I will be 42 in about 3 months. Now, I suppose that I might have been zen-ish as a baby (I don’t recall my mother saying that I was a particularly difficult baby). At any rate, the first time I recall being told I was a bit difficult was in kindergarten, where my teacher refused to believe that I could read and told me to stop talking. So I did. For almost a year. I was then sent to an educational psychiatrist. They diagnosed me with 2 major learning difficulties and told my parents I would never learn to read. This was a surprise to my family, who often saw me read.
At any rate, this and other things meant that I was an anxious and nervy sort of child.*Let’s call it 37 years of not being zen-like. No one who knows me would tell me that I’m content to let things slide. I am not zen. I am not a process sort of person. I don’t go with the flow.
I often point out that the people who like me call me determined. Driven. A force of nature. Fierce.
The thing with pandemic unemployment is that I just don’t know. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know if my employer will sort out billable work for me and bring me back. I don’t know if I will find another job. I don’t know if I will be unemployed long enough that I will lose my drug coverage and my house. I do not know.
There is no way of knowing.
There’s not a lot I can do to make things break my way. I could do all the things I’ve been doing and not find a job. I could have done nothing, and still be offered my old job back.
The doctor didn’t give me long term anti-anxiety meds. He gave me some more ativan and an appointment next Friday. He wants to see how I’m doing. In some ways, I kinda like this approach. I don’t have to keep myself sorted until some not determined day that I get my job back or another job or it all explodes or Covid is all over.
I just have to keep myself sane and sensible until next Friday. Another week to recover, to get my feet back under me. To figure out how to do the new normal.
I can do that.
*Well, not really. What I was was an incredibly abused child, but no one thought that upper-middle-class parents would lock their kids in closets for a few days at a time, so instead, I just became nervy. Which I almost certainly was.