An Entirely Unpredictable String of Events

Last weekend we went to Norfolk and stayed by the sea. My whole family was there and some family friends too and Marc, of course, and it was like being in another life.

The entire week beforehand I was in a state of fear and stress. It just seemed ridiculous that we would be allowed to go. I was certain we would contract Covid that week and not be able to, or that something would happen to stop us. I just didn’t think it would happen. Note, please, that there was nothing concrete in our way; it’s not that I was worried about the train being cancelled, which could have happened, or missing it, or not being ready in time. It was nothing very specific. I just thought the universe would conspire to stop us from getting there. I think this is because I think I’m not allowed nice things.

And I’m wondering if part of this might be because it’s been so many months without nice things that I can’t remember what it’s like to have them? Or that I just don’t think I’m allowed?

Let me explain, swiftly: I don’t mean there have been no nice things in the last months. Obviously! It’s not that lockdown has been entirely devoid of joy, and it’s not that there was nothing nice in the months preceding it either. I’m very fortunate, and things have been really fine, when viewed in perspective. But by nice things I don’t mean, like, holidays or presents or good food and drink or new clothes. I just mean I haven’t felt properly calm or relaxed or safe for… possibly more than six months. Eight? Nine?

I tried to explain it to Marc - it’s not that lockdown has been all bad, or the preceding months. It’s been mostly bad, obviously. There have been good bits. But it’s only even been able to reach a 7 out of 10. That’s the ceiling. The enjoyment scale is now out of 7, and the final 3 are out of reach because to have them, you need to feel calm and relaxed and safe.

So having that this weekend was a completely alien feeling and it was almost incomprehensibly wonderful. We swam in the sea, we stomped along the beach, we waded through a stream, we went to a National Trust park and saw actual green nature and cows and birds, we saw a comet and shooting stars, we sat in a pub garden and had a pint and fish and chips, we played Monopoly Deal and Ludo and cards, I got stung by a jellyfish and it was totally fine. It was just fuckin... laughably idyllic.

Then we came back to London on Sunday evening and, starting on the train ride home, I began the worst few days I’ve had for a while. Fear, dread, can’t concentrate on work, keep crying all the time, have gone all silent and can’t really talk, certain I am ill and everyone is ill and we’re all going to die. Just the same old, really, apart from worse because in comparison to the weekend, this is REALLY ESPECIALLY SHIT. I didn’t leave the house from Sunday night to Wednesday morning because I couldn’t face being outside in London where things are scary. We had a slightly traumatic (if you are a wet lettuce, as I am) journey on the Overground returning home on Sunday, which also didn’t help. But honestly!! Is there any need for this??

So anyway, preliminary results suggest that I can in fact have nice things, but AT A PRICE. (The price is a Big Anxiety Comedown.) I’ve read a lot of articles about lockdown restrictions easing and people feeling uncomfortable with it, so I guess it’s nice to know I’m not alone? Really I should have been better prepared, I suppose. But now we know!

As usual: trying to remind myself of things like e.g. you are anxious, you are not necessarily dying. You are anxious and it’s okay. You’ve been anxious before and you’ve felt better before. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. AND SO ON FOREVER, JESUS CHRIST. Etc.

Anyway, not everything is bad, I know. Sorry for whining. Although if you’re reading this you’re probably used to it, so in that case, thanks for taking an interest. Please tell me about your own experiences of this shit, if you’ve had them, or if you fancy a chat. I would really love to hear it.