Locked down, I feel sadness, grief and loneliness, but that’s ok.

I’ve been living in lockdown – alone – since 12 March.  I began a few days before our government decided that it might not be a good idea for millions of Londoners to commute on packed trains to open-plan offices when a highly contagious, potentially fatal virus was running rampant through the city.  

On that Thursday morning, I turned up, as per usual (well, as per the old usual), to West Hampstead Thameslink station at 7 something am.  The platform was crammed; I turned on my heels and went home.  I felt like a scaredy-cat, everyone else was squeezing onto the train after all.  But I was anxious about getting and spreading the virus as I was due to see mum the next day, and as she’s 84 and frail, I wasn’t prepared to risk it (and had zero desire to get sick myself). 

That same day, I messaged a friend:  Working at home and everything feels SO WEIRD already got cabin fever.  DON’T LIKE THIS PLEASE MAKE IT STOP.   That, people, was day 1.  

By that Saturday, I’d done my first online yoga class, signed up to a gazillion virtual meditation events (none of which I’ve done), downloaded Houseparty (used it once), filled my calendar with Skype drinks and Zoom dinners, panic bought chia seeds and cashew milk (I know…I know) and was googling flats with gardens to rent in London, Hove, Deal or ANYWHERE for that matter (I live in a small flat with no outside space; needless to say, my search was as pointless as panic buying chia seeds).   

It’s now my fifth week in lockdown. In that time, I’ve seen mum a handful of times, a couple of friends a couple of times from a distance, and last week I bumped into someone I know when I was out for a run (which was lovely, until I got home and realised that my sleeveless running top was showcasing a month’s growth of lustrous thick armpit hair). That’s been the extent of my real life interactions.

I’ve not touched, or been touched by, another human in that time.   

My two bushy eyebrows are fast becoming one.  

Work has been stupidly busy, so I’ve not been bored; if anything, I’ve been stressed and over-stimulated by too much screen time (but, it goes without saying, that I am very lucky and grateful to have a job right now).   And, like all of us, I’ve had a ton of virtual interaction with friends and family; some of it great, much of it enervating.  

But mostly, what sets these weeks apart, is the amount – and strength – of the feelings that I’ve felt. 

Initially, a ton of fear and anxiety: About killing mum by inadvertently taking a virus riddled tomato or copy of Hello! into her flat, and her dying in hospital confused and alone (god forbid); about me getting the virus and feeling bad about putting pressure on the NHS so not calling for help when I need it and and gasping for my last breath alone, desperate, sprawled on the floor of my flat in the middle of the night; about being incarcerated in my tiny space for weeks on end, not being allowed to go outside even to exercise, being forced to watch Tiger King on a loop and going stark raving bonkers; about having a panic attack in the middle of the night and having nowhere to go, no-one to reassure me that it will all be ok, not being able to go to A&E for fear of catching the virus; about becoming agoraphobic by spending so much time in a small space, alone, and not being able to leave home even when lockdown has lifted…You get the drift, all the usual stuff: death and madness.

Then there’s the self-criticism for feeling the anxiety:  I should be better prepared for a global pandemic!   I’ve spent years doing yoga, transcendental meditation, mindfulness meditation, CBT, theta healing, tapping, psycho-dynamic therapy, positive psychology, transformational breathing, you name it.   I know what anxiety is.  I know it’s just (made up) thoughts.  I know I’m creating my own suffering.   But still, it comes.  So I blame myself and wend my way through my self-made spiral of self-recrimination.  

Over time, the anxiety has dissipated, although it lingers close to the surface.  In its place, has come sadness, grief and loneliness.    

Sadness for the absence of things that I long for: someone to go through this with, a (real life) community, a garden, human touch, a dog. Sadness for not being able to touch mum when she’s distressed or kiss her goodbye, when – who knows – it might be the last time I ever see her. Sadness as I witness the impact of such brutal isolation on mum’s declining mental health. Telling people with dementia to use Skype to keep in touch, really doesn’t cut it.

Grief for the life that I had before all of this and for my future plans that seem stupid now. Grief for the people and relationships no longer by my side.

And then there’s the loneliness. Not just because I’m physically isolated and spending way too much time alone, and in my head, but more because I feel disconnected from what’s going on around me; in WhatsApp groups and social media, everyone seems to be #makingthemostofit and #seeingthepositive, baking bloody sourdough, learning how to do the splits and writing their first symphony (for some, no doubt, all at once), and I’ve not been feeling that, and that makes me feel separate, not ok.

At the beginning of it all, I hated everything about this.   The crisis seemed tailor made to trigger my most deep seated fears.  Every sinew in my body was waging a war of resistance: I do not like this, I will NOT have it.  I felt anger towards people who weren’t having a shit time.   I scrabbled to fill up my diary to pretend that things were normal and to NOT LET THE VIRUS WIN, and soon my lockdown diary looked very much like my normal life diary: stupid crazy busy.    

But in the last week or so, I’ve realised that that’s not working for me and something has shifted. Acceptance has replaced resistance.

And what I’ve come to see is this: The feelings that I’m feeling now are nothing to do with this global pandemic. The grief, the loneliness, the sadness; they are all inside me, always were (alongside the positive stuff, of course), it’s just that I’m normally too busy to pay attention. This crisis, this enforced stoppage, has made it impossible for me to do the things that normally divert me; so I’ve had little choice but to face my feelings head on.

At times, this feels frightening and overwhelming.  These past weeks have not been easy; I’ve had anxious, sleepless nights and mornings when I’ve woken up crying.   But when I allow myself to stop and turn towards the feelings that scare me, they show me so much about myself.  About what I am ashamed of, so I can learn to accept and embrace those parts of me.   About what I yearn for but don’t yet have, so I can, in time, create the life that I really want.  

When this was all starting out, on 19 March, I spoke to a very special colleague of mine in Beijing.  I shared my anxieties about lockdown.  Then, Beijing was slowly, tentatively, opening back up.  My colleague had been through what we were about to go through.  She said this: 

People are getting back to normal. Traffic is as bad as before.  People are much more appreciative of essential workers especially health workers but also delivery drivers. People have come together. Being alone for 6 weeks helped me realise what kind of person I am. It was a very special period; Trust me you will enjoy it

I was sceptical then, but now, 5 weeks in, I wonder whether she may just be right.