It’s a hard week. My sleep is shit… fitful, restless. My dreams are half-remembered scraps of doom and horror and violence. It’s as though there is no rest, no ease, anywhere. The waking world is filled with plagues: viruses, death, willful ignorance, entitlement, hatred. There is no refuge, not even in dreams.
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I checked in with my therapist. She is up to her ass in alligators, doing near-constant psych first aid for docs and nurses and housekeepers who are, themselves, up to their asses in CoVid19 patients and fear and death. She is piecing people back together so they can get back in the ring. She is helping mend people who are now so broken they can’t return.
An appointment with her will be a long, long time coming. I can self-regulate for a while longer… as long as I vent some and force myself to write, or do some other creative kind of thing or another. Sure, I’m treading water, but I know that I’m treading water. If I were trying to tell you that I was fine, that would be different. For the time being, I’m just gonna keep swimming.
Everyone I know who works in healthcare is getting a first hand crash course in the physiological impact of constant stress. Everyone I know who works in healthcare is walking around dehydrated from wearing PPE all the time and not being able to hydrate. We are all sleepless and exhausted, with dry skin, irritable bellies and red-rimmed eyes. We all fret over whether it’s stress, or the ‘rona. A frighteningly large number of us have yet to be tested — either for the virus or antibodies. Welcome to the stress of the unknown, on top of the stress of the known. But, onward we swim. What choice do we have?
Lori O'Ferell 