A Year Inside: What I Did/n’t Do
I’m not doing anything or speaking to anyone. Over a weekend, the time disappears in YouTube videos, scrolling through Twitter news about the latest scandal — very rarely is it an uplift or piece of joy — and then it’s Monday and back to working.
Working is a gift not a given right now, with so many unsure if they will have jobs to return to once lockdown/furlough is over and many already having been told they are now unemployed. If I didn’t have work, it would feel like I had nothing to get up for. Those feelings scare me.
Feeling alone and isolated isn’t new, having been depressed and with suicidal thoughts for many years. I’m mentally in a much better place now and had started going to therapy a few months before the first lockdown started which helped me work through some of my biggest mental roadblocks. I see it as fate that I was able to get those sessions done before all this happened otherwise I might be in an even worse state.
Every task seems to take a bit longer during the inside times. Whether it’s cooking, some quick sewing or waking up in the morning. The pace of life has slowed down, not in an unpleasant way but in an unfamiliar one. When I think about what I have accomplished during this time, it’s very little. The inevitable question though is: What should I have accomplished? People have argued, online mostly, where users love to argue, that you don’t HAVE to do anything. We aren’t living in lockdown, we are coping with being in lockdown. We’re dealing with a pandemic. That’s not an ideal situation for thriving.
What A Difference A Year Makes
Before this started I was on a path to getting the most from life, in a way that felt good, natural. I was beginning to get ahead of the things that hold me back, like my career pivot, finances, and creative outlets. My upward trajectory has stalled since the first lockdown and now time seems to be against me. We’ve lost a year in what feels like moments.
I remember the last time I went to my favourite coffee shop, which has also been a refuge for a number of reasons, to sit and write,, before the pandemic reached it’s boiling point. Someone was wearing a face mask and it seemed strange and overly precautionary. Now, I don’t go to the supermarket without my face mask. I don’t even go for a walk without one.
Back inside, I’ve wanted to consume more new books, TV shows and movies, to stay engaged with the creative arts. But I can’t bear to be challenged on an emotional level. I can’t read about someone’s struggles with the death of a family member. Or absorb a dramedy about dysfunctional people. I want people overcoming adversity with bright colours in a familiar setting without surprises. I want light comedy series with an occasional heartwarming moment that warms me in the moment but can be easily forgotten. Yet I’m supposed to be a reviewer and writer. I find myself asking myself, because I live alone so there is no-one to turn to: Why am I not doing that now? Why can’t I quite get into the groove to be those things? Is it a lack of will?
The past year has certainly been one of ups and downs, both in terms of progress with the pandemic, the rise and fall of case numbers, and with mental energy. I’m trying to go with my flow, to recognise what I feel I need; whether it’s to rewatch favourite movies or read an old graphic novel, and use that to get through the days when I don’t have to get work done by a set deadline. Then when I should be working, I work smart (as much as I can). I get through the tasks, sticking to a schedule, with regular breaks, good food and not too much coffee/plenty of water. It has been a method I’ve kept reminding myself to return to and for the most part it works. Except when it doesn’t.
The Will To Create
The desire to be creative is still there. That is what I’m struggling with the most. I can’t meet my own desire, despite it being within my control. I could sit down at my computer and work on my novel. I could park myself on the couch and force myself to read the review book. I can. Yet I don’t. Instead I worry that I’m not pushing myself enough, that I shouldn’t be trying to push myself at all.
I don’t know what to do. Or if what I am doing now is “right”. In fact, I spent so much time part-doing things that I wanted to do that I originally wrote this post almost a year ago, and have only recently returned to it. Despite the time difference, it feels the same. I’ve mostly been thinking the same questions, dealing with the same challenges, feeling the same want for nostalgia and the familiar.
I had a big downswing a couple of weeks ago. Everyone seemed tired out by the pandemic and even the few friends who I was in casual contact with had started messaging or replying less. I ran out of will and spent a 4 day weekend in bed, watching Netflix and talking to no-one. I don’t know if it helped to do nothing but I’m out the other side now.
Honestly, I don’t expect the lockdown easing in March 2021 to mean that we are out of the woods yet. There are so many people who are going to eagerly gather in groups, too much, too soon, and I worry that we’ll be back in lockdown again in 6 months. Maybe if we are, at least I might get some blogging done and that could be something that I’ll be able to look back on with unfamiliarity one day.
