There are Amazon parcels by the door. Can’t be arsed to open them. There’s a smelly candle on the table by the sofa. Can’t be arsed to light it. There’s a WhatsApp message pinging. Can’t be arsed to read it. Can’t be arsed to cook or think or read or chat. Can’t be arsed to run or clean or laugh or cry. Can’t. And the fact that I can’t makes me feel even more less-than than the less-than feeling which backed me into this corner in the first place.
Apparently lockdown is ending. I’m reading that the roadmap has been plotted. They tell me that it’s only a matter of weeks until I can… go to a pilates class, a restaurant and, eventually, a party. The trouble is I can no longer connect with what is fun about that. Essential for the economy, yes. Essential for mental health, of course. Although…
I have lost my context and I feel too old to be this rudderless and the prospect of populating long summer evenings with activity makes me feel even more lonely and tired than I do right now. Sitting here. With the headache that has been lurking for two months.
Maybe the slow re-opening will allow us all to open like flowers seeing the sun. Perhaps we shall limp and then stride out and then frolic. But the weight of all this – even for the lucky ones – the weight of the fear and claustrophobia and isolation will take time to throw off. And, from where I’m sitting – with the Amazon parcels staring at me in all my failure – I am struggling to believe that I will ever have the energy. I know I’m not alone in this. And yet, conversely, I absolutely am.
