This Absurdly Beautiful and Tragic Life
By Mary Gillespie
For the first time in my life, I was in a room with others who had similar stories, in a space where we had no choice but to be vulnerable and open. I met people who could hear the worst things about me and then invite me to eat lunch. The privilege of meeting these people was because of trauma, not in spite of it. It was mid-June and COVID-19 had exacerbated symptoms for many of us, but we had always been our own worst enemies. Our illnesses caused a disconnect from humanity in a way a virus cannot. I began to accept that I had always done the best I could with the terrible toolbox I was given. This summer offered me a long journey with a psychological, rather than physical, end point.
Isolation in March during the COVID-19 lockdown culminated my greatest decline in mental health, but was ultimately a catalyst for my greatest transformation. Before this, I was treading water in a reality shaped by the narrative of an unwell mind. I had experienced decades of struggles with severe mood swings, anxiety, and a depression that began to feel comfortable if not all-consuming.
I had distracted myself, living a life based on the next adventure, conflict, trip, and achievement at work or in academia. I had barely survived the suicide of a friend under very dark circumstances, the details of which I once shared with a psychologist who sat open-mouthed and asked: “Is this a true story?” Over a year had passed, but I still felt pain and a sense of shame regarding the situation. I saw myself as the straw that broke the camel’s back rather than a piece of a larger puzzle. I had always struggled to find my sense of purpose and place in the world while not understanding the depth of my wounds, self-inflicted and otherwise.
I was in Muir Woods when the lockdown began. Before this, I had struggled to get through each day with a sense of purpose; suddenly, I had to find meaning in a state of isolation. The initial shock and fear helped me feel thankful for my ability to continue work, and I tried to maintain my physical health. Despite that, I frequently found myself in a catatonic state that left me staring off for hours at a time, finding any movement painfully difficult, and losing the willpower to find distraction in tasks. I was increasingly trapped within my mind, a dangerous place for my body and spirit. Making it through another 24 hours alone felt like a Sisyphian task. After two weeks that felt like years, I was able to visit friends, and realized that I had almost lost myself completely. Luckily, I have always had a hidden strength within me that finally pushed me to get help.
I wanted to work on myself in a different environment so I drove to the coast of southern California, to a place that I described to my friends as a “wellness retreat,” conjuring images of celebrity rehab and yoga workshops. While I posted filtered images of succulents and crashing waves, I actually attended day-long sessions in the behavioral health wing of a local hospital.
Despite decades of therapy, I was forced, for the first time, to recognize and take accountability for the lack of control I had over my mind, caused by a life-long shaping of my personality and subsequent perspective of the world.
Back in 2003, after being well-acquainted with depression, I had a skiing accident that resulted in a burst fracture and an incomplete spinal cord injury. Over time, it has become a somewhat hidden disability. Similar to the subtle awkwardness in my gait, I thought I had achieved the same status in my mental health. I was able to hide the episodes and pain by isolating. The dramatic setbacks were only seen by a few people close to me; the worst were seen by none. At the hospital, these secrets and shame were suddenly on display, allowing my wounds to finally prepare to heal.
Many of these people shared my sometimes odd and dark sense of humor. Once, after I quietly explained my displays of anger, a young woman joked about biting a girl in water polo because she couldn’t scream at her underwater. A retired woman made us laugh with her reflections on justifying being wine-drunk all day based on the cost of the bottle. A young man chuckled about his most recent manic episode during which he awoke to helicopter lights while wearing a scuba diving suit several miles from any beach.
I also saw some of the worst physical and emotional forms of self-harm. I met people who spent their lives struggling to be right rather than happy. These people will always be precious to me. I want them to be stable, and to continue their hard work because let’s face it, transformation is always ongoing in this absurdly beautiful and tragic life.
After completing more than three months in these groups, I began to find myself feeling more in control and not trying to escape moments, days, or weeks. I have become an observer of the thoughts and emotions that guide my perspective on life and its purpose. I find myself able to control triggers, recognize the pain in others, and mend conflicts. Often, I feel guilt but no longer shame. Some days are still spent wracked with anxiety and a sense of existential depression; I’m not completely “better,” but we all navigate life with permanent wounds, internal and external. It wasn’t possible to do this alone, but maybe being isolated and feeling trapped by a microscopic virus was the push I needed to truly reconnect with myself and others. Strangers who entered my life, while wearing masks and sitting six feet away, helped me finally understand what community and family are. They showed me empathy and encouragement, and I will never forget them, no matter how quickly they entered and exited my life. We valued each other for being human, for knowing that we could be damaged, weak, and difficult for others, but also needed and wanted. We are all so desperately important to those we’ve lost and are yet to meet. I’ve learned to cherish those brief moments, which, COVID-19 has taught me, will last for a lifetime and will continue my transformation.
Photo/Mary Gillespie.
Mary Gillespie is a community college English professor and a writer.
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