(I returned to my blog today, as I tend to do at year-beginnings, and other times of personal crisis, and found this saved in my drafts. Clearly this was written sometime in the middle of the 2020 lockdown and I’m publishing as-is because we may have reached 2021, but not much has changed, although I have several more reasons for anxiety now)
Someone recently gave me a tip. Write about it, I was told. It seems to help.
I’ve had somewhat of a lazy relationship with writing this past decade. A prolific blogger, to an occasional diaryist, to then writing one or two pieces a year, writing has been an escape, more than something to share externally. So maybe the tip will be useful? In times of virus and lockdowns, escape appears to be my coping strategy of choice.
And so I cook. Sometimes, I spring clean. Re-watch Avengers movies, as though IronMan will come straight through my television screen with a cure for the virus. I bury myself in work routine, trying to pretend like nothing has changed. Play with my dog, almost excessively, almost obsessively. I think that maybe he atleast, will be happy that his humans are always around. But he misses his walk, and his tummy runs.
The weeks blend into each other, and by week 4, I cannot care anymore. Showers are an afterthought. Dishes pile up wily-nily. We run out of coffee cups by 11 am. Netflix runs in the background, although my focus is shot. I don’t know what to do with my hands.
I wonder at myself. I have absolutely nothing to complain about. I have a lovely home. My family is safe. I have food in my fridge, and my salary is paid in its entirety. I don’t have children, and I have a partner who (mostly) pull his weight around the house. So why do I feel overwhelmed? Why do I feel so. bloody. anxious.
Maybe it’s the weird bubble that lockdown seems to have shut some off us in. Hyper-connected virtually, almost completely disconnected in reality. Daily, I feel bombarded with information. About this virus. About its effect on business. On society. On the human fabric. I hear about things the government says one evening. And takes it back the next evening. Every path we go down, there’s whiplash. And dead-ends. And through it all, I am here. At home. Not going anywhere. Not doing anything. In what seems to be the world’s biggest crisis.
What can I do? I ask the question to my bosses, who are negotiating agreements with funds, with other organisation on ways to take action. What can I do? I ask my partner, who sits day-in and day-out on the phone, trying to make things work in times of force majeure and furloughs. What can I do? I ask myself.
I don’t know. And maybe just. Maybe I should just admit to myself. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to participate in positive action. I just want to hide, under my blankets in the looming winter, and pretend that all is normal.
To be infinite 