It's Sunday. There are things I usually absolutely love about a Sunday, especially when the sun is shining. Walking to the pub for a roast with the girls, drinking wine all day, screaming with laughter with black-stained red wine mouths over a cheeseboard (I like to call these ‘Biro-mouthed rants’).
But Sundays are a bit different at the moment. A lot different. Last month, 65,000 retired doctors and nurses were called back to the NHS to help the fight against coronavirus, many without the basic equipment they need to protect themselves. So, yes, while those things I have grown to love about Sundays won’t be happening for the foreseeable, who am I to complain? All I’m being asked to do is sit on the sofa... it’s quite literally the very least I can do.
It has, however, been three weeks since I have physically touched another human being. I am isolating alone in the London flat I recently moved into. Like so many, I have been in shock. I’ve cried for all the people who have lost their lives, I’ve clapped and banged a saucepan on my doorstep for the NHS staff who are risking it all every day. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night with crushing anxiety like I’ve never experienced before. My internal monologue is already knackered.
There have been good days and bad days. I’m trying to now call them ‘moments’. A bad moment feels like it’ll pass. A bad day feels like it’ll last a lifetime – I just don’t have enough dressing gowns.
Being alone has always been my number one fear. And yet here I am. In the middle of a pandemic, completely isolated from everyone and everything I know and love, Instagraming myself poaching an egg. Caption: ‘I am a useless tosser’.
I have taken little swipes at an online dating app I’ve rejoined out of sheer boredom. Could a hunky Scandinavian DJ be the answer to my prayers? Probably not. I FaceTime my mum and tell her I miss her (she’s on her own too) – she asks why my eyes are pink. I’m on my phone for hours... Smiling at videos of families home- schooling, I marvel (and cringe) at couples who TikTok together, I howl at the terrible haircuts girls are giving their lads.
When I feel sad, there’s a twinge of guilt that I feel sad at all. I feel scared to vocalise a bad moment – especially on social media – with the fear of the reaction I’ll receive from those who insist my life is perfect.
I am learning it’s OK to feel sad right now, it’s OK to admit you’re a bit alone, and it’s OK to feel shit. Especially if you suffer with mental health issues. Give yourself a break. Instagram-perfect isolation is not a reality. If you’re on your own like me, or if you’re not, be kind to yourself. Download a yoga app, then delete it if you want to. Sign up to volunteer if you can. Donate to the charity that has lost their fundraisers for this year. Read a book, have a bath, have a gin (not too early and not too large), watch Titanic for the 107,000th time. FaceTime someone you fancy... sorry, I mean your family! Order that large Texas BBQ base with stuffed crust... stare at the ceiling if you like. I draw the line at baking banana bread, though. Banana bread can f**k off.
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