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[title]As we prepare to re-enter the world, with the words ‘the new normal’ ringing in our ears, I’ve been feeling… something. It’s not quite anxiety, it’s far from panic but it’s not yet excitement. It’s not something I can put my finger on but it’s always there. A nervous tension and energy that is exhausting to even think about let alone name.
Confronted by press conferences that, in the same breath, tell us to be excited about a future we don’t yet possess while remaining deathly afraid of a present we can’t seem to escape, this nameless feeling is like an emotional tug of war between the part of me that wants to live it large, and the part of me that simply wants to live.
It's not that I'm missing normality, per se. I know a lot of people find the routine of getting up, getting dressed, leaving the house and working in an office to be a huge part of the daily ritual, but not me. I had a baby two and a half years ago, so anything even resembling a social life was already on its way out the window when isolation and stay-at-home orders came along. Not all that much changed in my world. That’s not to say that I don’t empathise with the collective trauma that we are all feeling, having essentially lost the last two years of our lives to an invisible force that can be transmitted with a hug. But in terms of the day-to-day, for a new mum who spent much of that time freelancing, what even is a routine?
I’m loving the fact that Sydneysiders are so pumped to have some wholesome picnics and that my hospitality family will soon be back on some kind of track and how committed the vast majority of the population is to getting vaccinated. There’s a lot to feel optimistic about. So why don’t I want to get back out there, escape this relative solitude? I know I don’t want to go back to wearing bras or showering daily but it can’t just be my gradually declining standards of hygiene. I'm not thrilled about the schlep to the office combined with the chaotic energy of getting a toddler ready for daycare every morning, but it's about more than just dodging some small inconveniences.
I think it might be something closer to fear.
Yes, it sounds dramatic, but when all you’ve heard every day at 11am is to stay at home, keep your loved ones safe, get vaccinated, and casualty rates, it can be hard to shake the feeling that going outside could be the death blow to someone you love. My child is too young to get vaccinated against Covid-19, and my parents, who are both fully vaccinated, aren’t getting any younger. My partner believes he is invincible and dragged his feet to get jabbed so that leaves me to worry about the lot of us.
As a food and drink writer, it is my job to be out in the world, supporting and championing the very industry that was arguably hardest hit by the pandemic. But even with Covid safety plans in place, even with vaccine passports and masks and capacity limits, there’s still a chance of exposure. It's hard to shake the possibility of doom when everyday life requires us to stomp the battlegrounds between a safe and healthy community and the illness that stopped the world in its tracks.
Change is the one constant of life, yet it is never easy, it is in our nature to fight against it. We all are quietly processing myriad complex emotions that pull us in very different directions, and even if we’ve got people in our lives, in our homes, most of us are processing these feelings alone. The reality is, isolation is dangerous. It’s lonely and damaging and can be the final straw for those battling uphill with their demons. In the last two years, I have lost four close friends to suicide. They were more isolated than I could ever have imagined. Being away from our loved ones and in a very strange new world, uncertainty and loneliness can be too much to bear. A healthcare system that is under strain doesn’t leave a lot of room for mental health resources and those at risk have rarely been in a more precarious position. I’m lucky enough to have a great support system and access to phenomenal medications, but that often isn’t the case for those who are confronting these destructive feelings for the first time, especially if they’ve never really had to look into the darkness and have it stare right back at them.
In many ways, it feels like we are all collectively in mourning for life pre-March 2020. I know in my experience that losing the last nearly two years to a pandemic combined with the emotional exhaustion of the bushfires just prior, all of the feelings of grief are here and accounted for. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance have propelled this twisting, turning rollercoaster of emotions straight onto a plateau of numbness. I’ve felt white-hot rage at anti-lockdown protesters and intense frustration at the politics of the pandemic, I’ve weighed the metaphoric (and literal) scales of a sneaky visit to friends or family, I’ve had days where I’m just so, so sad and I’ve had days that have light at the end of the tunnel with promises of falling case numbers and easing restrictions.
I’ve felt days where I’m fine, days where I’ve really leaned into just mindfully being. Days of playing with my daughter, exploring my suburb, and days of finding liberation in the lack of control and accepting that not everything is in my hands. Days of assessing what is important to me and what I actually want to spend my time doing. With the conflict of despair and frustration battling the mindful optimism, it’s easy to lose track of what I may actually be feeling.
It isn’t hard to become buried under a mounting pile of questions that circle your thoughts like a snake eating its tail. And at the centre of it all, this feeling, that you can’t quite place. But maybe trying to name this enigma rattling around in your mind is not the answer you need. Maybe it’s giving yourself permission to just feel it, free of any intellectual baggage or cobbled psychology. All of us will go through something similar, a process of brokering a deal with that frightened corner of our brain that just refuses to chill out. And underpinning that bargain has to be a leap of faith, an agreement that the part of you that can’t wait to get back out there amongst all that fun stuff, will do so in a way that keeps the scared part safe. Value the freedoms in a genuine way.
Give yourself permission to launch.
For more advice and details of how to access support visit the Beyond Blue website.