This morning, I vacuumed and mopped the floor. Nothing unusual, you might think. For me, however, it is a conquest. Since dealing with Long Covid, these seemingly trivial activities have become a chimera, and I mark the days when I manage to start them and, most importantly, to finish them.
I should be happy about this, as you would agree: I suffer from a debilitating chronic illness, and I should rejoice for every action completed. I wrote that just a few lines ago!
The truth is that for hours, I have felt a knot in my stomach that makes me uneasy. It’s a spotlight illuminating all my limitations, my inability to give meaning to much of my days. And this Friday is no exception.
I feel powerless in the face of this reality. Living with Long Covid prevents me from making plans; I don’t work and rarely leave the house. My social life is non-existent. I signed up for a dating app in the hope of meeting new people, but it isn’t working: there are too many expectations on my part, but also from my interlocutor. The conversation sinks after just a few messages.
Despite everything, I remain hopeful. I believe that the day will come when I can leave behind much of the burden I’m carrying. I diligently take my medication; I keep myself updated on research regarding Long Covid; I write, above all I write, to give a semblance of order to the endless thoughts swirling in my mind.
For years I practiced yoga and zazen: meditation was a balm for my anxiety, which, however, remained compressed and found no outlet. Writing has allowed me to dig deep into my consciousness, creating tunnels that sometimes prove to be blind alleys, and at other times reveal a reservoir of emotions I didn’t know I harbored within me.
I invite anyone grappling with complex thoughts to try writing. It’s incredible how it can help us gain clarity and explore our emotions.
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