Regular Programming Has Been Canceled
I didn’t notice it at first. I went on with my busy days, weeks, months, as usual. Driven by my passion, excitement and laser-focused need to meet self-imposed deadlines. As if nothing has changed.
And then this past week, cracks began to appear.
Last week, when I usually would produce a weekly article for Substack followed by two Youtube videos addressing the same topic, I found myself struggling completing the second video and releasing it a day late.
This week, I never even got to the second video. It felt like it was too much for me to do. Yesterday, I tried to write a social media post about my recent certification as a life coach, and I couldn’t it pull it together. Eventually, I turned to ChatGPT to write it. Only to discover that I haven’t even started brainstorming topics for my Monday’s article on Substack when usually I would have already completed the first draft by Friday afternoon.
And the idea to even think of topics felt foreign and heavy to me. There was a desperate second – more like a thirty-minute period – where I engaged in an intense internal discussion in my head if I should turn to ChatGPT to help with a topic and then have it draft it for me.
Luckily, my genuine side prevailed. The best part of writing on Substack has been me voicing and sharing my opinions from my experiences as a couples therapist. And I want to preserve that. I made a decision, that just like my second YouTube video did not get done this week – neither will I publish a Substack article this upcoming Monday.
I felt both relieved to release myself from this pressure to perform and a great sense of disappointment that I’m not going to do something that I enjoy. And what the f*ck is happening to me?
The answer appeared today – on Saturday morning when I started writing this article – a few hours earlier. I got up at 4 am and quietly left the bedroom as to not wake up my husband. That has also been a recent thing. Waking up around 3:30 am to 4 am period, even on weekends.
I brushed my teeth and headed into the kitchen to make a cappuccino, and to read my daily horoscope. I said hello to our girls, Mia (Spinone) and Sasha (Black Russian Terrier), and as customary I asked how they slept. Then I checked their water bowl.
And I knew what has been terribly wrong with me the last few weeks. The water bowl hasn’t been used for a month by Sasha, now. Mia has been gone since February. Both are resting in those chic decorative wooden boxes that we placed on the kitchen counter, where I pet them every morning and imagine them wiggling their tails at me from whenever they are.
The house is empty. It’s almost too big for me and my husband. I dread watching our favorite TV shows because when I sit on the floor, I am alone there. When we go to bed, there is no large bodies pressed against me, snoring and farting away, or growling at me half-asleep when I try to reclaim a blanket.
It’s f*cking Grief. And as a therapist, I somehow missed it in myself. And grief takes time and I hate time because I am not very patient, not even a little bit.
I wish there was a GLP-1 version for grief. Something I can inject and wait for grief to melt away. But I am stuck with time, instead. Like those boring scenes in Yellowstone with Kevin Costner where he is contemplating manly thoughts. I am more of a Beth Dutton, myself. I want to pursue my goals, leaving bodies in my wake, with efficient speed and a martini.
My husband laughs when I share this with him. He thanks me for not channeling my inner Beth Dutton, and to his credit offers to have a fight with me this morning if it helps. I tell him he sounds ridiculous, but I love him for willing to fight with me to make me feel better.
So you’re stuck with this article rather than something educational. I am experiencing grief. Regular programming has been canceled. And right now, I don’t have the room in me to come up with advice or something clever to share. All I have the energy for is to let time pass, let grief go through me, and to check on the girls’ water bowl each morning.
Yours, Artur
artur@arturakkerman.com
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