“So…How Are You Doing?”

Having been a writer in varying capacities over the past ten years, I’ve become accustomed to asking questions that have been asked ad nauseam of and answered by my subjects. It’s rare — if ever — that the line of questioning gets turned back on me. After all, it’s my job to tell others’ stories and not my own. Readers tend to be more inclined to care more about the subject of the story and not the writer. I’m also not that interesting. And, as someone who would much rather celebrate others’ successes than my own, I’m totally fine with this. The true measure of a person’s success as a human being lies in the desire of others to sing their praises in the darkest hour of their life rather than in that person’s ability to sing their own.

Which brings me to today and why I’m writing this post. Roughly two and a half months ago, my mom passed away. Because I don’t know how to cope with a serious situation in any other fashion, I did so via social media from the moment my mom suffered her stroke late on a Friday night in May until she passed nearly a week later.

The support I’ve received from the internet has been fantastic since then, and I’m not nearly talented enough to express my gratitude for the kind words and support that have been offered by complete strangers and people who were once complete strangers who have since become some of my best friends. You are all wonderful.

The one question I’ve found myself answering since I returned to the city in late May after spending a few weeks with my family out in the suburbs is some variation on “How are you holding up?” I’m seeing people I haven’t seen in three plus months, whose only contact with me has been in 140 characters or less and are expressing their concern because, well…because I haven’t been myself of late. And again, I’m grateful that there are people who care enough to ask this of me.

The answer to that question is, for better or worse, not good. I’m not alright and every morning I wake up is a more of a struggle than the day before. I’m not alright and there are days when I’d rather not have to put on a show for the masses and pretend that everything is as it was a couple of months ago. I’ve spent my entire career hoping to have an audience in my hometown. The last thing I want to do is bring everybody in to the macabre theatre that is my world at present. Because of that, it’s taken me the past two plus months to accept that I’m struggling and it’s okay for me to tell others that without cringing.

Struggling is a part of the human condition that you’re not supposed to make public. Struggling is also part of the human condition that you yourself need to accept if you’re going to be able to live with yourself. People can’t be “on” 24 hours a day, seven days a week regardless of what they do or as hard as you try. It’s also something that we don’t want to admit or accept about ourselves, lest we show a moment of vulnerability that someone can exploit.

My mom was my best friend, my backbone, the very reason I chose to become a writer and, in some cases, the validation I needed when I turned a story that I was less than proud of. She read and listened to everything that I did, from my coverage of the most banal small market county board meetings to my first appearance on WGN-AM radio when I spent an hour or so talking about the Air Sex Championships. She always put others before her own interests and I can only hope to be 25% of the person that she was character-wise.

When Mom passed, I was told by more people than I can count that time was going to heal everything. And I was inclined to believe that initially because I didn’t think life could get any worse than holding her limp hand while sleeping on the cold concrete floor of a suburban hospital, reassuring her that it was okay to let go. If you never have that experience in your life, count yourself lucky. I was able to help my family select a grave site for her, spend ten hours at her wake listening to others’ favorite stories about her, and eulogize her in front of her closest friends and family without breaking character. And I realized very quickly that it was all an act.

Despite the nightmare of a May that we all went through together, my sisters and I all had lives to go back to. For me, that meant being someone who told other people’s stories while serving as an internet punching bag. Given the persona I’ve cultivated on the internet, I get it, I’m an easy target and more often than not, I’m able to deflect the blows given that people tend to be a lot braver behind a keyboard than they are in person. That being said, there are days where I wish I could take a break from all that.

If I’ve learned nothing else from the past few months, it’s this: It’s okay to struggle. It’s okay to accept that you’re going to have a bad day here and there, so long as you learn something from the experience.

Every day from here on out for the next couple of months is going to be a struggle. Mom always taught me to leave any place that I lived in better than I found it though. If there’s any lesson that I’ve learned that I’m going to try to apply in my day-to-day life, it’s that one. Thank you for reading.