Lost and Found

I lost myself in the pandemic, knocked down by sea change started by a tiny virus. The familiar, the normal, was washed away by waves of fear and confusion. The wilding chaos swallowed up the path that had moved me purposefully through life and suddenly there was no way forward. I was not prepared for this.

The ways in which my being most happily manifests itself in the world — meaningful work, community engagement, churchgoing, volunteering — disappeared. The unbinding of the interconnecting aspects of my life happened so rapidly, I wasn’t immediately aware of the repercussions. But without the structure and support of things like a job or spiritual home or fellowship with friends, I slowly lost definition. Who are we when the descriptors we use identify ourselves are no longer true?

I remain a mother, am still a wife. Tethered to my family, these relationships, these primal connections, have sustained me through this upheaval. The lessening of some parts allowed for the amplification of others. I’m more patient, more mindful, more flexible. That I am more tolerant and sensitive to my family’s needs are, of course, good things and I take heart knowing that among losses, the universe continues to deliver.

But I am more than a mother and a wife. And the disappearance of familiar social constructs binding me to the world had a cumulative effect. The loss of my employment, writing that allowed me to serve others (in addition to providing financial stability), is palpable. More than providing purpose, the work connected me with individuals whose stories uplifted and inspired me. Lacking direction at which to point my creative energy, I stopped creating. My imagination atrophied.

In the same way that writing allows me to engage with the world, to participate and hopefully help, so does social interaction. Community engagement allows me to expand into places I might not have otherwise. The losses of my faith, school, and fitness communities, the elimination of live music and outdoor festivals, and the near annihilation of my social circles left me feeling small.

The energy that arises in a crowded room when individuals are joined in purpose cannot be achieved through Zoom. The electricity created when physical beings encounter one another, the forces that are altered when individuals touch and interact, are tangible. Equally tangible is their absence. The part of me that took nourishment from standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers as too-loud music beat through us is starved.

COVID has also hijacked the touchy, hugger part of me, the one who took enormous pleasure in a simple embrace. In this era, there are virtually no safe avenues to touch others. In college I wrote a paper on the benefits of touch to human beings, about the release of the ‘happy’ hormone oxytocin when humans physically interact. The gratitude I feel for having two daughters and a husband on whom I can shower affection is immeasurable. But I yearn for the time when a hug, high-five fist-bump, shoulder pat or simple touch of reassurance isn’t prohibited.

Happiness has a ripple effect, smiles are catchy. Our primary means of sharing positivity with others has been blocked by masking and forced distancing. I mourn the loss of contact and connection, a world of gatherings, interactions, and inspiration that might never return.

In the past, when life decided to chew me up and spit me out broken, I turned to my toolbox of remedies to manage the damage. I use yoga, meditation and exercise to cope with stress and change, but I also used alcohol to escape pain. In 2001, when I left my home and relationship for a job across the country, I numbed my heartbreak with whiskey. In my mid-20s, when my health declined and I faced frightening choices, I sustained myself with weekend binge-drinking. I downed a bottle of wine after the failure of my first IVF cycle. When my youngest daughter struggled to meet developmental milestones, I sought refuge at the bottom of a glass.

And so it was this year, as the losses mounted I took refuge in drinking. When I poured myself a happy-hour wine and plugged into YouTube, life felt sort of normal. The wine rolling down my throat soothed the ragged edges left by the pandemic. Drinking allowed me to turn off the part of my brain that cared.

I spent my mornings groggy and tired, mired in a mental fog that enabled me to disregard the seeming breakdown of society around me. My desire to engage with the world diminished and I shrunk even more into myself. I struggled go outside and outings with the children became an exercise in mental and emotional fortitude. Oftentimes I deemed excursions not worth the effort. Each day I pulled myself out of bed feeling emptier and angrier than the day before. My body ached non-stop, inflamed and dehydrated. Not only did the alcohol affect my musculoskeletal system, it killed the healthy bacteria in my gut and my belly was chronically upset.

The effect of drinking on my mental and emotional state was equally corrosive. The joy I used to find in drinking, becoming silly and loose, disappeared. Pandemic drinking wasn’t silly — it was angsty, desperate drinking. Some days it felt like survival. The effect of alcohol when poured through a filter of frustration and fear is not relaxation. It is not acceptance. There was no refuge to be found those glasses of wine, only anxiety and apathy. And sleep when cast under a veil of intoxication cannot be restorative since the body is occupied instead with basic repair to damaged tissues. Beyond lethargy and growliness, I also recognized my daily routine had become a bit more than a habit. The occasional days I abstained were marked by feelings of want. My body craved the alcoholic release.

Eventually, even drinking itself became a chore. Did I need to go to the liquor store? Was there enough wine for the weekend? Should I have another? It was an exhausting, unhealthy behavior that took more than it gave.

Among the losses was my ability to enjoy moments of grace in my day. I no longer saw beauty in the ordinary. I neglected my most important relationships. It stymied my creativity, hindering original thought from forming. It prevented me from mourning, from feeling the necessary stages of grief over the losses of work, community and freedoms. Drowning my emotions made it possible to survive, but the space I existed in was suffocating — a small, toxic prison into which I had placed myself.

A few months ago, while lying dehydrated and dissatisfied on the couch one Saturday afternoon after yet another night of drinking, I had the realization that I didn’t have to feel the way I did. I alone was responsible for my disgraceful state. The global pandemic, overburdened school system, or my young daughters were not to blame for how ill I felt. It was my decision to fill my glass over and over.

I learned long ago that we have little if any control over our lives. Unseen forces of the universe, like waves in an ocean, rise and fall in their own order, knocking us around. Finding ways to bear up against these forces, making choices that fortify body and mind against the chaos of this life, however, is within my power. I can decide to rise up and face the unknown with an open heart, or cower in a wine glass. I’m done hiding. So done feeling lost.

I do not know if my break with alcohol with be permanent or whether I will one day decide to mark special occasions with a celebratory cocktail. I do not know if in time I will begin drinking again on weekends or vacations, or if I’ve left behind this part of me. If so, it’s a pandemic loss I’m okay with.

I do know that since setting aside alcohol, I’m happier and more focused. I experience less physical and emotional pain. I wake refreshed and try to face each day openhearted. I’m present for my husband and children and experience genuine joy in their company. I’m more mindful in communication, positive about the future and motivated to seek happiness. My creativity has returned and I’ve rediscovered my need to write, to send words into the world in an attempt to make sense of it. I’ve found that laughter doesn’t need to be uncorked.

This year, this unprecedented, chaotic, life-altering year, caused me to lose myself. Those losses made room for new growth, a stronger me. One who has and will continue to find meaning in tragedy, to rise after a fall resilient, stronger and ready for the next step.