Welcome to My World

What an exceptional time to be alive. The world interconnected in a waking nightmare, with the worst (most likely) yet to come.

Coronavirus, COVID-19, novel coronavirus, SARS-CoV-2, The Rona (in Australia anyway), whatever you want to call it, has brought the world to its knees. It’s invisible, it’s not biased, it's deadly and we still have no way to beat it. The best strategy is not to contract it in the first place. Wash hands, quarantine, wash hands, stay away from people (at least 1.5m), wash hands, don’t touch your face, wash hands, cough and sneeze into your elbow, wash hands - oh I said that already. I need some hand cream pronto!

The other side to all this is the mental impact and toll this is having on us. There’s still stupid people out there living in their own bubble thinking they can’t be affected nor do they have any social responsibility to others – let’s leave those fuckwits out of this. No doubt the rest of us living in reality and particularly being in the vulnerable part of the population, have clued into our own sense of mortality and existentialism, if we hadn’t before. (How can you not be when coverage and infection are so widespread; or simply just by sensing the eerie vibe out there?)

I was talking to a friend a few months ago who unfortunately had a very bad car accident. She thankfully survived with minimal bodily damage. The accident should have been fatal but thank whatever out there, dumb fucking luck, it wasn’t. I could tell immediately that she was just falling over the edge into the long dark spiral of PTSD (she was approximately 4 weeks post-accident, which is the common amount of time before PTSD kicks in). She was frantic, contemplative, shell-shocked, in disbelief, depressed yet elated. I just listened to the outpouring of information. She couldn’t comprehend that the night before the accident could have been the last time she ever tucked her daughter into bed. What can you say to that, to any of it? Most times the best thing to do is shut the fuck up and listen. Unsubstantiated meaningless niceties, wisdom or positivity don’t cut it. My husband piped up eventually to break the desperate silence. He told her if anyone can understand how she feels, that I can. I know down to the deep dark core of her soul exactly how she feels. I’ve been her. I should have died at least twice now (fuck I’m losing count) from a congenital heart defect and cardiac arrest, but I didn’t. I’ve been on this PTSD train before, toot toot all aboard. Perhaps I should have reveled in the fact that out of my friends, I wasn’t alone anymore. Instead I was sad that she must go through this. The only thing that gives me some solace is that I’m available to her if and when she decides she needs me.

People experiencing this pandemic in quarantine from their own houses doesn’t compare to having a near fatal car accident, or cardiac arrest. But what these experiences have in common is that they force people to pause, to take stock, to reflect on themselves, their lives and the world around them. I feel confident that most people out there whether you've been directly affected by COVID-19 or not – yes I’m talking to you – have now experienced this moment: where a sudden existential dark emptiness casts over your mind and seeps into the middle of your chest to take residence in your soul. It’s that dreaded moment of dawning, or rather setting, where you realise within the being of your cells that one day, you will die; and at the same time just how precious and finite life really is. It’s one of the truest and breathtakingly bittersweet moments in one’s existence. The first time I felt it I must have been no more than nine years old. I was sitting on the grey carpeted floor in my bedroom contemplating all that is life. Naturally I came to that unsettling conclusion. And just like most people, I shook it off and kept going about my business.

We all know this truth intellectually, but to understand it in the depths of your soul is something else. It’s the unique experience reserved for people having gone through a near death experience, having been in war, tending to the sick and dying, being the sick and dying. And now it’s for the masses, televised and transmitted to your lounge room 24/7.

All the things you’re feeling now, during this pandemic, that’s me, feeling those things and having those morbid thoughts all the time.

Welcome to my world.

It’s a waking nightmare we’re all living, it’s difficult to comprehend our new reality. You distract yourself and go to sleep and try to escape it and maybe you’re lucky and you do. With my PTSD, there’s no escape. I’m living trapped in this endless cycle of mental and emotional exhaustion where at times the only choice is to become numb. I stay awake to try to distract myself from thoughts of death, what if scenarios and that creeping existential dark emptiness that keeps seeping through me trying to drown me every chance it gets. I’m too scared to go to sleep in case I don’t wake up again. Eventually when I do sleep, my anxieties and fears pervade my sleep to form nightmares. Sometimes I wake suddenly in the middle of the night gasping for air to violently, as quickly as possible, fill my lungs to know that I’m alive; and then I’m too scared to go to sleep again because I’m so grateful to be alive and terrified of dying all at the same time. When I wake up for good, I’m thoroughly spent, zombified, groggy, fatigued. Having more sleep to fend off the fatigue makes it worse because the nightmares are so vivid and visceral, they exhaust me further and for longer.

It takes time, work and kindness to oneself to unravel this cycle, to fight the PTSD and come out the other end as a highly functioning human being; to seek out the light as you move away from the darkness.

Another friend’s mother suddenly passed away about a month ago overseas. She had visited Australia some months prior where I distinctly remember my last interaction with her. I had gone to pick up my daughter from their place and she asked if I wanted a coffee. I wasn’t particularly in the mood for a drink but accepted regardless because I thought to myself I’m not sure when, if ever I’m going to see her again. Probably a morbid thought for the average person, but this is now my modus operandi, it has been most of my life, but more pronounced since my first cardiac arrest. Most interactions I have, I make a choice to treat it as being potentially the last one. Because one thing my congenital heart defect and cardiac arrests have taught me, is who the fuck knows what’s in store for any of us? As shocking as the news of her passing was (she was super healthy and active, nor too old), I was grateful we had that coffee together where I got to find out about her life and love of bike riding through nature, that essentially, I shut the fuck up, listened and got to have a genuine connection with her over that handful of minutes. All it takes is a pause, to be authentic and show someone that they matter, that they’re just as human as you are. A smile, a laugh, an inquiry or some banter with the checkout person in the supermarket to make a difference and to potentially make a person’s day, or yours one day down the track. To live without regret that you’ve said and done everything you’ve wanted to, that you’ll be remembered as that kind person, not the asshole. For me it’s simple: it’s to tell my family and friends I love them when we chat, or when the mood strikes; to hug them just that little bit longer and to take in their scent (creepy I know, but you take what you can when your immediate family lives abroad and interstate); the weekly phone call;  it’s the good morning in passing; the kiss, hug and eye contact hello when my husband gets home from work; and it’s the kiss and hug goodnight as I tuck my daughter into bed. If you're wondering, I smell her also, the most out of all people, my husband a close second. They’re the only things I can control and that matter the most to me because when the end comes, we can only hold on to the memories we made and the last interactions we had with people.

The world is so strange right now. It’s scary but it’s also beautiful and hopeful. Breathe in the air, it means you’re alive. Hug your loved ones or yourself, because you love them. Talk less and listen more, because we’re always learning. Take joy in the micro things because as big as the world is, we should all just stay home in our little universe for now. And remember, you’re not alone, we’re all in this together and we’re taking it one day at a time. As for today, I’m glad I’m still here. This is our world now.

Rhythmic composition in yellow green minor (1919), Roy de Maistre