The ‘I want to know where I stand’ conversation is a relationship rite of passage for many of us. It goes a little something like this: you are confused by your love interest’s inconsistent behaviour, you want to know if the relationship is going anywhere, you work up the guts to ask if it has legs. In the moment it can all feel very galvanizing, but so often you walk away and are hit by the belated realisation that you are even more confused about where you stand than before the chat.
I felt like I was exiting one of these conversations, albeit one completely devoid of sex – in prospect or desire, after Boris Johnson’s speech on Sunday evening. I had shown up in the hope that I might get some answers, only to be left with more questions than I had to begin with.
The question gnawing away at me is this: but what about those of us living on our own? There are 7.7 million people in the UK who live alone, yet we are starting to feel like we’ve been forgotten. There is an implicit implication, an assumption even, in the Government’s communications (or lack of, let’s be honest) that households comprise of bustling, multi-member units.
‘If the government has forgotten that single people who live alone exist, does this mean we’re exempt from the rules? Asking for a friend,’ commented one Twitter user. ‘Why does the government never take single households into account? You can sit in park and play sports with your household. Great can’t wait,’ added another. So – hurrah – I can play tennis now, except only with other members of my household. The wall rally it is then.
Nobody gets a free pass right now, but living alone brings with it a specific set of dilemmas and soul searching. I say that as one of one of the lucky ones. I live on my own out of choice and prior to lockdown I saw my solo set-up as both my biggest luxury and my biggest necessity; it was a privilege. I can eat what I want, watch what I want, go to sleep when I want (I never said mine was a rock-n-roll life). I can walk around naked and hog the whole bed.
But that was a lifestyle choice located in the context where I could complement my precious alone time with a busy social life. There is nothing sweeter than having a Friday night to yourself after a frantic week of work and play, colleagues and friends, heartfelt catch ups and casual social interactions. It was solitude on an opt-in basis, a particular type of bliss that drew its power, ironically, from having a busy social life. I am a touchy-feeling tactile person and I miss physical contact: linking arms, hugging, kissing. Even a handshake would feel decadent and debauched right now.
I can tell you right now without reservation that I am the worst flatmate I have ever had.
What lockdown has starkly demonstrated to me is that there is a fundamental difference between being alone and being lonely. Feeling an aching loneliness is not mutually exclusive from being a fiercely independent person, it’s just that we are operating outside of the parameters of all normality and that is having a topsy-turvy effect on our internal wiring. Time feels vast at the moment, and without someone else here to squabble with, cook for and chat to, the stillness can at times feel unbearable.
With little distraction, the days can be both expansive and claustrophobic. With my productivity levels waning faster than my appetite for Zoom calls and trackpants, these baggy days are quickly filled with my own most destructive thoughts and daily existential crises, all before I’ve had my first coffee. I can tell you right now without reservation that I am the worst flatmate I have ever had. You don’t need me to tell you that coronavirus is physically lethal, but it can have a brutal effect on one’s mental health as well.
There is some light, today, however. New Government proposals issued today suggest that from next month, we may begin to start mixing in social ‘bubbles’in controlled merging of different households. For some of us, this isn’t just good news – it’s a lifeline.
READ MORE: Coronavirus: How To Have The Perfect Socially Distant Picnic