The dam finally broke

It took just shy of 100 days of this quarantine business but yesterday it finally happened: I had a meltdown.

I cry super easy from hearty laughter – just ask our Youth Group. I also cry pretty frequently from sentimentality and appreciation. Hardly ever from physical pain. And not nearly enough from emotional stress.

So yes, I have cried during the past 14 weeks of the world feeling like it is on a Tilt-A-Whirl…but not from stress. For whatever reason, I have been bottling my fear and frustration and anxiety as if they were preciously hoarded Clorox Wipes. I have been keeping those emotions hidden and stuffed away, hoping that nobody noticed I had them.

Then I moved my still-healing foot in a way that caused a sharp pain to radiate around my foot and ankle. It felt like scar tissue releasing. But unlike prior experiences with that surgical byproduct, the pain didn’t subside. I was terrified I had done something terribly wrong to compromise the healing that had been going so splendidly. (Today it’s finally feeling better, along with much needed words of reassurance from my Nurse Practioner.)

Two days later (yesterday), I had an appointment with a dental specialist whose swanky office featured a rad ‘80s playlist gratefully distracting me with high school memories. A fancy 3D ct scan and about 15 minutes of careful study later, I was told Tooth #18 is “hopeless.” The endodontist used the adjective enough times, I assume it is an official insurancy term that instantly puts me on a different branch of the diagnostic tree.

And so yesterday afternoon, on the couch with a foot on ice, a shoulder buried into Rob, and a tongue lightly honoring a tooth that will be yanked out next week, the dam finally broke.

I cried about my foot hurting in new and scary ways.

I cried about yet one more reason I can’t wear a t-shirt that says “All Original Parts Included.”

I cried about trying to figure out how to schedule foot physical therapy around healing from a tooth extraction.

I cried about the unexpected anxiety and stress produced by friends starting to ask to be social…in person and unmasked. Potlucks even.

I cried about the loneliness of feeling like my 15-year-old totally uncool self, bucking freedom-warrior peer pressure to ignore the social distancing precautions.

I cried about how the decision whether or not to wear a face mask has become political and polarizing.

I cried about friends who are in various leadership positions in their professional lives who are completely spent and overwhelmed by trying to lead and comfort in a situation they feel utterly unprepared to handle.

I cried about trips cancelled and weddings postponed and graduations missed.

I cried about the silent and helpless struggles my favorite teenagers faced in trying to “distance learn” despite technology and adults who failed them.

I cried about our society and culture riding tough waves of change without a unifying captain.

I cried. About all of it. And more.

At the end of the meltdown, I felt peace. Exhausted, snotty, tear-stained peace. The world hadn’t changed a bit while I sobbed, but my façade of facing the upheaval strongly and confidently and unaffectedly finally crumbled. Thank God.

I really don’t think anyone is truly handling this moment in history well. I think we all just have different degrees of hiding our stress.

Which works, until it doesn’t.