“Do you feel as overwhelmed as I do?”
“Yes.”, I reply. I press the phone to my left ear while turning the phone’s volume down. I know the conversation will soon become serious and I don’t want others to hear as I move to a more private space.
We talk about the craziness of the world — feeling unheard and dismissed. She cries, I listen. Working with people is hard and it’s become increasingly difficult with current world events — a pandemic, marches and rallies for racial and social justice, a recession. Physical isolation has become both a blessing and a curse — magnifying strengths and weaknesses…love and hate…happiness and despair — unveiling a destructive dualism. The world appears to hold no compromise, no empathy, and no forgiveness for even the smallest transgression. Who are we? Who am I?
She’s still crying and there’s nothing I can do. She knows I understand. I’ve conveyed the same types of experiences with her. There’s a sense of hopelessness — that things can’t and won’t change, although not for a lack of trying. All I can do is say we’re luckier than most. We’re lucky that our battle with the system, our families’ battle didn’t wound us as thoroughly as it has so many others. There are moments — achingly long painful ones, when it feels as if the abyss I stare into will never be escaped. It’s darkness swallows me. I feel its coldness wrap around me. I feel not…
