I wouldn’t say I had a walk-in closet growing up.  But, my closet, in our tiny post-war bungalow was the biggest, and, my tiny body could walk into it.  So, in effect, I had a walk-in closet.

I tell you this because I want you to glean the approximate size from my words; bigger than standard, but not big. 

 

There were times, well beyond the fort-making stage of childhood, that I sought refuge in the closet.  I would toss my blankets in there after an argument with my parents, friend, or crush, and, with my tiny light, would read, write, and sleep inside. 

 

I know this stressed my mom out.  I remember her desire to dig into my psyche - Why are you in the closet? Is everything okay?  I had no idea why I was in there.  I just knew that it felt safe.  Smaller.  Or maybe it was because I felt larger.

 

After Penelope died, I did it again.  I saw Reuben off to work and spent the day in our tiny apartment bathroom wrapped in blankets.  It was comfortable by only my definition.  I’ve made beds on the floor, between the bed and wall, in closets, and bathrooms.  I knew it was odd, but again, never questioned, shared, or worried too much about it.

 

My son has started doing the same recently. His world, dramatically changed, and he seeks comfort on the ground.  I snuggled the shit out of him on the floor the other night. I didn’t press him, as my mother used to press me, to understand the why, rather, I grabbed a few extra blankets and joined him.  We talked about nothing at all, but I was right there with him, finding comfort on the ground in cozy spot. 

 

I’d peg my mental health as very good but recently my bed has felt really good. 

I’d peg my mental health as very good but I’m eating like shit

I’d peg my mental health as very good but the texts I actually reply to are dwindling.

I’d peg my mental health as very good but sweats and stained t-shirts are becoming the norm.

I’d peg my mental health as very good, but I’d love to cozy up on the floor of my closet and shut the world out.

 

But I can’t, because I’m a mom. 

 

I’m a mom and as I come upstairs to find my middle child sleeping in a strange spot on the hallway floor, I realize that he feels it too.

 

I’d peg his mental health as very good but right now, it’s slipping. 

He has been struggling to sleep,

eating worse,

missing friends,

wearing PJ’s all day, and now,

 sleeping on the floor of the hallway. 

 

I’m watching us slip and struggling to hold on.  More often than not my answer is fuck it.  I’m putting mental health above other things that I value: eating right, looking good, school, the schedule, being a good friend.  Fuck it, I’ll eat the kids left over chicken nuggets.  Fuck it, no one is going to see me anyways.  Fuck it, we are done school for the day.  Fuck it, we have nowhere to be.  Fuck it, I’ll text back later.  While I grasp at mental health, the rest slips.  It’s an impossible balancing act for me. 

 

I’m cautious to even post something on Covid-19 as it certainly is a hot-button topic.  We are all impacted, differently and severely.  I’ve already lost one friendship because of word choice.  Covid-19 word choice buried a friendship of 24 years.  You know what I said?  Fuck it. I post this because I think it’s important to recognize when you’re slipping.  When the world feels too big and you are craving the comfort of a blanket fort.  Recognize what you are and aren’t capable of.  Talk to family, friends, and management, about where you’re at emotionally.  Take some things off your plate and put your mental health above it all.  Find the things, and places, that bring you comfort. 

 

And, if that’s a blanket in the hallway with your 8-year-old, I say Fuck It, let’s get cozy, buddy!