I’m sure that you, my loyal reader, are tired of my constant ramblings about my depression. So, let’s have a change of subject. Today, I am going to talk about my anxiety.
Apologies for the brief burst of levity in that opening sentence. Not that I am seriously depressed this morning, but I am utterly exhausted. And the reason I am exhausted is due to my levels of anxiety. Last night, as in the previous nights this week, found me all but overwhelmed by anxiety dreams, followed by anxiety in real life until the dawn broke, albeit from behind thick grey clouds. So, I spend much of the night in a bad dream – a nightmare, is a better term – and then I couldn’t get back to sleep again. It’s obvious what is calling this: the coronavirus.
During the summer, my depression got so bad I spoke with my GP and she arranged some therapy via Zoom. Before it started, I had made a recovery of sorts and thanks to a therapist I really like and totally trust, I’m a bit better, or less bad, if you will. But since March, COVID-19 has dominated everything. It’s all there is. The restrictions, the masks, the washing hands, the social distancing, the rising number of infections, hospitalisations and deaths – it’s all embracing. You simply can’t get away from it and it’s making me think way too much.
One thing about the virus is that it is real. It is not a hoax, it is not a conspiracy, it is not less harmful than the flu. I have seen the impact on my family, on other families, on friends and in the great wide world. I have seen everything from asymptomatic cases, minor symptoms, major symptoms and, I’m afraid death. It’s not going away anytime soon.
The natural assumption seems to be that things will be back to normal in 2021. Glastonbury will be back on, the European Football Championships will take place, as will the Olympics and we’ll all be flying off to foreign climes. Except that we don’t know if any of this will happen.
I’m warming to the idea of Dominic Cummings instructing Boris Johnson to lock up everyone over 60 (me) and with an underlying health condition (me), as long as Cummings’ government pays me for so doing. I’ll just sit in my Man Cave until 2022, or however long it takes, listening to music and writing miserable blogs. Anything to stop this anxiety will do.
What’s happening in Manchester, where local leaders have tired of been treated as a canary in a coal mine, will surely be repeated all across the land. And, I fear, many people will tire of being dictated to by the London elite and live life by their own rules, just as the London elite do, regardless how dangerous and reckless that might be. The country is hopelessly divided between people who are unhappy and those who are very unhappy. I don’t believe the streets will be as empty as they were during the main lockdown from March.
Am I scared? I’m certainly wary every time I go out. I’m wary in the supermarket, I’m wary on the bus, I’m wary in the pub, I’m wary at work. I’m just, as you might have gathered, wary. Wary and anxious.
Boris Johnson promised us back in March it would be all over in 12 weeks. Then, it would all be over by Christmas. Now it’s the end of March. That’s over five months away and guess what? It won’t be over. No effing chance. My fear, with idiots like Johnson in charge, is that things will be little different come the spring, apart from the bankruptcies and the subsequent mass unemployment we will suffer.
Apologies for the content and structure of this blog. I’m worn out and looking through a thick fog this morning. I’m also very aware that i’m not the only one feeling like this. Far from it.