The proof of history

Notes from the end of the storm

Hello, friends, readers, country-people. I hope you’re all well. I’ve been a bit quiet this past week because I had hip surgery on the 15th. I’ve been marking the slow progress of recovery: I can move my own leg! (Props to my boyfriend who had to lift it for me the first night every time I wanted to shift position in bed.) I can walk with just one crutch! I can put my socks on! (This is still touch and go.) This morning I got up off of the toilet without needing to pull myself up by the sink!

This surgery marks the culmination of a year in which almost every aspect of my life was thrown into chaos. I ended one relationship and started another. I had to quit my part-time job because of hip pain. We were evicted from our home and had to put all our things in storage and housesit for friends while we searched for a new place to live. I needed major surgery.

In February, I had no idea any of this was going to happen. It’s hard to believe it’s only ten months later and I’m on the other side of the surgery, living in a new home in a new town. (I haven’t lived outside of Boston in twenty years!) I still need to find more work, but that feels minor compared to all the other stuff. I feel grateful every day to wake up and find myself here. Scarred — literally — but alive, housed, and surrounded by all kinds of love.

I was searching for something else on Twitter this morning, and I came across this yearning lamentation I wrote in November of 2020, when the pandemic had been going on for months, and we were all exhausted, frayed, and frightened.

Someday, maybe soon, this will be over. We will stumble outside, bleary-eyed, weak-limbed, into the fresh air and each other's arms. Someday, maybe soon, we will feel the sun on our faces, chin to forehead; we will stand close to each other, laugh and cry freely, hug and kiss.

We will drape weary arms around each other's shoulders, maybe even sing. Until then, things might be hard. Things have been hard, and they will be still for a little while. It might seem impossible to carry that weight for much longer, and, honestly, it is.

It's impossible to carry without damage to our ligaments, our skin. We won't be fine. We'll be bruised and blistered, overwhelmed, exhausted, traumatized. We already are. But this will not last forever. This will not last forever. It will not.

And we are not alone.

~November 19, 2020

As many of you know, for the first couple years of the pandemic I tweeted, “You are not alone, and this will not last forever” almost daily. I know the words can sound trite. But for me, they’re based on brutal experience. I’ve been through some really hard times that felt like they would last forever. 2020 felt like it would last forever. This year, for me, felt like it would last forever.

But here I am, at the end of it. Not unscathed. But here.

And here you are. Tired, grieving, wrestling with fear and hopelessness, maybe. But here. You’ve made it through tough times before. And, damn it, I wish you didn’t have to make it through again. But the other hard times didn’t last forever. 2020 didn’t last forever. And so I very much believe that this will not, either.

With all of my love,
Jessica

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P.S. I know not all of us did make it through 2020-2024. My heart is still broken for all of the loss. If you’d like to share the name of a dear one who died these past five years or so, we’ll hold space for them and for your grief in the comments. Matt. Anne. Claire. Joel. Cliff.

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