The second wave

When I wrote about looking forward to 2021, little did I know how rapidly things would change. The graph climbed and soared in April, and we found ourselves facing what we dreaded all of last year, come true.
I can't believe it's only been a little over a month.
We're going through a humanitarian crisis, one that's affected nearly every single person we know, directly or indirectly. I feel tremendous guilt and gratitude at the same time, for being able to sit here and type this with no (major) health issues.

A dear friend who does social work explained the feeling we're all going through to me really well.

She called it 'grief overload'.

We're grieving friends, family, innocent strangers, succumbing to or suffering terribly from Covid. We're grieving the fact that hope, which came to us in early February, was not just snatched away but seems destroyed. We're grieving for a life we once knew, for dreams and plans and wishes we all had. And we're grieving the fact that we're alive, while millions of our fellow citizens are just gone.

Your mind shuts down, and activates all of its defences, to protect you, from the perceived threat. And so, it feels simultaneously like you've been punched in the gut, and like your insides don't exist. You cease to feel anything. There's a nothingness, a numbness, a lack of reaction to anything. And your brain is blanketed by what I've heard described as...fog. You get through each day that seems to stretch on infinitely, in a mechanical way. Wake up. Brush teeth. Shower if you feel upto it (usually not). Work, because you need to survive. And sleep when you feel like it's too much. Rinse and repeat.

And now, that the dust, so to speak, is settling, we realise we will never be the same again.
Actually, I think we might end up learning more than previously thought. I just wish it wasn't in this way.

Strength, isolation & disappointments

Today marks 3 years since the darkest episode in my life so far.
And then, when I thought the worst was over, in 2019, the shitstorm began.
It was an unbelievable series of setbacks, each harder than the other. It made me wonder WTF the universe was doing.
But then the whole situation, well -
It made me take risks, travel alone.
It gave me the strength to enjoy and appreciate my own company.
I rediscovered my confidence, and lived my wild phase.
I got more creative. Moved back to the city of my roots.
And then, round two. Death. Grief. Betrayal. Abuse.

And, now, this second wave. Spending sleepless nights worrying about everyone. Going through covid alone. Waking up breathless and terrified out of my mind.

I have always worn my heart on my sleeve. Both a strength and a downfall. I don't like playing games or pretending to be something I'm not. Often, my directness can be surprising, as I've been told. But as these experiences taught me, life's weird, random and confusing. And I'd like to be someone who doesn't let it rule me, as much as possible.
I guess we're all much stronger than we give ourselves credit for.
What I am terrified of though, is being hurt or let down yet again.
Unfortunately or fortunately, I also tend to absorb the emotions of other people, in general and especially if I know them. And so, this second wave has hurt horribly. I have reached out, checked in with people. But then, what does one even say, to those who has suffered loss, those struggling with covid, or even those who had a close brush with death? How does one find the words to comfort them, to let them know you may not have dealt with this but feel deeply?
There was immense guilt at being ok when so many have lost lives, their own, or their family. Burning hot rage at the disgustingly insensitive establishment. And sorrow. So much sorrow.
But now, I have lost the ability to feel properly.
Grief overload.
STILL, I hope.

How on earth do we hope?

The first reason to hope, at least for me, was all the ordinary citizens, some as young as school kids, come together to help. When the establishment fails us, when it wants to spread hate, we like to prove them wrong. The sheer number and diversity of people I have seen, both known and unknown, come together and help in a display of teamwork never seen in my career before. Well. It tells you we're more powerful than we think.
The second...at a personal level - well. When you've stared down the barrel of the darkest rock bottom you've faced so far. When you've cried yourself to sleep wondering if you will ever be happy again, or ever love again, or feel free again. When you've lived in isolation for so long that you crave for just a touch, to remind yourself you're real, that you're human. When you've had spoken abuses hurled at you day in and day out, with no escape, designed to break your spirit, had times when you felt like you could never truly be you.
You realise that no matter how fucked up it gets, you will find a way out. Even if you have to claw your damn way out.
So something magical happens. You ride the storm out. Maybe it takes longer than before to clear those dark clouds.
But you fight the monster. You gaze up at the moon. You remember this quote:

“Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there-on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam."
- Carl Sagan

You listen to your favourite music, turn on the lights, open up the pages of a book and remind yourself of the little things you miss, but will have again, someday soon.
A beautiful sunset. Long walks in the park. Full, happy laughs. Warm hugs. Dipping your feet in the ocean, feeling those specks of sand sift through your toes. Gazing at the valley below, after a long hike. Getting a beer, and feeling that frothy goodness, listening to the buzz around you. Silence, and communicating with your eyes, through expressions and gestures, than by text. The feeling of a plane taking off as you watch the world get tinier and tinier and then blanketed by clouds. Escaping into a favourite cafe to sit for hours with writing or a book, watching people go by. Eating delicious street food wrapped up in newspaper.

We will heal. All of us. Together. And, I still hope, that we will leave things better than they were. Bit by bit.
All I can say is. Hold on. Hang on. Don't throw in the towel. Don't. Panic.