This post is the epitome of a "first world problems" post. There are people who have actual problems, whose 2020s were actually tragic and terrible, and I am not one of them. You are free to roll your eyes at this, and you are probably right. But this was my experience, and I've been meaning to talk about it for a while.
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Here's an obvious statement: twenty-twenty was hard—and I had it really, really good. I didn't lose my job or get sick, and neither did the people closest to me. I had it really, really good.
But it was still hard.
The difficulty peaked in July of 2020.
Due to gym shutdowns, I hadn't been working out in about five months. I didn't like the way I looked or felt, inside or out.
I have trouble breathing on good days, so masks give me a lot of anxiety and make it extra hard to get a deep breath.
Places that used to be productive or fun to me—like the grocery store or library—were shrouded in an insidious fog of fear and condemnation. Without the ability to smile at each other, we all somehow decided not to make eye contact either. Everywhere felt like a prison. Every person felt like an inmate. There were "sides" everywhere. You either wore your mask properly like a virtue signaling sheep or you wore it below your nose like a white supremacist asshole.
There are more than two sides—everyone agrees to that—but that's still how it felt in 2020. How everything felt.
I was angry, all the time. I was angry at how irrational I thought some people were being, and I was angry at how irrational I assumed they thought I was being. All the things I'm passionate about—freedom, the government, health, fitness, church, holidays, travel, Disney World—were being tainted.
It felt like there was nothing good left.
And I had it really, really good.
Wake up, don't go to the gym, think about how mad you are, eat breakfast, work, don't see friends, think about how mad you are, don't make plans, put on a mask, think about how mad you are, go to the grocery store, see some new shortage, read some sign about the vaccine, think about how mad you are, accidentally make eye contact with someone, don't see friends, cook dinner, watch TV, see something on Facebook, think about how mad you are.
In July of 2020, Gabe and I celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary. He was new at his job, so he didn't have time off for us to take a trip or anything. We went to a friend's wedding in Asheville the weekend after our anniversary and decided to stay the weekend, make it a mini trip.
It rained.
Every store we wanted to go into required masks, which triggered anxiety, anger, and acne the following week.
None of the little local restaurants would let people eat inside, so we couldn't try anything new.
Nothing felt good. Nothing. Felt. Good. Nothing sounded good, present or future.
The world felt bad. It felt like it had been bad for months, and it didn't feel like it was likely to get any better. All the people making decisions were making decisions that made my blood boil. Being alive was exhausting and infuriating and I hated it.
Absolutely nothing that had ever, ever brought me joy was of any interest to me at all. Dancing? Emptiness, apathy, like we'll ever be able to dance without masks again. Reading? Emptiness, apathy, nothing sounds interesting. Writing? Emptiness, apathy, don't feel like saying anything. Eating? Emptiness, apathy, why bother. Working out? Emptiness apathy, can't do it anyway. Seeing friends? Emptiness, apathy, I don't enjoy anyone.
Gabe and I were on our way home from our utterly failed "anniversary trip" when I told him that I didn't feel like living any more.
I know it scared him. I couldn't care at the time. I just let silent tears happen. I just wanted to stop living. There aren't words for how it felt to have a black hole inside me. It wasn't intense, at all. It was like deadness, like nothing, and that's not something I feel often.
I don't remember what Gabe said. Probably things that were very comforting and very rational. I don't think I heard them.
When we got home, we decided to watch Super 8. Neither of us had seen it since it came out, and we both remembered liking it.
We watched it. It was good. And then a line drove a spear straight through my soul.
"I know bad things happen," one character says to another. "But you can still live."
The line hit home.
It didn't promise that things would get better—I wouldn't have been able to hear that anyway—it just said that life was still possible. Life. Living. That was all.
Bad things happen. Fact. But that shouldn't cripple our ability to live. It doesn't.
"I know bad things happen, but you can still live."
In a way I can't describe, I felt Heard by that movie. Or maybe the movie was Heard by me, I'm not sure.
But that was a turning point for me. God used a line from a J.J. Abrams movie to snap his fingers in my face and anchor me back to reality.
"I know bad things happen, but you can still live."
No promises. Just facts.
No anger, just truth.
I don't think I'm saying this right, but I never will if I don't starting trying.
~Stephanie
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