Words Do Not Come Easy

This is a very personal piece. I’m trying to articulate how I reacted to lockdown and what I’m feeling about what comes next.

Words Do Not Come Easy: Some Thought on Lockdown and What Comes Next

In late February, as COVID-19 took hold across Europe, I suffered crippling and terrifying anxiety. Faced with the possibility that I would not be able to produce any work of note, I edited, rewrote, submitted and pitched old work in the hope that an agent, publisher or editor would bite. Why not get some submissions in early, I reasoned, since we’re all going to be spending a lot of time at home? I think everyone had the same idea, given that agents reported record numbers of pitches, but in my fearful and feverish state I assumed I was charting a lone course. It did not occur to me that these lucky recipients of my mine and every other hopeful writer’s work might also be petrified by worry about the virus, not to mention their jobs. By the time we were told to stay at home I was exhausted, but with regard to my work at least, I felt I had done as much as I could.

When lockdown finally arrived, I didn’t expect to feel relieved. Greater minds than mine may have been able to predict how people would respond to enforced confinement, but the rest of us had to figure it out for ourselves. I now know – this is not easy to admit – I’m not good in a crisis. I’d love to be able to sit here and describe how I have been a rock, but unless said rock was fashioned from jelly, I’d be lying. I checked on our neighbours and volunteered for the local group set up to help those who were shielding, but thanked my lucky stars when no one from the group contacted me and my wife said she was happy to brave the supermarket. Haunted by images of the frenzy and fury of panic buying, I resolved to stay very close to home until I felt it was safe to venture out again.

Three months have passed, but they didn’t fly by. It feels like life has always been like this. Time stood still and my anxiety tapered off; on good days there was none at all. It was as though we had been given the opportunity to take deep, calming breaths and regroup. Of course I realise that many people still had to go out to work, but so many more of us worked from and stayed at home. Life and time contracted, in my case into manageable chunks: get up, exercise, get washed, eat breakfast, work, have a break, work, have lunch, work, break, dinner, fill time until bed. New timetables and frameworks for living were established and we sought and found stability in unexpected actions and places. Perhaps we were amazed by our resilience; we patted ourselves on our backs for having found a way to get through each day and night. Well, I did. But it couldn’t last. The pause ended and we were introduced to phrases such as ‘the easing of lockdown’. Some people were told to go back to work and some businesses reopened. Time changed gear and began to work up a head of steam. The pace of life quickened and I was forced to come to terms with something else: I don’t deal very well with change.

Intellectually, I understand that change is part of life; but right now, in my gut, it terrifies me. What I want is safety and clarity. I liked the two metre rule, but not so much the one metre plus message. Is it one metre or is it more than one metre? One metre plus where two is not possible, or economically practical? And when does it start? Why will one metre plus be not okay one day and fine the next? We should wear masks on public transport, but they are not obligatory in shops; and none of the punters will be covering their faces in pubs and restaurants when they reopen. We can travel as far as we like to exercise, but only locals are welcome at the beach or in the national parks. Meanwhile, does anyone know the true figures for testing? What about the real number of deaths? The R rate? Can anyone be sure of anything? The daily press briefings have been cancelled. The effort to appear transparent has been deemed surplus to requirements. I can’t help wondering who decided this. Might it have been someone who judged the lockdown rules surplus to their requirements?

Here’s another phrase that appears to be gaining traction: now is not the time to criticise. (Hmm. Where do we think that originated? See previous paragraph.) There will be a review (says who?) in the future which will address all and any concerns. Don’t question the speed of the government’s response to the crisis. Forget about the abandonment of community testing and contract tracing in early March. Put to one side the farcical relaunch and questionable figures of the current testing programme. PPE? They sorted it in the end (even though nursing homes and dental surgeries may beg to differ). Don’t think about the mixed messaging to schools (if you are unaware of the chaos around food vouchers, ask a head teacher how easy it is to download them from the official website) and forget about herd immunity, all mention of which will be denied and removed from the public record. There appears to be some implication, from those that tell us now is not the time to criticise, that to do so would not be public spirited and would be detrimental to the effort to contain and combat the worst consequences of COVID-19. This feels like an attempt to exert moral pressure by those who operate without morals. If you had been a German citizen in the 1930s, when would have been the time to criticise the Nazi Party? When should American citizens criticise Donald Trump? After he’s wreaked havoc? Let’s look closer to home: if you had become aware that the cladding being used to cover Grenfell Tower was the cheaper and more flammable version of the two options available, would you have said ‘Now is not the time to criticise’?

This is not criticism: this is expressing concern and arguing for improved decision making and better standards of communication; this is a desire to improve an awful situation by minimising ambiguity and maximising clarity. Most of all, this is the democratic right to hold those in power to account in order to protect and improve the life chances (short and long term) of all citizens. If we don’t question the government’s procrastination over lockdown, what will happen if a second wave hits and another lockdown is delayed? Are you prepared for who knows how many more deaths because now is not the time to speak up? I’m not.

But – three cheers for the but – I have found reasons to allow for the possibility of hope. I have told myself again and again to be kind to myself, and the message is getting through. I am beginning to comprehend that my behaviours and emotions, however unpleasant and unsettling, are far from unique. Panic and terror are predictable and understandable reactions to an earth shattering event. It’s okay not to be good in a crisis. When something unprecedented occurs, you can’t expect to have all or any of the answers to the question of what to do next. Instead of beating yourself up about how useless you are and how your panic is making things worse, take a deep breath, take another deep breath and just stop. Give yourself time to figure things out. If you don’t know what to do next, do nothing. Whatever you do, don’t be too quick to judge: how many of us rushed to condemn panic buyers only to later accept that if you think you are going to be told to stay indoors indefinitely, it’s rational to want to ensure you have enough supplies? Community matters, of course, at all times. It’s fine to stock up, but leave some toilet roll and baked beans for your neighbours. And when you’re worrying about other people at a micro and macro level, don’t forget to look out for yourself. If you can escape your terror and torpor, you might be able to do something, however small, to improve the lives of those around you, who might improve the lives of those around them, and so on. Find something to be positive about. Be brave and if you can, speak up for those too scared or exhausted to do so.

In the course of writing this rambling essay, it’s become clear to me how difficult it is to articulate how I have been feeling about and my experience of this horrible crisis: I can’t write what I think because sometimes I don’t know how to think; and often I don’t know what to think. I have stopped writing fiction (I keep trying) because I have been unable to imagine any other world except the one in which we are living, and who wants to read a story about that? I have also struggled to come to terms with the way other people have reacted to the risk of infection and I feel as though I have been slower than most in realising we cannot stay cocooned forever. So I’m watching snippets of news and I read my first newspaper in three months last week. I am keeping up to date and I’m trying, really and truly trying, to understand why some people seem prepared to risk a second wave by flocking to beaches, parks, and football stadia. I’d love to swim in the sea. I’m desperate for a pint. A takeaway would be fantastic and a meal in a restaurant would be bliss. God, I want to live again, but I’m scared we’re moving too fast. We’re going with our heart and our guts when we should trust our heads.