50 Days of Isolation
I miss my Mum. I haven’t been outside in around 72 hours. My heart rate is elevated and I’m not sure if it’s my anxiety or the effects of the Peloton class I took 20 minutes ago. I just refreshed the Just Eat app to see how much longer my roti and dhal was going to take. Shall I rewatch Alan Partridge, Peep Show or Community tonight? Is it finally time to overcome my weird TV show commitment issues and start something new? I finished Better Call Saul last week, it’s time to move on, right?
Today marks 50 days in isolation, or, as I like to measure time now, 1200 episodes of a shitty 90s true crime. I’ve not left a mile radius of my flat since March. Thank god Deptford is the best place in London.
I haven’t seen my Mum since Christmas. I’ve seen the man in Nisa more. I didn’t visit for my birthday as I was saving it for Easter and that sits in my stomach like a rock.
My group of friends is small but close, and I vow to never bail on a trip to the pub again. For now, they’re names on a WhatsApp group chat or a laggy face on Zoom. I want to hear a laugh that isn’t virtual.
I’m fortunate enough to be able to isolate with my boyfriend who I love very much. We’ve fallen out in a way we haven’t before, but that’s natural when you’re occupying the same two rooms 24 hours a day. Clashes are rare though. We’ve also discovered a love of burgers made in bagels, the joy of the world slapping championships and Pat Benatar. I’m grateful for the intimacy.
Right now feels like living in an ellipsis at the end of a chapter. Stasis wouldn’t feel so stifling if there was an ending, a conclusion drawn. Yet, we’re stuck with a daily deluge of bad news with no way of stopping it.
Nothing hurts me more than the betrayal I feel by my fellow people trying to defy the rules in place to keep us safe. Not only are they prolonging our inertia, but making the choice to take actions that put people directly at risk. It’s disgusting and selfish, but I keep trying to reconcile this behaviour with the inherent good in people.
It started with 5G which feels like a whole era ago. I brushed it off as joke meme that wouldn’t make it past a group chat, but it drove people to take direct action and damage parts of our vital mobile network and internet service. It was also the first glimpse of what was to come, showing the sheer distrust of those implementing a vital internet service for our globalised world, as well as providing an excuse to not follow safety rules.
Now we’re 50 days in, and protests across the UK and US are becoming more and more frequent, and less and less socially distant. Causes vary from erosion of civil rights, the need to go back to work and the flat out denial that the pandemic is even a pandemic. This is clear defiance of medical recommendations from doctors with specialities in infectious diseases.
Challenging authority and healthcare hegemonies are vital for a healthy democracy. When we’re in the middle of a global pandemic that’s killed over 250,000 people, it becomes dangerous. The impact of these protests is simple. The less distance people have, the more cases and deaths there will be. Choosing to opt out of masks and hand sanitisation, the more cases and deaths there will be.
I still can’t get my head around why. Is it the desire to find their own narratives in a scary situation to feel control? Is it arrogance, and the assumption it won’t affect them? Is it the desire to have the different opinion to appear smart?
It’s hard to believe that the erosion of trust for experts has taken hold so hard and fast across the western world to the point people are choosing to put themselves in harm’s way. Language of the alt-right is normalised now, with democracies ruled by ’technocrat dictators’ just because we’ve been asked to stay at home to save lives.
Regardless of how this group feels about authority, the bottom line is that we’re living in a devastating pandemic. Those who have had their lives taken are spending their final hours alone. Those who recover are subject to brutal suffering for weeks on end. Those trying to keep us comfortable will emerge with a collective PTSD from the loss, overwork and pressure that they’re being subjected to.
I can’t help but feel a sting of guilt after my fleeting moments of joy. I made mushroom pierogis yesterday and kissed my boyfriend before I went to sleep. I woke up safe and well, I did a day’s work and I have the headspace to write this. I can’t comprehend the grief other people are feeling, and how hurt they must feel for those selfish enough to choose to ignore the warnings.
All I know is I really hope I get to see my Mum soon.
