How the Dystopia of Lockdown Broke Me
By: Shanu Sadhwani
Tags: Grief, Society, Anxiety, Family, Self

GRIEF

How the Dystopia of Lockdown Broke Me

An essay about anxiety, grief, and recovery

Photo by Fabrizio Verrecchia on Unsplash

The first hour of my day is the same as always; I press snooze several times, I get ready for work. I drink coffee whilst I plan my day. The disruption begins here. My commute consists of putting on my slippers and taking the 10 steps from my sofa to the dining table. I do not have a desk. In February of this year, I decided I didn’t want one at home. I wanted to establish clearer boundaries between work and home. I know, I’m in the future too.

Disbelief and Dystopias

164 days ago, I was sitting in my office when the caretaker told me it was home time. I picked up my stack of intend-to-read-when-I-have-the-time articles, and a box file filled with receipts as my pandemic plan. They remain untouched. In the first week of lockdown, I called a friend who lives in Italy. We played Uno on Skype; the first of many online games nights. She was bored, having spent 7 weeks at home. I couldn’t imagine. I thought about Italy and England. They use cash, they kiss cheeks when greeting each other. I had no doubt the UK would be fine.

I wasn’t worried, despite being a chronic worrier. When you live with anxiety, one way to cope is to turn the volume down on the panicky voice in your head. Otherwise, you’d miss out on so much of life. This is my best explanation for my naivety. SARS, Ebola, and Zika hadn’t significantly affected the UK. Well, they certainly hadn’t affected me. Why would COVID-19 be different? I hadn’t faced the magnitude of what was occurring. It had been easy to ignore. I had been busy.

I spent March alarmed every time I agreed with Piers Morgan. Like the bad 1985 in Back to the Future II, surely, somehow, someone somewhere would do something, this would cease to be, and we would end up in the corrected timeline.

I spent weeks regularly hitting refresh. On the news. On twitter. On COVID stats tracker. I’d find a sign that the worst was over. Trigger-happy, I became a human COVID tracker. Watching the cases increase. The deaths increase. Speculating about countries’ positions in the death league tables. A world’s contest like no other; the 2020 Olympics had not been delayed, we just changed the game. The USA was going for gold. And Team GB was not far behind.

As the days rolled into months, the dystopia became normal. I expected to agree with Piers Morgan. I stopped hitting refresh. I stopped expecting signs of improvement. Now, the abnormality was being outside. I was uneasy navigating public spaces. I still struggle. Recently, I was so focused on maintaining my distance from other pedestrians, I almost walked into a car. My partner does almost all our food shopping now. I hoover regularly as a silent thank you.

Locked In and Locked Out

When I first heard a description of COVID symptoms, I remembered the last time I saw my Mum have an intense asthma attack. I saw her gasping for every breath. I heard the gasps. I was 15. My Indian parents live in Hong Kong, and my Mum is elderly. She would not want me to be more specific. We were worried about her COVID outcomes from early January. Dad needed to travel to India for work, so they planned for him to go quickly, and return before Hong Kong’s inevitable lockdown.

Whilst in India, Dad fell ill. He was too weak to travel. They insisted they would both be reunited soon enough. No need for me to travel to either one. Unaware of the gravitas, I was busy with important things that have since lost all importance. When Hong Kong locked down, Mum was alone and remains so for the foreseeable. This was not the plan.

In April, India locked down, and days later Dad was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Dad was locked in, and by extension, I was locked out. We have family there, but it is twisted that those closest to him are farthest away. If he dies, which remains a possibility, Mum won’t be able to attend the funeral. And neither would I. Even now, there are no commercial flights to India.

The easing of restrictions has not brought any clarity to our family. Mum is high risk, and now, so is Dad. What if I caught COVID-19 on route? In case of emergency, I used to be less than 24 hours away. Now, I am infinitely away. I cannot know when I will see my parents again. Or if.

The last time I saw Dad, I gave him a hard time about his right-wing views. As I write this, Dad is making a good recovery, and I have stopped criticising his politics. Mum is praying more than ever. I do not believe in a God, but I do not remind her of this.

The Blame Game

It is common to blame the individual. The individual should make better choices, be more resilient, help-seek, take their medication. It is easy to blame a depressed person for not going to their GP. Much more difficult to make their street safer and greener. That’s why it was unsurprising to see individuals subtly blamed for dying of COVID-19. Deaths matter less in the elderly and those at high risk. If my parents died of COVID, it wouldn’t count. They’re basically dead already. Headlines are made for young people. Not for old people, no matter how much they are loved. Because they’re old. So they’re dead already. We minimised the tragedy. Not all deaths mattered. This is how the world coped; a collective delusion to avoid staring into an abyss.

By April, it was clear that Black and Asian people were dying at a higher rate. For years, I have been numb to these injustices. It was not helpful to think about the disadvantages I face as an Indian woman every day. So, I pushed them out of my mind. As life slowed, it became harder to remain numb. Every day, I was forced to face facts; my life will end sooner than my white counterparts. In essence, my life matters less.

In May, suddenly everyone cared about racism. The collective delusion was broken. Why now? A few headlines. A few gestures. And now, is the collective gaze turning away? As pubs and shops are opening, eyes are closing. I worry the only long-term change will be the popularity of the BLM hashtag.

Time to Grieve

Without the everyday busyness, I had time and space to see what I chose to ignore. Two years ago, I was offered a job that was a huge step in my academic career. A few months into the role, and I no longer felt positive. When I saw failings, I was quick to voice them. But they were quickly dismissed. I felt like I was screaming “ICEBERG!” on the Titanic; no one was listening.

As lockdown eased, the senior team believed that the project was drowning. But we were past the point of no return; the failings were no longer preventable. The project was pulled, and I was out of a job. I had been so successful at avoiding grief, and now I was forced to face pain squarely in the face. I had to confront the disappointments and alternative paths my life hasn’t taken. I realised that it is possible to feel stuck, even though you stand by all your choices. The project was sinking, and so was I. I felt broken, as I saw the scars I didn’t know I had.

In April, my other half and I had a row over something small. And then another small thing, and another still. By May, we were arguing about things that were not small. I was watching a car crash in slow motion. Some days I am hopeful it will be a near miss. On other days, it is one more reason to grieve.

Broken is Beautiful

As summer approached, so did a calmer heart. My first attempt at growing vegetables was proving successful. Runner beans were running, courgettes were flowering, basil was blooming.

Living at work was less trying, and I was seeing the benefits of slowing down. In many ways, I am healthier; I drink less and eat thoughtfully. I am rushing less. Whilst a lack of control epitomises lockdown, I have an immense sense of control, albeit over my much smaller and simpler world.

I stop working at a reasonable time. I spend every evening with people I love. I make more of an effort with friends and family. Relationships have strengthened. Having had a succession of bad days, I looked up and took note of how privileged I am. It took a global crisis for me to truly recognise the value of all the kind people in my life. And I shall never take for granted the value of a hug again. They are precious.

Concluding: and Beginning Again

The pandemic, like a violent storm, has obliterated so much. Highlighting scars across our lives; broken systems, unfulfilling careers, and wilting relationships. Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing pottery with gold. Rather than hiding weakness, flaws are celebrated. Imperfections are valuable. Golden scars find beauty and hope in what first appears to be broken. The pandemic has forced us to identify what we value. I hope that when we look back at 2020, it is not the year that we grieved. But, with our new perspectives, I hope 2020 is the year we began to repair, cherish, and value our broken pots. Because the world can be beautiful, if we want it to be.