Living in the new normal

For my black dog, there is no road to recovery. It’s not that the light at the end of the tunnel is actually an oncoming express, but that once you have left the tunnel, it’s not long before you enter the next one. It’s a bit like leaving Box Middle Hill tunnel, a very short tunnel, and diving in to Box Tunnel, a long tunnel, or vice versa. That’s my personal black dog. Everyone who has depression has a very different breed of black dog, some of whom stick around forever and others who pass by fleetingly. Depression has a myriad of black dog breeds.

I’ve been on the way up for around a month, now. It’s been due to a conscious decision by myself to embrace a more positive mindset, as I recovered from the last dip. It’s being assisted by six more weeks of therapy and until this week, I was making good progress. I don’t always know why the gloom descends, but this time I do. After nearly seven months of furlough, with only brief outings to pubs, golf courses and shops, my life has returned to slowly resemble how it used to be before the arrival of the coronavirus, but with the coronavirus not just still present, but spreading exponentially I’m not feeling great about it.

Whilst I have not lived my life in fear of catching the virus, the only place I feel truly safe is in my home. I am not in the very highest risk group of dying from COVID-19, but I’m not in the lowest, either. My chronic asthma (that just means I’m an asthmatic, not that I am constantly tied to a machine) and the other afflictions and conditions that are usually visited upon senior persons means that I’m far from immune. Like most people, I am not likely to die from the virus, although it’s by no means a given, but I am more likely to have a damaging outcome, if I’m unlucky enough.

Without going into any specific detail, my contacts with third parties have increased dramatically this week. I have been spending my time in poor or non-ventilated environments, far closer to people than I have been since March. I would be lying if I said it had no effect on me.

Unquestionably, the worst places to visit have been big supermarkets. We do our Big Shop on-line and have done for many years, so my supermarket experiences have been top-up shops – you know, when you run out of essentials like beer and wine. But now, I am back in big, busy supermarkets and it’s been a chastening experience.

I will not name supermarket names or where they are but one in particular is not exactly noted for enabling a relaxing shopping experience. On the contrary, I found it more than slightly unsettling. At least 10% of people were not wearing face coverings and many of those who were didn’t seem to realise the connection between mouths and noses. If that wasn’t bad enough, social distancing was virtually non-existent. People who were older than me and, on the face of it, more vulnerable to catching the virus and getting very ill with it, barged past as if we were riding the dodgems. By the time I left, my anxiety levels, whilst not being overwhelming, had certainly risen to uncomfortable levels. And it dampened my mood. I did not feel safe because I was not safe. And I can’t get it out of my head.

Part of this is, without question, my lockdown experience which meant I rarely saw anyone else. I stayed at home, protected myself and others and hopefully I saved lives, not least my own. Suddenly, overnight, the old normal became a square peg in the new normal round hole. It didn’t fit and I don’t see how it ever will until we have seen the back of this virus. If we ever do.

So, this week’s dip appears to be as a direct result of a change in my life, taking me out of my comfort zone into a relative danger zone. And if I didn’t know that already, my NHS app – the one I said I’d never download – tells me I am at medium risk of catching COVID-19, which rather suggests it’s 50/50. After my return to the big and increasingly wild world, I can’t help but think I’m a coin toss away from being infected.

I’m more concerned not by catching the thing myself but of carrying it around and infecting much loved family and friends, as well as innocent strangers. But for all that, I recognise that life had to restart, even if it meant that life and death decisions were being made on my behalf by prime minister Dominic Cummings and his untrained monkey Boris Johnson. I’m having to take my chances now, the same chances that millions of brave people have had to do since March, working on the frontline everywhere from hospitals and supermarkets and all points in between. Indeed, my brief reunion with life outside my front door has only served to reinforce my admiration of these great people.

I wouldn’t call my own issues with depression as being a fight, a struggle or a battle. It’s just there and I have to try to live with it. After all, what’s the alternative? I have lost enough friends who no longer wanted to live with it. Getting through coronavirus would be a great achievement for many of us, physically and mentally.