About last month, or so...

What a strange time this is. Sometimes I feel like we're in an alternate reality, some dystopian future, that can't possibly be true. Days and weeks melt into a nondescript grey substance, and the uncertainty of if or when some semblance of normalcy will return, is chipping away at my spirit.

I want to begin with gratitude. It's something I have trained myself to do - to mouth or think of things I am grateful for throughout the day. Especially at the end of it. Even if I don't feel or believe it, I think if I'm consistent enough, I'll learn to believe eventually.

I am grateful that I and everyone that's close and dear to me, for the time being, is healthy and safe.

I am grateful that I still have a job and that I am able to work from home.

I am grateful that I am able to pay my bills, my mortgage and still have some disposable income to help keep the economy going.

I am grateful to have a home, a refuge, where I can work and rest, cook and bathe, sleep, read, write...

I am grateful to live in a place with a social security system, that if something terrible happens, I won't just slip through the cracks. No one will, I hope.

I am grateful that despite the many restrictions on freedom to move about, due to the cancerous COVID 19, where I live, they are not as strict as in some other places. I can go on 10km walks if I want to. I can go and buy plants at the home improvement store in person. I can go to Ikea. Following all required safety measures of course.

I am grateful for all of those and many other things. How could I not be. And yet, I am deeply sad and somedays feel inconsolable and hopeless.

There are people who are sick or who have lost a loved one to the virus.

There are people who have lost their income, in countries where there is no social security or universal healthcare.

There are people who will be bankrupted by a stay at the hospital.

There are people who won't be able to pay for their home and be forced from it.

There are places, where people are not allowed to go outside at all.

There are people stuck in abusive relationships, for whom going to work or school, anywhere that wasn't home, was the only time they felt safe, and now they're stuck in a cage, living their worst nightmare.

There are people, who would just rather get sick and get it over with. Whatever the outcome, it couldn't be worse than their current reality.

I remind myself of these scenarios all the time. Others remind me as well. And that's how the feelings of despair spiral more and more out of control. How dare I be unhappy? I am ungrateful. I tell myself that I'm not, and yet it feels like any hint of sadness is met with a virtual slap in the face. I have no right to be depressed, because others have it worse. It's a classic case of a pep-talk gone terribly wrong, for as long as there is anyone worse off than yourself, you forfeit the right to be unhappy. And then, if someone asks you what's wrong, you may hesitate, contemplating for a moment whether you should be honest or not, but say “nothing. I'm fine” in the end.

But you're not fine. I'm not fine.

For the first couple of weeks I was fine. Even now, I'm not panicking, although the temptation is there, simply because there's nothing I can do to make this go away. If I were behind the wheel of a car with no brakes, I'd be more panicked, because I'd know the severity of the crash was entirely in my hands. What I did would actively change the outcome. With this, I am an extra on a massive stage, and my role is to play along, every day, until they say “cut”. And that is the root of my sincerest unhappiness. Being forced to relive virtually identical days indefinitely.

Being an introvert, I like being home. I'd rarely go out on the town, except for a few special occasions. But it's those special occasions that would inspire me to keep going, because our lives are full of repetitive days anyway, virus or no virus. I miss culture. I miss concert halls and museums. I miss a dimly lit meal in the city. I miss going to shops and touching materials. I miss going on a plane, even if it was once a year, to transplant myself to another climate.

These would represent maybe a handful, maybe two, of highlights that would embellish my year. But they were goals to save money and vacation time for, and now, they've all been taken off the table. Realistically, it could be years before traveling for leisure or gathering by the hundreds in a concert hall becomes acceptable.

The idea of having to exist in a repetitive, mundane grayness, with nothing to look forward to for years, is suffocating. To have to go on indefinitely with no purpose, is why I am sad.

I tell myself to be grateful and I look for little pleasures to distract me. Like sunshine, which we rarely get, or a sweet flower bloom, which I'm allowing myself to indulge in more frequently these days.

Because I know that there is nothing on the horizon, I'm training myself to do everything with patience and mindfulness. Everything from closing a cabinet door to washing dishes. Things I might do in a rush, with subconscious resentment and carelessness, I'm trying to do with patience and grace.

There is no rush.

I look forward to the day when it will be okay to look forward to things again.

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