I honestly have no words.  If you know me, that’s really saying something.

When I went into work on Friday, we had a meeting at 9am.  A meeting with all of the team:  nurses, occupational therapists, social workers, counselors, security.  Of course we knew what was coming, but hearing the words still took my breath away:  “We’ve made the decision to close the inpatient psychiatric unit.”  That sentence was followed by promises of keeping jobs and the hospital counting on our “expertise,” but it was hard to focus on anything else, actually.  Well, anything but the fact that I’d just lost my dream job, but I still had patients to take care of for the rest of my shift. That’s how you know you’ve become a professional: you lose your job, and you continue to care for your patients like nothing happened.

Today was my first day back since then and to say that it was surreal does not, of course, do it justice.  This is a job that I have LOVED for the past seven and a half years.  This is a job that I have called my dream job and absolutely meant it.  This is a job that spurred me on to continue my education to become a psychiatric nurse practitioner.  This is a job that—even on my bad days—still energized me and kept me wanting to come back.

I didn’t really cry at work.  A few tears welled up, to be sure, but not one dropped down my cheek.  I understand the irony of being a psych nurse and yet stuffing my feelings; I totally and completely get that.  In my defense, I still had an entire shift to complete and if I opened that gate, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to close it.  I suppose I have my mom to thank for that ability.  When she died, I stuffed that pain for years.  Put it in a box, wrapped it up, threw it in the closet, and pretended it didn’t exist—until it exploded into multiple suicide attempts over the next several years.

I thought I’d gotten better as I’ve grown older, and I really thought that I’d learned a little more. If you asked me, I’d tell you that I know I can put those feelings in a box on the shelf until I’m in a safe place to start feeling them.  That I’ve learned that I don’t have to feel them all at once because that can be too overwhelming and suffocating.  A little at a time works better for me, I’d say—when I’m able to control it, that is.  That’s not always the case.  Friday night I went out for cocktails (too many cocktails), Ubered home (yay for no drinking and driving!), and proceeded to sob.  And sob.  And sob.  I cried until my head hurt, my pillow was soaked, and snot was pouring out of my nose.  Not a pretty picture, I know.  I literally cried myself to sleep that night, after the sobs that racked my whole body finally resulted in complete exhaustion.

Here’s the thing:  I buried my mom.  I buried my sister (and best friend).  I buried my brother.  I endured a wickedly painful estrangement from my family.  I have battled depression too many times to even count, anymore.  And yet I can hardly talk about this loss.  I have locked these feelings up so tightly and put them so high on a shelf that I’m kind of afraid of what will happen when I finally get the courage to open the box, again.

How is that possible?  How is it that I’ve endured such pain and still struggle so much when more pain comes?  Shouldn’t I be used to this by now?  Shouldn’t my default, at this point, just be that life fucking sucks and I better just get used to it?  Shouldn’t I expect the worst at this point?

I don’t know why I don’t.  A coworker told me yesterday, “I love how positive you are about all of this.”  And part of me is.  This outside, fake, masked, shell of a person on the outside IS positive.  Adapt or die!  We can do this!  It will all work out!  Everything will be okay!  This is a new adventure!

Ha.  In some ways, I guess I haven’t learned at all.  My default is still to fake it.  Fake it all.  Even now, as I type, I’m just numb.  I know there are a lot more tears in me, but I can’t access them right now.  My body is on self-preservation: when something is too painful, don’t feel it.  Just shut it up in that box and put it away.

It’s this bizarre dichotomy that I’m living right now and it’s a struggle to navigate.  On the one hand, I am utterly, UTTERLY heart-broken at having lost this job.  I adored this job.  I will desperately miss my days on the unit with my beloved patients and amazing—AMAZING—coworkers.

There is something else, though.  It’s this tiny, tiny little ember of hope.  Hope that the future will actually force us to adapt and to think outside of the box and to find other ways to serve our beloved  population.  And I guess if I analyze it, maybe I’m afraid that feeling all of those feelings right now will extinguish that tiny little ember.

In a weird way, it’s still progress.  In the past, stuffing the feelings would’ve resulted in crushing depression and suicidal thoughts.  One perk of growing older is the gift of perspective.  I know I’ll get through this because I’ve gotten through everything else—even when I was sure I’d never make it.  And at least now I’m aware that I’m ignoring these emotions, almost deliberately, while I shift into survival mode.  They’ll stay in that box for the moment, and, when I’m finally ready, I will reluctantly pull it down off the shelf and just peek in.  Just a peek.  I won’t be able to handle more than that.  But for now, the box will stay on the shelf, I will continue to have hope, and life will continue to move forward.

It all still fucking sucks, though.