THIS SODDING pandemic has turned our world upside down, and for many it has sadly lead to isolation, deprivation, bereavement and severe mental health problems.
For me, it started out as a team effort. My kids and my spoonies were all in and we did what we could to support each other. We would make it through this together.
In the early days there was a sense of optimism in the midst of the horrors we experienced. You know, cheering on our first line workers, doing our bit and stuff like that. But eight months in, I hit a wall. I couldn’t take it anymore. As Christmas was coming up, too many were dying, and we realised this could go on for years I went AWOL. I switched my phone off. Closed down the social media tabs. And then I did the only thing I know I can do to keep myself from falling into the black hole: I read and I wrote. Since November, that’s all I’ve done. Reading and writing. And upset people I love and care about.
I don’t feel sorry for myself. I guess it’s fair to say that, all things considered, my isolation has been selfish. But sometimes, self-preservation has to be your main priority. No matter how much it hurts. Or whom it hurts.
My writing has pulled me through some truly awful periods in the past, and over the last nine months it has been my saving grace. I’ve been working on a saga rooted in Norse mythology and Scandinavian folklore; and I’ve written a whole heap of blog posts. This is work that’s still in progress. Stuff I’m hoping to share with you in a not too distant future.
I’m still not in a headspace where I can deal with calls and mail and messages, but I am taking baby steps and will focus on sharing what I’ve been up to here. And if you are one of the people I’ve hurt with my absence, I do apologise. I don’t mean to, but I suck…