What to do when things are unbearable
Therapeutic sunrise.
The other day, a friend reached the end of the end of her tether. Yes, this is happening a lot these days. It wasn’t even that anything monumentally bad had happened to her — just a string of lousy incidents (80% of which were patriarchal bullshit). But the last straw (lots of those, too) was yet another delay in vaccine delivery. “This is unbearable,” she wept. “I can’t stand the way this pandemic is just going on and on and on, and there’s no end in sight, while my friends in the US and the UK are all posting pics of their vaccination shots. And my friends here want to go back to normal, and they act like I’m the crazy one when I won’t hang out with them. I’m just as lonely and frustrated as they are, but I’m also really scared. I saw what you went through, your life blown apart by this virus, your sister on a ventilator for a month. Don’t people realise how serious this is?”
What resonated was the word “unbearable”. Because I have had Covid (the long-haul variety) for thirteen months now. Three days ago, I could not get out of bed. Again. The day after that, my joints hurt so much, I had to take painkillers that made my wool-brain unravel even further. Again. Yesterday, I woke myself up scratching my rash-mottled arms until they were bleeding. Again. And I had to write to a client to say “So sorry, can’t deliver, having another run of bad days.” AGAIN. There are times when I am so sick of being sick, I’d throw a tantrum if I had the energy.
But none of this comes close to the 65 days (12 Dec — 16 Feb) that my sister was in ICU with Covid.* That was when I found out what unbearable really was.
During those endless minutes and hours and days and weeks and months, I kept thrashing around for anything, something, a secret code or trick, that would mitigate the ongoing agony. There was nothing. And that was the first and hardest lesson I learned about what to do when things are unbearable. There is no way of unlocking the iron jaws of the beartrap around your leg, no release from the worst kind of powerlessness, until the universe decides which way the coin is going to fall. (I didn't think it was possible, but fearing my sister's death was worse than the dreadful weeks early in my illness when I feared my own.)
The next thing I learned was that when a human is in this kind of agony, the brute physiology of terror, which keeps the cortisol and the adrenaline pumping, is not sustainable. Mercifully, every now and again, mind and body go numb for several hours. So one cycles through the following three stages: stretches when things are indeed unbearable; numbness; and then a few blessed hours in which the psychic wind drops, the nerves don’t rub against broken glass quite so relentlessly. When the kindness on offer, the comfort of cups of tea and whiskers on kittens actually penetrate the blur. They don’t help, but what does help is that the knowledge that they are THERE, and there are tiny bits, not of pleasure exactly, but appreciation to be felt. And then the cycle starts again.
There are no solutions, but there are indeed some options — and I say this NOT as a doctor or a mental health advisor, but simply as someone who has been in the seventh circle of hell, and who knows that many of you are there too — or at least in the fifth or sixth circles. So here’s my take on what to do when things are truly, utterly, bloody unbearable.**
First, line up every single thing that has ever helped in any crisis or grief in the past (bearing in mind that this VILE virus has stripped away many of our support systems, isolated us from those we love, confined us, and disrupted our usual comforts). Hopefully you can still go for walks, or do some sort of gentle or fun exercise. Work in the garden, if you have one. Brush your animals. Set your favourite hot drinks out on a tray with your nicest mug. Bookmark every cute pet site on the interwebz, if that’s what floats your boat — or scroll through the most beautiful photos and artworks you can find. Figure out what you can and can’t read or watch or listen to (your concentration will be maggots, but by trial and error, you’ll discover what distracts without making things more acute — you’re likely to find yourself more easily triggered than usual).
It helps if you’ve read all your life, because a lot of stories tell of frail humans up against unbearable fate, and there are bits of wisdom to be gleaned: Rumer Godden was entirely correct when she said sunsets hurt too much, but sunrises helped — a bit. My own discovery was that I couldn’t stand the full moon, all that boastful silver glory — but the thin wisp of the new moon matched my equally thin sliver of hope.
Find a tiny niche somewhere in the world (probably online) where you can be yourself/not yourself. Where you’re not a person in crisis, but someone who can give advice about how best to grow coriander from seed. Or learn or teach how to restore furniture, or mend china, or sew a dart (whatever it is, it helps if it’s constructive, but anything that takes your mind away from the bite of the trap for a few minutes is good). On some of the worst days, I’d write book reviews for my favourite Facebook group, the Good Book Appreciation Society. I have no idea why this worked as a distraction, but it did. I still do this on especially grim days.
The old standbys are still the best: the most reliable treatment for shock is a strong sweet cup of tea, preferably made for you; and a hot-water bottle or warm blanket/soft jersey. An antidote to grief and misery (if you can afford it): adopt a rescue animal. Especially if it's KITTENZES, and you can spend hours watching them disemboweling a feather.
Work can be a terrible burden or a blessing at such times. If you can work on autopilot, go for it: it will fill the hours. You may in any case have no choice. My work involves intense concentration, so I simply dropped every job I had, figuring I’d sort out the rubble of my finances and my career later. Not everyone has that luxury, plus I’ve worked with the same clients long enough that they cut me all the slack I needed, and were often very supportive. I know how lucky this makes me; I am SO grateful to them.
Religion: already Catholic with a big c, I turned catholic with a small c, and prayed to every god I could think of, and a few I made up. For some, the experience of hell on earth sorely tries their faith. This is NO time for existential questioning or crises of faith or philosophy: rely on the faith of others, if necessary, or simply the sheer kindness of (some) people. Remember those comforting words in times of trouble (and this goes for everyone, from Pastafarians to atheists): “Look for the people who are helping.” The incredible thing is that they are always to be found.
Lean on your friends (and you will find out who these are). The best at the worst times are the ones who don't ask “What can I do?”, but act: sending food, books, games, showing up to walk the dog, babysit the children, wash the dishes, change the lightbulbs. The kindness of local friends who came and sat with me (outdoors, masked, at a safe distance) as I waited each day for the hospital report didn’t make those hours less difficult: but they saved me the extra weight of being alone during them. It’s a matter of context, however; for some, lack of privacy, or the need to be brave for one’s nearest and dearest, can be excruciating. So try to make a few spaces where you can fall apart and howl and cry until your face melts, alone or with someone you trust; Skype with a friend or professional, if necessary.
Then there are the usual basics: keep hydrated, try to eat regularly (snacky nourishing things are good — this is no time for low blood sugar), stay clean (I remember the morale-boost of washing my hair after forgetting to shower for a week), and — this is critical — get some sleep/rest. I am laughing mirthlessly as I write this because sleep was a joke during the worst weeks; but without it, you will fall apart. I did take lots of little rests; I always had a little lie-down after the hospital report, and could sometimes even nap. Talk to your doctor if you needs the drugzes.
And speaking of drugs: once again, this is not medical advice, BUT: when you’re in the desperate part of the cycle above, I am in favour of tranquillisers. Sometimes it’s inhumane not to expand the numb stage. I hesitate to say take whatEVER gives you relief; mainlining heroin, chugging down bottles of vodka, or becoming a Valium addict will complicate your life. But there are such things as lesser evils. Talk to someone non-judgemental about the options: OTC remedies, prescription benzos/anti-anxiety meds, dagga/CBD in various forms, alcohol. I was mostly teetotal in case things went yet more pear-shaped and I needed a clear head, but there were evenings when the daily hospital report came in late in the evening with “no change” and I simply couldn’t unclench my brain without a dose of ethanol (aka glass of wine).
During the numb stages, you’ll probably be able to get things done, so make lists and chug through those — it helps if you can keep on top of basic chores and admin. Because things are so unspeakable, there’s a tendency to general entropy, but you don’t need the extra stress of running out of electricity or petrol or milk or medications. Ask for help if necessary.
And then will come the moments when you’ll be able to taste the homemade curry your kind neighbour has dropped off, when your heart will lift, even if only a millimetre, when a heron flies into your garden and stalks around like a headmaster, or a friend brings a telescope to show you the rings of Saturn. There will be times when someone sends a really thoughtful gift, and you’ll feel genuine gratitude, when you will find it fractionally easier to be strong and even optimistic.
What I learned, finally, although only in hindsight: you’re already doing much better than you think you are. You’re holding it together for your family (dear Goddess, the courage of parents keeping things going for their kids), strengthening bonds, encouraging each other, passing around small tealights of hope and optimism. You’re continuing to feed the children and the pets (meals become very helpful staging-posts in getting through the day). You deserve a bloody medal.
And then, whether you’re in a state of terror or bereavement or heartbreak or just so very over this pandemic, the cycle will start again. Know this: the whole kaboodle will eventually come to an end. It may not be the ending we want; it may tear us to pieces; but we will not be stuck in this particular purgatory forever. Good luck.
* She survived and is making excellent progress with her recovery. There are indeed happy endings.
** Mine are middle-class solutions. Many suffer unbearable circumstances because of war, systemic poverty, climate collapse and other ugly elements we’ve hardwired into our “civilisations”. But I have a hunch those in these ghastly scenarios are both testament and witness to human resilience and the kindness of strangers.
Therapy cat.