I live in the US, specifically in Connecticut. Let that color your reaction as you will.
In early March of 2020, my spouse and I returned from a vacation in Arizona. It was lovely and amazing and very much needed. It was also the last time we traveled anywhere for quite some time.
The very next day, spouse’s company ordered everyone to work from home. Four days later, our state issued a mandatory mask order and that all businesses had to shut down. (Not including liquor stores, which probably saved Connecticut from rioting.)
Three weeks later, I was sick as a dog. Exhausted. Fever. Coughing all the time. Couldn’t taste a thing. My primary care physician had left the practice, and I couldn’t find another who took new patients, so I used my insurance’s Tele-Health option. “You likely have COVID,” they said. “Can you get tested locally?”
I couldn’t. This was very early in the pandemic, and testing was spotty in my state. I was told to stay home, self-quarantine, but if my temperature rose above 100F, I should go to the hospital.
My temperature remained at 99F, so I stayed home. I was wiped out for a month after that. Even after I finally felt stronger, my brain was muffled in a fog. I COULD NOT READ, DAMMIT. I COULD NOT FOCUS. Even worse, I could not write. (Note: I did write a short story, but 1) it was short, and 2) it was mostly a rant, which I can manage almost any day of the week.)
I stayed home. When I did have to go out, I wore a mask. So did my son, husband, and my in-laws.
But my brain fog continued. I watched Netflix, but I simply could not focus on reading or writing. I broke down in tears because I thought I’d lost writing forever. And dammit, I had stories I wanted—NEEDED—to tell. I cannot begin to describe how lost and broken I felt.
So I watched more Netflix. And I drank a lot. Especially when I read anything about Trump. Did I mention that I felt broken?
By the time January arrived, I’d asked for, and received, medication to help with my anxiety attacks. My APRN and therapist both said they’d seen a sharp increase in patients who needed more, stronger, or different medications to deal with both Trump and the COVID pandemic. Don’t be ashamed to ask for whatever you need, they told me. I was not ashamed. I’d already learned my lesson about necessary medications, whether for allergies, or cancer, or mental health. I WAS FUCKING ANGRY.
At the same time, I also began to have some hope. We had elected an adult to the White House—someone we would need to nag and scold and bully into doing the right thing, but at least he wasn’t an orange shit-gibbon intent on destroying our country. We could reason with him. It would take time, however, so see previous comment about panic.
Then April arrived, and our state announced that 55+ folks could get the vaccine. In-laws signed up. Spouse and I signed up. Not long after that, the age restriction changed, and our son was eligible. We all got our vaccine.
And for the first time in a year, my brain cleared, and I could write.
I still take my anxiety medicine. I still have bad days. But GODS-DAMMIT, I CAN WRITE.
So you, who is reading this post, please get vaccinated, and even then, continue to wear a mask. Not for me. Not even for you. But for the community around you.
