Letters From Lockdown
Photo by Hussan Amir on Unsplash
It’s day one of lockdown in the UK. Last night Boris Johnson imposed the harshest restrictions placed on British lives, ever. Whatever you think of Bo-Jo, I believe it even broke his heart a little to have to do it and I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried as he spoke the words. This is unprecedented and so, to help you feel calmer if it’s possible, it’s ok to feel scared, anxious, worried. It is a time for unprecedented feelings and reactions. The one thing we do know for sure is, staying at home will save lives. We are all playing a bit part in an apocalypse movie that none of us auditioned for, but we have no choice.
I think, at this moment, it still feels a little unreal. I haven’t left the house in 14 days except for a quick trip to the shops (once I was out of my 7-day isolation period). That’s a long time to be cooped up in the house, but the flip side is that I’ve not seen empty streets, barren train stations. I haven’t seen an empty M25, or police randomly stopping people to check that their journeys are necessary. All I’ve seen is the fun ten epsiodes of Love Is Blind (if you haven’t already, get it watched) and several hundred tantrums and while it’s been weird I feel a bit like the visual impact of what this virus is doing out there on the streets is the really scary thing.
If these Letters from Lockdown do anything, I hope they simply serve to make you feel less alone when, ironically, we are more alone than we’ve ever been. My history of mental health issues such as anxiety and depression are weighing down on me. While I don’t feel ‘ill’ now, I’m constantly and nervously ‘picking’ at my mental scabs and scars just to check they are holding up. Am I losing my mind? Am I feeling depressed? Is this a breakdown or just regular and to-be-expected anxiety? It’s hard to know. What I do know is that I have to keep going back to my fail safe techniques to ensure mental fitness - exercise, lots of sleep and space for me.
One minute I’ll be standing at the sink, doing the dishes and then, with no notice or warning, I’m doubled over, struggling to breathe and crying because at that moment I’m overwhelmed. Overwhelmed that my kids can’t leave the house, that I can’t earn any money, that my husband’s tours have been cancelled, that I can’t see my parents or my friends, that I can’t get any food delivered to the house and every time I make it to the supermarket there’s nothing left, that I have no suitable answers when my kids say, “Why can’t I go to school? Why can’t I see my friends?” Even writing this is making my heart beat uncomfortably quickly.
It’s ok to say you’re scared. It’s ok to admit that you don’t know what to do. It’s essential that we all ask for help where and when we can. It’s ok to cry and to shout and to scream and to get out whatever you need to get out. It’s ok to have an off day, it’s ok to let your kids watch TV, it’s ok to wear your pyjamas all day, it’s ok to post on social media or to delete the apps altogether. Whatever you need to do to get through this is ok because, right now, everything else isn’t ok and we need to be gentle on ourselves and on everyone else.
I hold on to this fact: if generations before us can stomach the horrors of world wars, then we can stomach this. It’s hard for a whole set of other reasons, and the death count will by unimaginably high, but for the first time in history, the whole world is working together against a common enemy and, when this is all over, we will, I hope, remember who saved us, what we all did to help and from that I hope that love and compassion will run abundantly through us all.
Until that day, it’s one day at a time for us.