This thing is new to us, we’re all pandemic toddlers…
I have seen a lot of graphics about why we feel bad at the moment. Things more sophisticated than a stick man slapping himself on the forehead with “DUH” written in huge letters. Clever people have deployed colours and shapes to show how we are on the downward slope of the “change curve”, or in the disillusionment phase of disaster. There are charts to show how time and feelings collide and how things might evolve.
We know that right now it’s long and hard, sad and bewildering, like a terrible experimental film. In June the Office for National Statistics reported that 69% of adults are worried about the impact of coronavirus on their lives. Only 69%? Forget track and trace – the government has – we need an app to locate the other 31% and make them cheer the rest of us up.
Right now it’s long and hard, sad and bewildering, like a terrible experimental film
I like the graphics. They offer hope that things will shift, a reminder that nothing feels the same forever. I stare at them and imagine eventually reaching the “acceptance” or “reconstruction” phases. There’s less concrete advice, however, on how to deal with bad feelings now. We want a minute-by-minute route map to not feeling terrible, but what we get is tentative and generic. “Pandemics can be stressful,” says the US Center for Disease Control’s mental health page, which at least made me laugh, a harsh, hacking sound I did not recognise and which startled the dog. Silver bullets have gone the way of kettle bells and thermometers, it seems.
No one has answers because this is unprecedented, its future trajectory unpredictable. We are dealing with a world we don’t understand, without comparable life experience to draw on. That makes us infants in pandemic terms, casting around in vain for the grown ups and throwing our toys out of the pram (or at least our rubbish around the park). No surprise, then, that some of the best advice around sounds like the kind you would recommend for wrangling a toddler: set small, achievable goals; follow a routine; and stay in the moment.
This kind of self care is not the way of my people – our traditional coping mechanisms are alcohol, boiling dishcloths and the ever-reliable high of angry domestic martyrdom, all of which I have deployed recently. I have, however, decided to set myself some childlike goals for the summer. They are far removed from my March goals, which I can’t bear to divulge. An acquaintance wryly posted hers from the start of lockdown recently (“learn the Charleston… life drawing… calligraphy”) to universal recognition. My new goals are realistic: baby steps for baby’s first pandemic.
Proper tooth-brushing Having listened to the same Dido track 430 times on hold to the dentist, I must accept these weird, defective bone protuberances are solely my responsibility now. Time to deploy the whole tedious armoury of accessories that dentists love: three different brushes, floss, those poky sticks, special mouthwash. The whole business takes about 40 minutes, but if you reframe it as “me time” it feels quite luxurious.
Cleaning my glasses I could go to an optician, but the idea of contemplating my haunted, doughy face as I dither between 23 near-identical frames is unappealing, as is my inevitable capitulation to “varifocals” (cursed word). I am sticking with this blurred world. I’m used to it now, but basic self-respect means at least cleaning whatever grief bacon I smear across the lenses daily.
A healthier morning routine I need an alternative to instantly reaching for my phone on waking to doom scroll until a dead weight of sadness sits on my chest like an overweight cat. On my first attempt, I aim for 20 minutes of yoga instead. I wake, bargain futilely with myself and conclude 10 minutes is plenty. The chunky cat is back by 7.30, but I have completed 2.5 lackadaisical sun salutations, which counts as a “win”.
Short bursts of work Even 45 minutes of focus has proved impossible recently. On my first attempt, using a timer app, I waste 10 minutes changing the notification sounds, plod drearily through 15 minutes of editing, then run downstairs with unprecedented enthusiasm to assist my husband with a printer problem (possibly a fringe relationship benefit of the app?). The second 45-minute chunk is a self-loathing, nihilistic bust – I watch the roof seagulls, answer emails and read an obituary of a French princess. Time drains visibly away – I waste more time making the app green instead of red (too confrontational). The third attempt is marginally better – concentration is a work in progress.
Acknowledging my emotions Every day that I end up whispering “I hate everyone” at my screen is another day I am failing to own my feelings of fear and loss. So I tried saying “I feel sad” out loud while walking the dog. Admittedly, I chose to say it to the slightly deaf mechanic with the Staffie. He misheard and replied with a 15-minute monologue about replacing the cam belt and side panels on a Focus. But baby steps, baby steps.
Follow Emma on Twitter @BelgianWaffling
