Summer has reached that point where it's exhausting and I don't want it to end. Fall is a false promise, let me tell you, because that inevitably leads into winter and who wants that?
But I'm tired of the heat and the mosquitoes and the sun wanting to sit on my head every time I walk out the door.
Last summer we were home, of course. And if everyone had been the same, we might be done with this fucking exhausting pandemic already, but no. Rather than actually ending it, people seemingly would rather pretend it's over, even if it means infecting and killing their friends, neighbors, and children. And I'm sick and tired of it and of them and of this whole nasty business.
Last year, I was working and Covid was seeping in around the edges of my job, even in psych. We were being told not to worry. Don't worry about not having enough PPE. Don't worry about this Covid-positive kid we just admitted. Don't worry that we haven't fit tested you for the new N95s. Don't worry that your coworker just tested positive for Covid and we didn't bother to tell you. Don't worry about getting a raise next year because we cancelled those and halved the hospital's contribution to your retirement account. Just keep working. Which I did, until December, when I had enough.
Two years ago we were in New York City. Our hotel was just off Times Square, which is the kind of mistake you should absolutely make, but only once.
This was the view from a window near the elevators. Our room had a view of the small street in front of the hotel (which you probably have seen if you've ever seen the movie Fame) and overlooked a church. I had vertigo before we left on the plane and I had a massive panic attack on the plane and then when I saw that the room overlooked a church, I had some kind of breakdown. I could not leave the room by myself and would sit all day in there until Dave came back from working and we could go together out for dinner and for something for me to bring back to the room so I had food for breakfast and lunch the next day. I was on the phone with my therapist, long distance, daily. I called her every single day and she (and diphenhydramine-induced sleep and a Netflix show by Ryan Hamilton which I watched on endless repeat) got me through it.
The year before that I was trying to get through school. I hated this last round of school. It was so stressful that I trashed my neck and shoulders and jaw from being constantly tensed up. I was in a rage all the time, like, all the time, and depression was the only thing powerful enough to temper that rage. But I got through it and then I took a long break. A very long break before I took the licensing exam and got a job.
The year before that, also school.
The year before that, I don't remember.
So that's this time of year for me.
I still have the same therapist, so she'll be on speed dial through October.
I heard a very astute comment about mental health from a comedian being interviewed on the BBC. He said something like: It would be really weird if we thought we would just never need to see another doctor again, like, my physical health is now and will always be completely fine. But we do that with mental health all the time. We think, oh, I'll never need to see someone about my mental health.
I was going to write about the stigma of seeking mental health care, but now I'm tired and am going to go look at funny things on Instagram.
How does summer go for you all?
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