The Courage To do Nothing

I think it takes a lot to give up. To decide something just doesn’t matter. Like the clean house. Like the not yet bought or thought about Christmas gifts. I’ve not put out a single fall decoration that was not already out prior to Zach’s passing. Except for decorating our front porch which we did with items we got at pumpkin patch on a “we need to get out of the house” trip. For this entire year I have I have fought through the fog, the worry, the fear, the sadness, the lethargy, the apathy I’ve felt. Since the beginning of the year to September 11th this year was one of the hardest years of my life. Then Zach passed and now it’s the hardest year of our lives. All of us. I was just beginning to recover from learning very hard news about my mentee; my grandmother almost not surviving a brain bleed; and my beloved dog dying. Chris was also recovering from these things. Then we got the news about Zach. Then I got the news about Makayla. Then my uncle passed away.

I give up.

I’m not going to fight through it. I went to the closet where we keep the totes full of décor for each season. I opened. I closed it. I quit. I’m considering putting up the Christmas tree literally anytime the energy strikes me, plugging it in and walking away. At least the tree will be up. I am going to consider making it through this season a win. Zombified and numb…still counts as making it.

I’ve never felt an energy deficit like the one I feel now. I’ve never experienced my husband or kids with the energy deficits they have now. Previously, I would “pull myself up by my bootstraps” (a term I hate by the way) and keep on keeping on. I keep reaching, but those straps are not strapping. We have willed ourselves to do things to help us heal. We have done things that have proven to me that humans have superhuman strength. I stood beside the casket where my 26-year-old stepchild laid. In heels. I comforted others. Chris did the same, minus the heels of course. We stood. We spoke. We smiled a few times. We talked to people about the most mundane things. I look back at those two people now and I say, “rest”. Give up. There are things you must do, like work. Do it well but apply less energy. Otherwise, rest. I know with one hundred percent certainty that our brains protect us in the early moments of great loss. Our brains do their jobs and flood us with adrenaline so we can survive. Of course, our brains can’t keep that up forever. Eventually, it fades. This is where we are. Our brains are now starting to process things we were protected from. It’s exhausting us. All of us.

For a minute there, I almost did it. I almost dug through that closet, found all the fall things, put all the fall things out. Make things pretty. Make things “normal”. But I found my courage. And my courage said, “don’t”. And in the one of the bravest moments of my life, I allowed vulnerability and authenticity to override my almost constant overwhelming desire for perfection. As I type this, tears spill down my face. My heart breaks open for all of us. We don’t know what to do. We are trying our best. Some days our best looks better than other days. Giving up has never really been a conceivable option for me previously, so imagine my surprise when I realized conceding is sometimes what is best.