Lockdown 2021: Fragmented Thoughts
It’s probably the result of being in lockdown for 87 days, but even though I have a very full Google doc of ‘themes’ and ‘thoughts’ that would ideally be turned into multiple complete articles, I just can’t do it. Over the past few months, I’ve never been able to string together more than the odd coherent paragraph.
So, for the sake of creating something (and because I was tired of thinking about this sad little page of half-formed thoughts), I’ve decided to pull them together into this fragmented article. If that isn’t a Covid-inspired mood, I don’t know what is. On a positive note, those of you with horrendously shortened attention spans (like me) might find it much easier to read than your typical article.
Warning: What follows is pretty melancholy and mostly written during low moments. It’s not always like this. I just tend to live when I’m happy, rather than wallow. Writing usually coincides with wallowing.
Today I had to record a video of myself for work. I threw on some makeup and actually felt quite good about myself, enjoying a much-coveted feeling of motivation. I was ready to smash it out, so I sat down and hit record. I couldn’t get it to work. I sat there on my bed with my carefully chosen backdrop and a fresh t-shirt on, growing steadily more frustrated as the video recording tool refused to do what I told it. I eventually gave up, sat down at my desk and noticed the return of my three-day-old back pain. Tears welled in my eyes. It was grey outside. Work was hard. Everything felt a bit hopeless. I put on a sad song and let my eyes glaze over. Hello week five of lockdown.
Every day at about 5pm, my anxiety comes out from behind its walls and takes its seat inside my stomach, making me afraid to go to bed… a feeling I thought I’d left firmly behind in my childhood. I feel sad and anxious and bored and apathetic and self-loathing all at the same time. And I can’t really remember when I didn’t feel like this. It sucks.
In the space between lunchtime and return-to-work-time (you know what I’m talking about), I stood outside on our patch of lawn and looked at the sky wondering why everything felt so meaningless. Then it was time to go back to work. So I did.
My abhorrent attention span is downright depressing. I think it’s getting worse. Most days I have an overwhelming urge to throw something very heavy on my phone.
I’ve been thinking it’s about time I accept the death of a future self I still held hope of becoming. I always wanted to be witty, clever and confident. But I would know by now, wouldn’t I? I’d be showing signs of wittiness and cleverness by the age of 25 if I was ever to become that person.
I’ve discovered the perfect hairstyle for day three of greasy hair. Space Buns. Yes, it deserves a double capitalisation. It makes me like my overgrown hair a bit better.
Today I got up, put on makeup, threw my hair into space buns (yes, I do it every few days now), and joined my team meeting online. Immediately my colleagues commented on how good I looked. In return I said, “Yes, well I was sick of being ugly.” Wow… well, that was obviously sitting under the surface. Not to mention that NO ONE ELSE WAS WEARING MAKEUP ON THE CALL. Think about how THEY felt? Not good I’ll bet. Now that I think of it, I don’t feel great either. Poor makeup-less Esther… is that what you really think of her? I’m gonna settle on it being a bad attempt at humour combined with a self-conscious deflection of the compliment. One thing’s for certain — there’s definitely no chance of me becoming that witty, clever, confident future self, huh?
I’m tired. The kind of tiredness I expect to feel decades from now. How do you stay light while existing amidst a world of depressive news? How do you keep finding joy on the same walk during the same routine of a day that feels just like yesterday? How can I sit in the gloom without it enveloping me?
I’ve recently been hearing a lot of people talking about the importance of being your own number one fan. This never really stuck for me, not sure why. But I’ve just come back from watching through all my Instagram highlights with a realisation — I’m f*cking funny! Not everyone’s cup of tea perhaps, but for my own taste, my sense of humour slaps! And how good is that? A nice little piece of the self-love puzzle found I reckon. It makes me realise that being my own fan, backing myself, liking some unique parts of myself that no one else will really ever get is worth celebrating. It’s kinda like that one best friend that really GETS you like nobody else — except that best friend is you.
The strangest things give me pleasure these days. Making Instagram reels — of my garden, of me making nasturtium pesto, of a hike we did last year, or of my flatmate’s dinner. It’s probably because I’m a late adopter of TikTok and my inner marketer is ashamed of me. Yeah, that’s it.
How can I believe others see me a certain way (aka ‘good enough’) if I don’t believe that about myself first? Or can I convince myself of it if I first believe that others see me that way? Does it work in reverse?
I have the increasing compulsion to incorporate the word “oof” into my daily lexicon. Flatmate: “How’s your day going?” Me: “Oof…”
Well, thank you for reading. I’m under no illusion that my main motivation behind cobbling this together and hitting publish is an innate desire for that dopamine hit you get when people read something you wrote and say, “So true!” “Wow, I get this on a cellular level.” “You have such a way with words.” (I made that last one up). Feel exposed? Yeah, me too.