I suppose I could blame the May arrival of Baxter the Wonder Dog.

 

 

Or it could be that I’m just more into doing art. And often that is very true.

 

 

Still, I wondered why I hadn’t written a blog post in months. Even my decades-long morning journal has mostly fallen by the wayside. What the hell?

I haven’t been able to figure it out and then today, I felt that old yearning to watch the cursor flicker ahead of my words and sentences as I follow it down a path that slowly builds into paragraphs. I am reminding myself to remain curious and have compassion for myself and that too, it is so often the act of writing that helps me to discover what I think.

But then, we pretty much already know what the reason is, right?

It is, of course, this oh-so-enervating ongoing tragedy of a global pandemic.

It is hard slogging in this months-long-soon-to-be-two-years of pandemic pandemonium, even for someone like me, a woman who resides firmly in the middle of extreme privilege. I recognize that I am the epitome of all that is ‘lucky’ in a world built on systemic racism; a white heterosexual Canadian who is vaccinated and living in a solid home with clean running water. I won the born-in-the-right-place lottery.

In short, my version of ‘average’ is miles ahead of most of the world.

I find it increasingly ironic, that during the most rebellious years of my misspent youth, I hated the idea of being ‘average’. I wore my angst and anger with as much attitude as a sullen teen can summon. Little did I know then that in my future, it would be that very middle-class averageness that would be my salvation.

When I read the sad statistics of so many developing nations, desperately begging for vaccines and wishing for a health system that could deliver those shots, I’m so very aware that my average is actually an above-average place on this planet.

So yes, I am cognizant that my version of this pandemic is nothing compared to what so many others are going through. And yet, so many days find me completely stunned by the emotional weight of our collective grief.

I know that I doom-scroll too often. Too much news, too many statistics, too many studies, but it almost feels like that’s the least I can do. If nothing else, I can at least bear witness. Then again, is it just a way of assuaging my guilt at being the one who has been so insulated from the worst of the pandemic’s realities? Who knows?

There is more to this story.

And maybe, it is this next bit as to where my real inertia lies.

It is this: the knowledge that I have friends and family members who see this whole pandemic as some sort of elaborate ruse to deny them their freedom and rights. The fact that they seem to believe the entire world is in on this scheme renders me speechless. I honestly am struck mute in the face of this, and yes, tired.

So fucking tired.

Because to me, this pandemic has afforded us the opportunity or, more correctly, the responsibility to do something for each other.  As for my rights? I honestly don’t feel anything has been taken from me.

Instead, I see these health mandates as a way for me to make some sort of a contribution, as small as it is. Because I realize that collectively, it adds up. The global statistics bear this out.

Look. I don’t work in a hospital. I’m not run off my feet in some ICU ward, so I feel like this is the least I can do.

I wear my mask to protect the people in my community. I got the vaccine for the same reason. Yes, to protect myself, but by doing so, to make me less infectious and so that I can do my part in not taking up valuable hospital space and health care time.

 

 

Somehow the basics of collective community and working toward the common good has become a politicized battle. I know we can blame social media and all the misinformation that swamps our screens…but what happened to critical thinking? What about checking your news sources instead of trusting someone with a YouTube channel?

I fear I will hear of hospitalizations or worse for the people I know and love.

I am also aware there is not a damned thing I can do to counter those beliefs.

I recognize too, that those beliefs are so contrary to how I view the world and what my responsibility to society entails, that the best I can do is not engage. Because you know what? I’m pissed at what they have revealed about themselves. And angry words will not fix anything.

Long ago a therapist helped me see that sometimes my depressed-tiredness was actually my anger in disguise. Anger, that in my younger years, I was too afraid to admit was the burning bedrock beneath my lassitude.

So yes, for months, I’ve wondered why I had lost all interest in writing. And now, it seems, that here, once again I have written myself into an answer.

Certainly I’m exhausted and sad from this ongoing situation, but underneath it all, I’m also very angry.

And it is the anger that is wearing me out.

They say awareness is the first step…

Hello, my name is Colleen. And I’m angry.