covidic recovery

is it over yet? nobody's saying and the covidic years seem to have fallen into taboo topic. i imagine it to be much the same collective denial that turned the 1918 spanish flu mask-on into a piece of forgotten history. i'm an enthusiastic history buff and not even **i** knew of the spanish flu mask fiasco until the global shutdown brought the precedent front and center.

i've been doing my heavily theraputed best to process the past 2.5 years as it arises. my trauma induced amnesia was a harsh lesson on the benefits of repression and denial. healing happens best if you begin care for the wound while still on the scene of the injury and continue tending until the healing is complete. setbacks are far easier to handle if you don't rush the convalescance.

last night was meet the teacher night for the two eldest foster children. 1st and 4th grade. as we drove into the school driveway, i was whelmed by flashbacks to our first and last two school enrollments. panic attacks set in. sweet jesus, i hate panic attacks while i am driving. still. . . we survived another one. breathing exercises were sufficient to enable me to park without incident. the whelmings eased as we approached the school without a single mask or enforcer in sight. girl howdy, it was nice to be able to read lips again. the whelmings dissipated like an ocean tide returning from the shore to the sea. communications flowed smoothly and effortlessly. a splendid time was had by all.

this morning i find myself unable to remember those covidic enrollments. i'm clueless whether the blockage is covidic recovery or a mother's grief. corona crowned so early into the grieving, etc., that the two are unmercifully intertwined. not the virus, silly. the politics were hideous.

as we approach the 3rd anniversary of the protective custody shift which brought our little ship of fools together with the anniversary of the fatal car wreck on its heels and the lingering covid politics still feeling like an obstacle to resuming formal psychotherapy, my memory of those domestic shit storms remains blurred and painful. that is not okay, but it is understandable. i'm being gentle with myself and patient with the process. covidically isolated treatment in progress. i still don't know which questions to ask to determine if i am safe to seek professional assistance. can i read your lips?

sorting. . . processing. . .

leaving the mood icon on the rapid cycling median. are your lips moving? i am fine. how are you?