Somewhere along the way, it became more than just tolerating it, biding time until the weekend when the two days pass by as if it was just one night. The feeling became more like being shoved underwater, and the only times you’re able to frantically gasp for breath is when you go on vacation… weekends are just moments when you see sunlight streaming through the water, but you’re still lost beneath the surface.
It all sounds utterly depressing, and that’s how it feels most of the time. But then, inevitably, you get up each morning to do this same routine because that’s what we have been programmed to do. It is all utterly, utterly depressing and I remember NOT feeling this way pre-pandemic. Not to this degree. Nowadays, the small but significant things that keep me going are:
∙ friends
∙ family
∙ matcha latte
∙ walks in DRY weather, regardless if it’s 0°C or 10°C (if you live in the 604… you know)
∙ sleep
∙ books, movies, music
Getting caught with corona in my body gave a sense of happiness for an unexpected break, but guilt at the same time for feeling happy under these circumstances. Covid has hurt, damaged and ended lives. Why am I happy that I have it? Oh, because as scary as it could be, maybe this means I can have a break. For a week at least, there’s a reprieve and I don’t have to wake up wanting to throw away everything I have because work has caused me to feel brutally burnt out. At least being sick in bed meant feeling physically unwell but mentally, emotionally - hey, I get to spend time with my partner and quarantine together. Is that a sad type of happiness? Is it pathetic to feel happiness over that?
This is the modern, 20th century, childcare worker struggling in an expensive city type of happiness, coming to a pill / glass bottle near you. Here’s your ticket to the show. Enjoy the impending end.