“This line is long,” he complained.
“Good thing you’re so patient!” I chimed.
“You know how I know you’re an alien?” he quipped.
“Hey, you keep pushing me to be more optimistic. You brought this on yourself.”
My default mode is not overtly optimistic. It’s partially a knee jerk reaction against decades of church-flavored toxic positivity. Fear or emotional pain in my system feels like food poisoning. If we’re not in imminent danger, I need to get that evil out.
When I left teaching last year, I thought I would be sad when school started and then quickly get over it. What was there to really be sad about? I’d finally have time for so many of the projects I wanted to do that teaching left no room for during the year. I would no longer be so emotionally exhausted from holding space for kids in overwhelmingly different states of adolescent emotions, growth, and trauma. In the 1.5 years since I left teaching, I have exactly jack shit to show for my newfound freedom.
Aside from a few half marathons, I have accomplished next to nothing on my hopeful to do list. I couldn’t get on my yoga mat, backpacked only once, and didn’t have anything to write about. I barely had the energy to implement some of the community building activities that I wanted to get rolling at my new company.
I was in mourning.
I was grieving and it felt stupid. But until the acute emotional pain was worked out, I could only weakly move forward at the only pace my mind and body would allow. And my goodness was it slow.
Leaving teaching felt like divorcing an integral part of myself. A part of myself I truly loved. As we all know, you can love something to the ends of the earth but that doesn’t mean it’s healthy or safe. Losing that part of myself made me question my worth and lovability at a laughable level. If you’ve done certain levels of therapy or are introspective enough to be aware, you probably know how wild it is to rationally know you’re psyche is being irrational, but you still have to be gentle with yourself and somehow guide your own irrational responses through the wilderness and back to safety. No wonder I’m tired.
I have an incredible opportunity where I am working and I felt so guilty for not taking full advantage of it. Without question, gratitude is a genuine part of the healing process and I am immensely grateful for the chance to travel and develop new skills in this new role. The internal shifting and grounding is finally starting to settle. My optimism didn’t sound like everything was hunky dory during this process, and I could be downright rude if someone demands that I “look at the bright side” while I’m internally heaving. But I hoped it wouldn’t last forever. I kept showing up in whatever state I found myself in and it wasn’t always pretty. I was petty, overly sensitive, and fearful. The internal swirling revealed that some relationships just couldn’t handle me in that state. In hindsight, I truly believe that people do the best they can with what they have (SEE! Optimism!), and I don’t begrudge them for not knowing how to be gentle and safe for me in my chaos. That doesn’t mean I should spend quality time with those people while I’m in that state though, oh goodness “No Thank You!” for both our sakes. To those who could show up and hold my figurative, and sometimes literal, hair back while I let it out, I will always be forever grateful.
This took way longer than it “should,” but as one of my favorite people always said, “Don’t should on me. Don’t should on others. Don’t should on yourself.” Take the time you need. You can’t crowdsource the timeline of your grief and processing. Trust me, I tried. It just makes you feel extra shitty on top of the grief you’re already dealing with at the time.
My version of optimism is getting up and trying each day, resting when I can, and hurling the pain out bit by bit.
It gets better, but it’s ok if it’s not better yet. Take your damn time.
Emelia Josephine 