I think back on my life before the pandemic and how my mom, my sister, my aunt, and even someone I thought was a good friend all were jealous of the life I had that involved traveling and visiting my in-laws who are truly lovely people.
After my divorce from the WASband left me destitute, literally bankrupted me, leading to me residing with my hoarder cousin and stealing day old bagels & rolls of TP from work just to get by between paychecks, you’d think they’d be happy for me that my burdens (in that regard) were lightened, but no. Misery likes company.
Now *I* am the one who is jealous & resentful of that version of myself, and how I wish that were me now. I feel like I actually died back then, and this current existence is a posthumous, dystopian fantasy illusion.
My husband is planning this lovely trip to Paris is like he is trying to resurrect that dead version of me, hoping I’ll happily look forward to this trip.
I am very appreciative he is in a position to plan wonderful adventures for us; however, what should be happy anticipation is replaced with fear and anxiety and trying to estimate how many N95s I will need to pack and worrying about bringing COVID back as a souvenir.
The pandemic has destroyed 10-15 (possibly even 20) years of diligent personal work & enrichment.
Before COVID, I was risk averse, neurotic, and distrustful of most people. Now? I have to put those pieces of myself back together, AGAIN, and I am angry and resentful that I have to do this all over again. Luckily this is familiar territory, and it all comes back to self care and mindfulness, and a bit of encouragement & accountability from those of whom I trust.
This is the nature of life: change. Even our bones don’t remain unchanged. The cycle of building up and breaking down is the natural order of things. Lather, rinse, repeat until the tipping point is reached and we can’t rebuild again. Into the breach once more.
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