive the next minute and the one after that and the one after that. We’ve got this.
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