The Last Two Years

I’m a little afraid to live. The way we used to. I’m a little afraid to figure out who I am at this point. A lot has happened. The tension at the beginning of this thing, Covid, started as panic that lead to shock that slowly corroded into a thrumming base note that underscored everyday life. It’s left me sore and in need of kneading. I want this feeling wrung out of my body. Twist me up and wring me out. But the pandemic was kind of okay for me. Which feels awful to say, because it was horrible for so many. So many mixed up unfinished thoughts. For the first time ever my anxiety felt validated. I know how to exist in chaos. Regular life is what terrified me. Terrifies me. In a fucked up way, I had a sense of purpose. Keep each other safe. Stay home. Wear a mask. Distance. Wash your hands. Listen to the guidelines. Okay. I felt the hard. I’m good at hard. Easy is a struggle. I can say this because I didn’t get sick. I can say this because no one I loved died. I can say this because I was able to work from home. When I started working from home we had just moved into Our First Home. At 34 and 38 we finally got it together and bought our modest sanctuary. Our first months of the pandemic were terrifying but also our environment was foreign. It felt like we were on an extended apocalyptic-themed vacation, at first. We drank a lot early on. A lot. Gin soaked nights watching old movies because today was too scary. We needed to go back. To transport to another era. We didn’t have a couch yet, so we took our tv up to the guest bedroom and watched from the futon. Four feet away from the screen, the blue glare was our main source of comfort. "Gone With the Wind is, like, super racist, eh?" I noted after watching it for the first time on March 22nd. The feel of those days. Everything so visceral. Wiping everything down in cherry scented Hertel. I went through a Costco-sized jug in six months. Scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. We walked. A lot. We talked a lot. And then sometimes we didn’t talk at all. What was there to say after a point. We found new things to talk about even then. We were alone, together. We hoofed it to the experimental farm every night in the early spring of year one. Expansive and flat. The country in the city. "I'll remember these walks forever. I'll remember you walking with me forever." This Before we got our dream dog. Then the walking stopped. A stubborn puppy makes a bad running mate. Early on, our neighbourhood was new terrain to discover. A nook of the city I didn’t know well. Yet. How lucky were we to have someplace new to explore and distract ourselves with. Thomas fixed the house and ripped up the basement. Which he vowed to redo as a COVID project. He did. And he did it well. With the generous help of a friend and cousin Shawn who has his own drywall company. Thank fuck for Shawn. We nested. Hard. Painting. Wallpapering. Organizing. Disorganizing. What else was there to do? Thomas cut the grass. I put lawn ornaments in the garden that the previous owner left behind like a derranged Bobby from Queer Eye. If Bobby designed gardens that other people planted. So not like Bobby at all, I guess. The little shed out back with cream and orange paint that reminded me of something out of a recurring childhood dream. Our little home. Safe. Manageable. Less scary than the world that felt like 28 Days Later. If you stepped outside 'Vid would get you. So we stayed in. I recorded a play. I sang in my house. Alone. To no one. Because I wanted to. Not because I needed to or was preparing for anything. I just sang. I never did that. I secretly felt happy. And felt awful for feeling happy. No one was having fun without me because no one was having fun. Because we were fighting to keep each other safe. I felt comfortable not feeling beholden to anyone or anything. I wrote. I did what I knew. I didn’t have to say no because there was nothing to say no to. I wasn’t being left out. Always wanting to be invited. Nothing was happening. For the first time ever my anxiety about myself washed away. My introverted-extrovert bliss was manifesting. I was terrified of getting sick or getting anyone I knew sick. The only thing I could control was myself. So I did. I’d watch Drag Race every Saturday morning as Thomas slept in. Before I made breakfast. A ritual. Those queens bringing me life, their glow like a match in the night. When we got Brisket, I’d bring him to the dog park and grab a Tim Hortons coffee on the way. Another little ritual. No one actually knew me there. Brisket’s mom was my arms-length identity. It suited me just fine. I’d meet neighbours on our walks. The only contact I’d have outside the house. I loved getting to know people in this somewhat anonymous way. I love anonymity even though I’m loud. No one gets too close. And Brisket is excellent small-talk bait. I fell deeper and deeper in love with my emotional support pup. He got me out of the house, into the world, and on my feet. I’d excitedly turned into a morning person just so I could take him for his AM jaunts. The tips of his ears bouncing in the morning air. My routine keeping me glued together. Zoom chats with friends that went on for hours. Not knowing how to be a friend. Missing them all so much. Not being anywhere near them made me a better pal. Check. How strange. All the sourdough fads, tiger king, and all the things people have already listed. Feeling very held by my four walls and the person and dog within them. As the waves kept coming I learned how to navigate the murky waters of my mind. Daily habits were vital and stepping away from work an absolute necessity. Racism, and June, and white fragility. So many important things that need to be said. Feeling a glimmer of hope for humanity. This was before I realized it was just my algorithm. I’m not so sure people will ever act on what needs to be done. For our collective good. People being siloed. Radicalized. Armourer. What else was there to do from the comfort of your own home? Lots. Distanced walks with friends for miles and miles and miles. The distance between some getting too great for us to see each other. The woods get so dark at night. Then A whole new chapter in our story. Ruth. Starting her own story that has yet to be written. Redefining my capacity for joy and cluelessness. I know nothing. I’m no mommy blogger. This will all be a blur some day, I have no advice. Just a knowing nod. And then baby sleep and quarantine-ing from quarantine inside a deep, dark, dark, time-eviscerating nursery. An isolation inside an isolating time while the rest of the world is finding its footing. I’ve always been incredible at keeping in touch but that has fallen by the wayside. I feel… adrift. For the first time since March 13th 2020, I am unsure of what to do. I feel like we are all being born again in this new and scary normal. What’s safe, what’s not? Who is protected? Who’s not? How can I help? What’s the right thing to do? All pandemics eventually end my therapist who used to be a GP reminded me. "They DO end, Gabbie", both he and Thomas have lovingly reminded me so I'm not too scared. Is this it? The end? Or what? I feel a sense of mourning. For what, i'm exactly sure. Is is okay to dream a bit beyond my front steps? Just a little bit? I spent my entire time being thankful for all that we have and stretching my joy to fill our four walls as high and wide as I could. And succeeded. And also the guilt that comes with being okay when things aren’t okay. I’m standing here on the precipice of a new chapter but I’m struggling to turn the page. I’m scared of who we are, and what we’ve learned about each other through our screens. Are we less tolerant having sat with only ourselves for so long? Are we all so sure about our rightness? I'm anxious about what’s to come. The world seems scarier than ever. And now things are being lifted. And I am completely different and utterly the same. I want this time to have meant something but everything is meaningless until we infuse it with narrative. These two years have been so vivid. The memories potent and seared into my mind like childhood recollections of sitting in long grass staring at fluffy white clouds...that one’s a cat, an ice cream cone, a knife. Slow days that rolled by, defined not by what we did but by how we felt.

This was my pandemic. Nothing and everything. How do we do this? Is it over? Maybe not. I’m new here. What comes next?