The monarch

Hello, back from a brief down period. I had surgery two weeks ago Tuesday and I must say, anesthesia is hell on the brain. Surgery is no fun for the body. The incision, an inch and a half long puckered intrusion into my spine, into my very vertebra, was definitely a violation my body raged against. However, healing has come and I am getting stronger each day. The good news is, the symptoms for which the surgery was addressing are absent. I call this a blessing.

This week I suffered an acute bout of depression coupled with desperation. I wanted to go back to work. I wanted to contribute to my Team and be part of something. My brain and body was not ready. I complained, via private message, to my very best friend. To which she responded something along the lines of, “Maybe G*d is trying to show you something.” I rolled my eyes and mentally agreed to listen and watch. If a Higher Power wants me to know something, by golly, I’m ready.

Enter the Kavanaugh hearing the next day. I watched the 7+ hours. I listened to Dr. Blasey Ford share her story, I listened to Kavanaugh share his. I cried through her testimony. I cringed through his. I fielded phone calls and messages from friends that were on edge, hurting, fearful, confused, saddened, enraged through all of this. That night, I went to bed with some hope that perhaps, just maybe, my country still might have some good in it.

I watched the vote the next day. I realized I was wrong. There is no good left here, apart from the love of my own people, the support of a very appreciated support system, and the light that lives in my own soul.

Since then, the bouts of tears and sadness are prone to show up almost without provocation. I feel raw. I feel naked. I feel like a cornered beast, fearfully lashing out even when some seek to console.

I’ve been working diligently on self-care since those days. I took care of some shopping I had postponed. I started walking the best I can in my current condition. I washed my hair. I painted my toes the violent crimson red that corresponds with my own traumas. I reached out to friends that have been suffering. I looked inside to the little girl who lives within. The little girl that learned, much too young, that the world is not safe. The world is scary. The world is dark. Trust no one. Tell no one. The secret is mine and mine alone. The frightened child, for whom I sunk to my knees, opened my arms, embraced and cried, she is still in there. She is still frightened. She is still vulnerable. I held her, rocked her, soothed her. I told her, swore to her, that I would not let her be hurt again. That is a steep promise. I plea to myself, don’t let me fail her.

Flash forward a day or so. I am walking again, this time with my youngest son. I am pointing out plants and other interesting things as we stroll together. He reaches his hand to mine, twines our fingers together. In that same moment, a monarch flies by. The monarch, buffered by the wind, flew on bravely and valiantly. “Oh, look at the Monarch,” I say, and then follow with, “I’ve read they are going extinct. What do you think of that, kiddo?” The boy looks at me and says, “Some people hurt butterflies on purpose. Those people are bad people.”

My son, my beautiful son, he gets it.

God help us all.