I Gotta #KeepLiving
I used to be an optimist. I believed, in my bones, Bob Marley's view that "every little thing gonna be alright". I thought that if I loved my people hard enough and never gave up, things would generally work out. Then the pandemic hit.
Pandemic isolation shattered our family: the depth of my teenaged kids' pain was palpable. Everything they cared about - roller derby, musical theater, school, friends - disappeared in an instant. I had to figure out how to navigate my kids’ onset of serious mental illness, dropping out of school and running away from home. I struggled with parenting, unsure whether I could trust my instincts anymore.
My mom’s dementia worsened dramatically during the pandemic, as well. I had to figure out how to support my aging parents, especially after my mom had a stroke. I was terrified of losing my mom — my trusted advisor — at a time when I felt like I needed her mothering the most.
We endured a (seemingly endless and rapid fire) onslaught of mental health crises. As a mother, I developed deep anxiety about what might happen to my kids, both in the present and in the future. I was scared about the negative impact the seemingly interminable shelter-in-place, online schooling and social isolation were having on each of us. I found myself drowning in absolute black & white statements - always, never, forever - (a particularly painful thought: my relationship with my kids is ruined forever) - when dealing with the many (objectively awful) crises we were forced to confront. It was both unhelpful and damaging to my sense of self to remain stuck in hopelessness or “future f***ing” (as my 20-year old kid calls it).
I had to reframe my thinking to understand how to cope with my ongoing pain, grief and loss.
I attended a Radical Acceptance Workshop (facilitated by the NEABPD Family Connections Program). I listened intently as folks talked about coping with mental illness, divorce, disability, job loss and death. Their pain mirrored my own; I wept continuously. The facilitators encouraged us to stop fighting reality, to acknowledge our anger (I didn’t ask for this! Why me? Life isn’t fair!). Once we can acknowledge our painful reality, we can start to identify what we’ve lost, begin to grieve that loss and move on. A voice in my head screams in protest: "I’m not a quitter! I’m a mama bear who gets shit done!" Moving on feels impossible.
A wise fellow parent reminded me that Radical Acceptance doesn’t mean giving up; it means creating space for us to continue to live our lives in the face of our pain, grief and loss. It frees me up to begin to explore Options B, C and D when Option A is no longer a path available to me or my family.
Over the last few years, my father and I have developed a shorthand message we text each other during moments of despair or, alternately, when we recognize sparks of joy that give us life: #keepliving. I don’t know what makes makes me smile harder - my 80-year old dad using a hashtag correctly or the message embodied within the hashtag itself? Either way, I appreciate the regular reminders to try to practice Radical Acceptance. I gotta #keepliving.
