It Goes On

Topics: mental health, illness, current events

Today, I opened my phone and found out AI stole everyone’s books, top government officials don’t know how to use messaging apps, layoffs are happening everywhere, and our president is throwing a fit because his portrait doesn’t feature his signature spray tan.

On a personal note, in case anyone was curious, Bladdy is once again—wait for it—peeling like a bad sunburn (and it feels exactly as nice as it sounds).

It’s a disheartening time to be a writer.

It’s an embarrassing time to be a social media user.

It’s a frustrating time to be an American.

It’s a rough time to be Tricia’s bladder. 

And that doesn’t even touch on war, immigration, or climate change. 

All in all, if we weren’t all exhausted before, I think it’s safe to say we’ve arrived. Sorry Mom and Gigi, but there is only one sentiment to encapsulate this feeling: Fuck. This. Shit. 

I wish I could tell you I’m going somewhere with this. I want to tell you there is some delightfully quirky, fun, cute anecdote I’m leading into, but I’m not. I’ve been mulling it over for weeks, and, yeah, I’ve got nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. I have no wisdom, no sarcastic answer, no clever dark-but-delightful quip to add as a tagline. It’s all just very unsettling and uncomfortable.

When I feel like this, my go-to coping mechanism is to take stock of my life’s blessings. Loving family. Warm house. Comfortable couch. Heating pad. Cute dogs. Pretty dresses. Health insurance. 

But…(and please don’t come for me, I’m not trying to be tone-deaf, I’m trying to be honest) what do we do when those reminders aren’t enough? I’m not ungrateful. I love all those things and cherish every blessing. But what do we do when the weight of what we’re holding isn’t eased by the acknowledgement that we’re fortunate? What do we do when the dark cloud sticks around despite our attempt to look at the bright side?

Sure, there are responsible and necessary steps like talking to a healthcare provider about therapy and medication. But those are more like good shoes—you need them as a solid, supportive foundation for your feet, but they won’t hold the weight for you. We shouldn’t expect a good shoe to fix the price of eggs…or something like that.

So, what do we do? Send another email to a political representative who will invariably have a college intern send a form letter response? Stand outside institutions picketing our anger with brightly colored markers and poster board? Disable all our portals, accounts, screennames, and user agreements and go back to pens and paper? Go off-grid and tunnel around like mole people? Eat our feelings and binge SuperStore again? The options are endless and yet none of them feel like great solutions.

When I was first diagnosed with my bladder tumor, I watched Wipe Out and baked scones.

When I was having surgery every 90 days and living on bananas and white bread, I watched The Office and listened to true crime podcasts.

After my brother died, I watched Six Feet Under and read a concerning number of medical journals and LexisNexis legal briefs. 

After my hysterectomy, I perfected oatmeal cookies and wrote two-and-a-half novels.

When I was in the midst of the clinical trial, I played Mario Party and made the infamous Eras skirt.

When I was learning how to respond to new neurological signals, I took up watching NASCAR and reorganized the entire house.

All that to say, when life gets bad, I lean into two things: creativity and distraction. Give me sensory overload—whether it be a show, book, or podcast—and give me a place to put my mental and physical energy—baking, organizing, sewing, writing. And if and when all that fails, give me my most favorite coping skill of them all: sleep. If I can’t deal with it, I might as well be unconscious for it.

Is that what we do now just on a grander scale? Do we all stay home, watch sitcoms, and debate if we can afford to keep bankrupting our identities in the name of Zuckerberg? Do we make some crafts, write some words, cook a new recipe, and pretend that the information age isn’t killing us softly with its slog?

I don’t know. I have do fricken clue. I just wanted to say I feel these things and if you do too, you aren’t alone. It’s rough out there right now. It feels like human stupidity is at an all time high and personal wellbeing is at an all time low. It feels like we are told to be grateful while the world gets smaller and scarier by the second. It feels like it’s not easy being green (with envy, or, you know, with debilitating nausea from impending doom). 

That’s all. That’s the whole essay. It’s really hard to be an adult right now. Life is confusing to navigate. It’s difficult to see where the path is, let alone which way to go. 

Fortunately, poet Robert Frost—a guy who knows a thing or two about life’s defining paths—succinctly acknowledged this surreal moment: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”

Frost doesn’t demand us to do anything, go anywhere, or find a path and stick to it. He simply reassures us that in life’s most chaotic seasons, forward momentum will prevail. For over 250,000 years humans have kept going. Many mess ups, catastrophes, questionable cultural choices, and devastating losses have tried to wipe us out, and yet, like the cockroach, we haven’t ceded to extinction. 

Cheerful? Not so much. But second after second, minute after minute, TV episode after TV episode, we don’t have to have solid answers and big plans. We can rest assured that with or without any intervention on our part, with or without our effort and dedication, with or without an SBAR or a SWAT analysis, life will go on. 

Somehow that seems a little bit comforting right now. Even if we can’t make it better. Even if we can’t fix it. Even when we are too tired to put our best foot forward. Life. Will. Go. On. 

So take the nap. Watch the bad reality TV. Stay in your pajamas. Take a sick day. Cry in the shower while eating a string cheese. Roll your eyes at the frivolity and stupidity of modern life. It doesn’t matter. Whatever you do (as long as you aren’t harming anyone), you’re doing OK, kid. Because even if it feels like nothing, you are the momentum. You are a contributing member of the story even when you have no control over the plot. In fact, sometimes that’s the most important part. Momentum isn’t just about making progress; it’s about the continuation. Soon enough we’ll find our stride again and the potential energy will return to it’s kinetic form. Until then, just don’t be a tech-bro-turned-oligarch and you’re doing just fine.