Red Panda Rage

I’ve been unreasonably angry about our national decision that the pandemic is over and it’s up to individuals to try not to die or be permanently disabled by COVID. I’ve boiled over in shouty rage with friends, my mom, in some conversations at work. I got on a roll with my therapist at our last session, seething with concern for people with chronic illness and children and teachers and healthcare workers and everyone with long COVID.

I loved Turning Red. It would be great to rampage around, yelling about how people still need easy access to free testing.

My therapist paused and said, “Erin, do you think this could be related to your grief?”

Immediately tears started streaming down my face and I felt like I couldn’t breathe for a minute. I felt kinda stupid, in how obvious it was. And then I felt that deep blackhole of the worst grief pulling me. I think I said out loud “I don’t want to do this again”.

I actively avoid the blackhole, with as much mental smoke and mirrors that I can muster. It doesn’t appear nearly as much anymore, which makes it feel double dangerous when it does. When it appears, that desperate, what-is-the-point, soul crushing grief feels like it could crack reality in half. I’m learning that sometimes it doesn’t matter how many mental gymnastics I try, that shit comes for me anyway.

No, I don’t want to do it again. But I have to.

I spent the rest of my session in tears and the rest of that day pondering how I missed the rage-grief connection. I talked to friends and got out for a drive, watched some silly shows and tried to pull back from the blackhole. I thought about how Zac had a lot of rage and how much of that must’ve been tied to his own grief and trauma. I wish we could poof into big red pandas together and rampage around, get it all out and then eat some dumplings.