With the world currently in the clutches of a crisis, we’re all experiencing our own versions of uncertainty. I am hyper-aware of my own predisposition to panic and wanted to find a way to keep myself as grounded as possible. This is my letter to my pre-pandemic self; written as a kind of pack-for-preparedness. A reminder that with very few things within our immediate control right now, we can (and will) get ourselves through.
Maybe it will help you too.
Dear L,
You have never known a time like this and perhaps you never will again. Be curious as to how this makes you feel.
You’re going to experience significant stretches of anxiety and sadness and you’ll need to remember that you are well-versed in managing those things. You have spent lifetimes developing a stronger sense of self and you are going to need to draw on that. There’ll be moments where you’ll reprimand yourself for feeling overwhelmed when all you actually need to do is sit at home. You’re going to question your right to stress and self-pity. Don’t do this. It won’t change anything; remind yourself that it’s okay to feel whatever you need.
You’re going to genuinely panic about those you love, especially those who are more vulnerable to the virus. This will keep you up some nights. You’ll cry over your elderly grandmothers and fret about your friends with respiratory problems. You’ll spend more time than you care to admit obsessing over the mortality of your parents. Everyone in your circle will feel very far away; so much so you’ll have dreams about them becoming ill. In these dreams, you won’t be able to reach them. The panic will startle you awake. You’ll have to remember to breathe deeply, turn on the lights (this helps) and hold the dog close. Remind yourself that there is no use panicking over those things you cannot control. Make this your mantra. You’ll muse over the fact that one of your dads is a funeral director and when you really think about it, death has surrounded you for most of your life. But you’ve not known much personal grief and you’ve been lucky in that regard. In the here and now, don’t let thoughts of death and doom overwhelm you, don’t let the dreaded “might be’s” consume your thoughts.
You’re going to occasionally joke about the ‘impending apocalypse’ while feeling an almost constant sense of unease. You’re going to crave social interaction, yet develop a keen fear of leaving the house. You’ll question how much you drink and then (rightly or wrongly) comfort yourself with the understanding that these are unprecedented times. That word is going to drive you a little bit crazy. Make sure you have a giggle at that.
You’ll feel a strong sense of guilt. Guilt at the gratitude you feel for choosing to be childless. Guilt that you aren’t being productive at a time that calls for all hands on deck, both financially and psychologically. Guilt that – while many of your friends are losing their jobs – you feel a sense of relief at remaining unemployed. It will feel confusing and you’ll struggle to manage this at times. You’ll overcompensate with intense house cleaning and domestic duties. You’ll have to go back to your notes from a recent therapy session and remind yourself of the lesson you were given on guilt. Ask yourself whether the feeling is justified or not. If it’s not, you’re wasting time feeling shameful about things that – in the grand scheme of things – don’t actually matter. Stay on top of this as best you can.
There’ll be a number of unforeseen positives to come from this isolation experience. You’re going to become more attentive – you’ll get better at returning text messages and answering phone calls. You’ll resume conversations with old friends and wonder why you haven’t seen or spoken to them for so long. It will feel bittersweet. Strangely, you’re going to experience the world around you more vividly – colours will seem brighter, food will have more flavour. You’ll enjoy the process of cooking more than you ever have; you’ll experiment with different cuisines and feel proud to provide decent meals for your partner. You’ll appreciate the intensity of fresh air and start sleeping with the balcony doors open. It will help you feel closer to the outside world.
You’re going to reconnect with music. You’ve loved music your whole life and you’ve forgotten the sense of joy it can bring. Remember this and remember the joy; it will become a nighttime ritual for you. Make sure this stays with you long after the virus has retreated.
Overall, you’re going to witness the broad spectrum of humanity, both personally and from a distance. True hearts will show themselves. You will witness the best in people and be heart-warmed by legitimate demonstrations of altruism across the world. These stories will keep you going. But there will be the other end of the scale, and this is where you’re going to be disappointed. You will feel small and sad and you will question where you stand with people at times. This is okay – remember these are not ‘normal’ times. Give yourself (and others) some breathing space to get through this period as best you can. Keep reading the happy stories. They will make you smile.
You’re going to get isolation exhaustion. Everyone is. But you will need to keep reminding yourself that this will all pass eventually. And on the days you feel untethered, ground yourself with the good stuff – cooking, reading and walking, breathing fresh air into your lungs slowly and mindfully. Conversations with loved ones and movies at home with your partner, curled up on the couch together.
If nothing else, this crisis is going to make you appreciate the things you typically take for granted and disregard the things that no longer serve you.
Make sure you pay attention to all of it.
You’ve got this.
Lx
