In the wilds of motherhood, professional work, and various other creative endeavors, as an Indigenous/Mexican/Spanish/German woman, I find the spaces shrinking in which I feel intuitively understood. In the ongoing pandemic integration into real-life realities, paired with friction-filled sociopolitical conversations and an ever-emerging mental health crisis, I often “turtle,” or go inward.
A few weeks ago, I heard a story in my professional circles of a serious suicide attempt, and then recently I was jolted from a meeting by a text from a dear friend: “I don’t want to scare you, but you should know. Call me.” I did. Her words were few, but spoke of the death of a classmate of my youngest son.
A sweet, young child lost his life in the middle of this meddling mental health crisis. I didn’t respond. I listened and didn’t cry. I checked in with a couple of other friends, tried to research the internet for additional information, and resigned myself that I will not know more than these few, brief conversations. Unable to sit still, I called my husband and sent him to pick up our son. I needed to know my fifth grader was safe. With us. Breathing. Playing.
My anger is like a low, rumbling boil—just enough to turn up the heat, and just enough that with the right amount of pressure, a full, rolling boil is predictable.
I long for human connection—not the kind on a screen, but the real-life skin of another in my presence, laughing, crying, interested, dreaming. I imagine this young child needed the same. Yet, I am often alone. I text and share calls and Zoom screens for the majority of my days, but I feel piecemeal, like I am a bag of ingredients and can only show some in some spaces, and other pieces of me in other spaces.
I am lost.
I am orphaned amidst the worst collective mental health crisis in my memory.
Nights ago, my son came home after a really good day. He exploded in anger, shaking and crying. I sat in front of him, slowly encouraging him to breathe. Tears streamed down my face as panic, anxiety, and so many emotions coursed through his small body. The emotion he carried in that moment mirrored the intensity of my own. I recognized the fear, anger, misunderstandings, confusion, and yes, the need to comfort.
That evening, I sat, with tears streaming, collecting in my glasses. He started belly crying and collapsed on my chest. He was apologizing and saying that he felt so angry. And I said, “I know. I know. I feel the same.”
He said, “I feel alone.” And I cried more, not big tears, just streams of water from my eyes.
I hugged him a bit tighter and said, “I know. It is so lonely.”
How did we get here? I ask myself. May there be a sense, dear son, that your loneliness is met with deep understanding.
