My reminder list remains static. I seem to always have the same things on it: Find bills in mess, pay bills. Bring in wood. Treadmill. Write something new. Submit something old. Write up evaluations. Vacuum. Holiday cards. Birthday cards. Throw shit out. Vacuum. Deal with book proposal. Get ready for whatever conference. Throw shit out. Treadmill. Vacuum.
Slowed down this week, moving underwater. Vicarious trauma is insidious and when you realize you have it, it feels shameful. Nothing really happened to me. My daughter in Boston is fine. What right do I have to take up space with my imaginary flashbacks and histrionic PTSD? All the while preparing to do a training at work for staff on Compassion Fatigue, of which Vicarious Trauma is a cornerstone. I’ll try to schedule it for Nurse’s Week. Compartmentalization of affect works up to a point, I will tell them. Acknowledging how hard the job you do is, how other’s trauma leaks into your unconscious. Into the collective unconscious. Damn, maybe we are just all walking around sodden with each other’s pain.
Write something new. An excerpt follows.
“Don’t Touch the Mustard, Notes on Being in Lockdown with my Daughter“
I have deleted the content as I am working it up as an essay for publication, thank you.
End note: I believe, if I interpret myself accurately, my point is that for me, creativity saves me. My ability to laugh, to write, I write an essay and the symptoms start to abate. It’s OK if we don’t get through our To Do lists. Our world feels crazy when we know so much and we should be evolving. We are all just walking underwater. Most of us are doing our best.