I have finally hit my pandemic/quarantine/lockdown/social distancing limit. It only took 51 weeks to fully hit, but man, I feel like I just crashed up against 500,000 pounds of bricks.

I should probably preface all of this by saying that in terms of being affected by the pandemic, I am extraordinarily lucky. I have a full time job and was never in any danger of losing it, I was already working from home half time when my office went fully remote, and I don’t have kids to school/entertain all day, and nobody in my immediate circle tested positive (even after being majorly exposed.) For the people I know that did get it, everyone recovered and is doing well.

All of the above to say, I have no business complaining about my circumstances in any way, shape, or form. I lost my dad when I was 18 and I’ve been to more family funerals in my 39 years than I care to count. I know hundreds of thousands of families are working their way through the most painful losses imaginable. My heart goes out to them, because I know the pain and trauma they will endure for the rest of their lives.

And, so many families are struggling to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Again, I haven’t had to deal with that. So, complaining about anything is just pure asshole-y-ness on my end.

As far as what I’m feeling, it’s been building for a while. I tried to push off the feelings at first because (A.) I’m one of the luckiest people to not be directly affected by this beast and (B.) I’m a gold medal winning, world champion of the introvert olympics. I mean, this is what I’ve prepared for my whole life. Every cancelled plan, every time I over-stocked the fridge and pantry, every time I had to leave the house, wishing I could just stay at home in elastic and fleece-based loungewear, all of it was leading to this moment. And I feel like I have failed.

It turns out, that even introverts need some connection. Homebodies need to leave the house every now and again. I’ve learned that even I have my limits and I’m not the hermit I thought I was. I mean, I will never, ever be that go-go-go person who wants to be around people all the time. That’s just not how I’m built. But I also know that I wasn’t meant to be this lonely.

Also, all this time at home made me realize that condo/multi-family housing may not be the path for me. Seriously, as I’m typing this, I can hear my neighbor talking, and talking, and talking…but at least the kids aren’t kicking/pounding the wall currently, so I guess I should be thankful.

When I felt the first inklings of pandemic burnout a few months ago, I assumed it was because I hadn’t been keeping up with my antidepressant (apparently remembering to take pills every morning/afternoon is not my forte.) So I really committed to being consistent and made sure I got it everyday. My doctor even bumped up the dose a bit (but I couldn’t tolerate the physical side effects, so it didn’t really help.) Yet, even with medication, I couldn’t fully shake the ‘ick’ (and no, I don’t want to switch medications…I’ve been on the same one for years and it normally works quite well when I’m on top of taking it.)

It also doesn’t help that for the last month, I’ve spent nearly every day dealing with Baxter’s seizures (I’m sure I’ve mentioned how stressful this is in a prior post, but given that I post twice a year, who knows.) Even though I’m doing everything I can do help him live the most comfortable life possible while he’s here on earth, it’s not quite enough and I find myself consumed with what to do next. I want to make sure I’m making every decision with his well being in mind. I want to be fair to him, but I also don’t want to give up too soon. I feel like he can feel my stress and the more stressed I get, the worse he seems to be.

In the middle of all of this, I gave up on myself. I stopped running. I stopped walking on my crappy treadmill (my neighborhood is currently not a safe area to just jog or walk around the block…seriously. I literally heard two teenagers get shot a block away in January…nothing like seeing your condo on the news,) so just going outside for some fresh air isn’t an option (I have to drive to the nearest state park, 15 minutes away.)

I refuse to say that ‘running is my therapy’ because there is literally no substitute for working with trained mental health professionals, but as far as my journey is concerned, running has always been the thing I’ve turned to when I felt like I was hanging on by a thread and didn’t want to live anymore. It’s the reason I sign up for marathons and half marathons, even though I’m still pretty slow. I need something to get me out the door.

I know we are nearing the end of this nightmare. Vaccinations are happening, and more and more restrictions are being lifted (though, I’m all for keeping necessary restrictions until we are out of the woods. Despite what Texas says, we are still indeed in the thick of it.) I’m looking ahead to summer and beyond that, 2022.

I’m already signed up for two half marathons and a full in 2022. I got out of my house four times last week to hike (my legs are a bit sore from trudging through sand/dirt at an incline…and it hurts SO good!) I even threw a few minutes of running in. I’m not forcing myself to stick to certain times or ‘goal posts’ just jogging when I feel like it and stopping when I want to walk again.

So, yeah. I just need to hold on a little bit longer. Better days are ahead and all that jazz. I mean, just spewing a modified version of what’s been going on in my head was helpful, so there’s that, I guess.

In a totally unrelated note, why is it SO hard to sign off on blog posts. If only I could end it the same way I end emails or letters (‘sincerely’ or, if I’m pissed off and basically hate the recipient, ‘regards’ or ‘best’) I always feel so awkward trying to figure out how to end a post that I don’t let myself publish a quarter of the posts I start.