Failing at the Pandemic

There’s a certain strain of social media that seems to be having a “good” pandemic. They’re homeschooling around the kitchen table while also getting work done, they’re finishing their novel or reading a book a day, they’re nursing their pet sourdough starter or building giant pillow forts. They’re marveling at the clean air and how we can hear so many birds. They’re posting about “keeping a happy emotional state” and “practicing quietude and patience”. They’re making the most of the time and forming deeper connections. They’re #blessed.

I am failing at having a good pandemic. My kid is sibling-less and having too much screen time. Sometimes I cry in the shower. I can’t seem to focus when reading and my writing is stale and lifeless. I feel angry and annoyed. I’m angry at the “president” and his sycophants who ignored, downplayed, then mismanaged this. I’m worried that my kid doesn’t have physical contact with her friends and I’m anxious about what that does to a child long-term. I’m actually less worried about her lack of schooling. School has always been more about the social bit than exponents and bar graphs.

Everything I do feels inadequate and not enough. I’ve never been terribly concerned about other people’s perfect Insta-lives. I almost smugly pitied them having to post multiple times a day. Now every one of them makes me feel judged and left wanting and scolded. I should be happier about all of this but I’m just not. I’m deeply grateful for having a nice house and a husband who makes me laugh every day and a kid with such a good, kind heart but I can’t find the space to be delighted over any of this. I want to go out for dinner, or sit in Stanley surrounded by noisy people or have a pint in a cozy pub or hug a friend and chat over coffee or go for a walk with someone I’m not related to. I want to see my family and hold them tight and look in their eyes and make sure they’re really alright. I’m desperate for real-life to start again.