Virtual Insanity
Starting this post has me scratching my head -- literally due to an itchy scalp -- and figuratively as I log onto my son's virtual Pre-K class. I’ve got a handle on the technology, at least for now, but zero control over my spirited son who refuses to put down the dart gun or put on his pants.
And like the rest of the country, I’m wondering how we got here and when we’ll see the proverbial light at the end of what has been a long, dim tunnel of isolation.
Sounds a bit grim, dramatic even, I know. I consider myself a positive person who can find the silver lining in even the shittiest of situations, but I’m also prone to anxious overwhelm. To help me gain perspective as a kid, my mom would remind me that things could be worse, encouraging me to be thankful and productive -- basically a kinder delivery of, get over yourself and get on with it.
And believe me, I’ve tried. I know many are navigating this new normal bearing a burden much heavier than I. My family is healthy, physically anyway, and certainly not hungry thanks to an exorbitant amount of snacking. And while I cook the bacon, our livelihood isn’t dependent on me bringing it home. But alongside my gratitude, lies a heavy heap of anger, sadness, frustration and fear.
Last fall I decided to level up my brand as a brand consultant. I’d been helping service-oriented entrepreneurs launch and grow their businesses, but I hadn’t done the same for myself. It was a classic case of the cobbler’s kids with no shoes. I built websites for others and didn’t have one myself. I didn’t need the marketing to book business and had a list of leads longer than I could manage. But I wanted the visibility for credibility, even if the one who needed convincing was me.
My efforts to grow my business became the catalyst for scaling it back. High on the B-School teachings of entrepreneurial rockstar Marie Forleo, I re-branded, launched my website and started sharing via social media.
Instagram posts that began as storytelling tips quickly exceeded the word count limit, and it was clear that I wanted to write about self love much more than self promotion.
I reflected on my career in PR and production and realized that it, along with my quest for perfection and projection onto clients had been patches of a quilt I’d sewn together and hidden under for a long time. Wrapped in my comfort blanket of telling others’ stories, I didn’t have to tell my own or even believe mine was worth telling.
But things changed. I changed. More eager to be than to please, I was ready to come out of the closet and claim my rightful role as a creator and writer and not just a creative marketer.
Poetry, essays, and book concepts began flowing faster than I could capture. Some were new and novel and others were old friends I’d lost touch with, likely pushed to the back of my busy brain by fear. The pieces of my life’s puzzle whose placement had eluded me were coming together to create a beautiful image I wanted to bring to life.
Instead of hiding my art behind my business, I decided to put it front and center. I took a pause from social media and focused on writing and building a new editorial site. In March I was nearly ready to start my gig as an accidental blogger with only a little bit of back-end web work and a lot of overthinking standing in my way.
As I inched closer to launch, the hard smack of Covid-19 brought me and the rest of the world to a screeching halt. The subsequent quarantine validated my decision to cut back on consulting, but it also put the brakes on my desired career as a content creator.
Like Kerry Washington, I moved from blissfully unaware to curious to concerned to excited for a break from bounce house parties and being busy.
Spring days spent outside with my husband Matt, our three kids and two dogs were damn-near idyllic. We named the squirrels, caught carpenter bees, played badminton, and watched the butterflies flutter under the rolling clouds.
Thanks to Instacart and curbside pickup, we ate and drank well al fresco. Matt joked that he could get used to this way of life, and while I, too, was enjoying it, as people watcher and avid mosquito hater, I suspected my homey love affair wouldn’t last through summer.
I let myself fall out of the writing flow but happily followed other creative curiosities like cooking, mixing drinks, photography and floral arranging. I was on my way to becoming a creative, domestic unicorn of sorts -- a mashup of Julia Child, Annie Lebovitz, Martha Stewart and Tom Cruise’s character from Cocktail.
But the creative inspiration and exploration turned into distraction, denial and eventually depression. Welcomed respite from the daily grind turned into resentment for the loss of it. As I tried to keep my boys from breaking into fights or into my husband’s office, I was desperate to break out.
Since fleeing wasn’t an option, I figured this extended staycation warranted a little decor spruce up. Innocent Pinterest perusal and quizzes to nail my interior style turned into a tunnel vision obsession. An epic game of musical chairs ensued as I swapped out art, painted furniture and bought more.
What had been an attempt to cheer up became an excuse to check out. Occupied by something other than feeding, cleaning, or caring for my lovable-yet-demanding crew was fun. Playing with mood boards meant I didn’t have to play pretend with Mr. Potato head and Ken, or with my kids. And the ever-present mom guilt kicked into overdrive.
As I stared at a screen full of kitchen runners instead of my own words, I twisted my hair and the truth telling myself that a prettier house, new hobbies and a stepped up mom game was enough and I should let my vision of a blog vanish like toilet paper during a pandemic.
I was still playing pretend, only this time, with myself.
Eager for a change and relief from my angry hair follicles, I bought two pairs of shears from Amazon -- one for thinning and one for cutting. I knew the razor of the thinning shears was wrong for my curls thanks to unfortunate personal experience, but as I began pruning my hair like an overgrown hedge, it felt so right. I watched my hair fall to the floor hoping to shed some sadness along with it.
My Edward Scissor hands moment didn’t scratch my itch for a life-changing makeover nor did it remedy my itchy scalp. It did however make a royal mess of my mop now a fuzzy curtain of curls hanging long and lifeless. And so, I began to cut again and didn’t stop until my long, SJP-inspired locks looked more like a poofy knockoff of a 90’s Meg Ryan bob. At a time when I really needed it, the long hair I’d finally grown to love was long gone.
My hair mourning was soon replaced with the mourning of Ahmad Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and thanks to the hateful posturing of our president, the mourning of our nation’s soul. The world felt dark, and I felt helpless.
I wrote poetry to help process the pain, but when I tried to pick up where I’d left off with my blog, posts about the ultimate jumpsuit and five ways to wear it seemed trivial at best, and I got swept up in a familiar swirl of self doubt.
One Saturday afternoon the hard head of my overtired toddler collided with my nose becoming the straw that broke this old camel’s back. No bones were broken, but my spirit was. Sleep deprived and soul deprived, I ugly cried on my husband’s lap as our kids watched with confusion and concern. I missed my mom in Louisiana who couldn’t visit because of a recent back surgery, my sister and her family and my in-laws. I missed my friends, my favorite checkout lady at HomeGoods and strangers. And maybe most of all, I missed my pre-quarantine self.
My husband bought me a gorgeous bouquet of wildflowers the next day and placed them on my nightstand. As the evening sun seeped through our bedroom window, it shone a warm light on the stark difference between the happy sunflower and me.
I thought about the wise words of Glennon Doyle whose memoire Love Warrior gave me the gift of feeling understood at a time I really needed it. In it she writes,
“You are not supposed to be happy all the time. Life hurts and it’s hard. Not because you’re doing it wrong, but because it hurts for everybody. Don’t avoid the pain. You need it. It’s meant for you. Be still with it, let it come, let it go, let it leave you with the fuel you’ll burn to get your work done on this earth.”
I didn’t pretend that everything was fine nor did I start trying to make it as much. I simply sat with my sadness and prayed for inspiration, not to write about my life but to live it.
Then star Senator Barack Obama, Congressman John Lewis, unidentified photo bomber, me and Allan B. Crow at A Celebration of Courage - John Lewis 65th Birthday, 2/21/05.
I soon learned of the passing of Congressman John Lewis, a man I admired and who I’d been lucky to meet during my stint as a political media consultant. I dug out an old photo of our meeting which included two other men I admired and missed -- former president Barack Obama and my former boss Allan Crow who passed away last year to cancer. I thought about Allan and wondered what poignant, hard-hitting post he would have made in the wake of Lewis’s death, and I watched our former president artfully deliver a eulogy in a way only he could. But it was the civil rights hero’s own words that would provide the spark I needed to cross the bridge from sadness to solutions.
In an essay published in the New York Times on the day of his funeral, these words written by the civil rights hero grabbed me,
“Ordinary people with extraordinary vision can redeem the soul of America by getting in what I call good trouble, necessary trouble. Voting and participating in the democratic process are key. The vote is the most powerful nonviolent change agent you have in a democratic society. You must use it because it is not guaranteed. You can lose it.”
Sure it was a rousing plea to all of us to vote, but in that moment to me, it was a reminder that I wasn’t helpless. It made me ponder my passion for writing. Was it my way to get into good trouble? Was it, like the right to vote, something I’d lose if I didn’t use it? I didn’t know for sure, but I knew I wasn’t willing to find out.
The ultimate hair muse Meg Ryan as Dr. Maggie Rice from City of Angels circa ‘98 & Me, Maggie, IRL ‘20 😉
I scheduled an overdue virtual check in with my psychiatrist, hugged my big sister, returned texts and calls from folks I'd ignored, and got my home-done hair professionally helped into a cute coif that would make Meg proud.
We installed a play set to get the kids outside while we tackled projects inside, including putting it back together better than before in a style that can only be defined as our own.
We began to carefully break out of our bubble welcoming a superstar saint of a nanny, hosting a couple of front porch friend dates and a playdate with family friends who share our nearly shut-in quarantine lifestyle. I learned that my scalp situation is a stubborn case of seborrheic dermatitis likely triggered by stress, and am hoping my mom’s upcoming visit and my latest potion will make it go away.
And while things are looking up, they're certainly not perfect. I’m doing my best to navigate the new luxury of having a nanny and cringe with every ‘poop face,’ ‘stupid idiot’ and object my kids hurl her way. And Matt and I continue to debate the best ways to stay safe and sane during these uncertain times.
We may not be keeping calm, but we are keeping on, doing our best to adapt and survive the virtual insanity of working, living, and learning from home until school can safely reopen.
In the meantime, our four-year old son is feverishly thrusting his hips to Shakira’s Waka Waka during Music & Movement as our first born first grader pounds the floor from above for PE. Our two-year old daughter is partaking in her favorite subject, snack time, laser focused on keeping her fig bar away from the dogs, and Matt is leading a company-wide call from his office/exercise equipment storage room above the garage.
And I’m proud to be back in the saddle fumbling along one word at a time with Shakira in my ears and hope in my heart, not because I’m super inspired to do so, but because I have to. Writing is my art and my life’s work. It’s my way to embrace the craziness of this world instead of falling victim to it. And I'd like to believe that if I keep at it and find the courage to share my work with the world, it will be my way to make it a more loving place for us all.
